Page 22 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

FIFTEEN

Mason

The helicopter climbs rapidly, banking east toward Idaho and safety. I watch until it’s nothing but a dark speck against the pale sky. Willow is safely aboard and beyond Reynolds’s immediate reach.

I allow myself exactly three seconds of relief before turning back to the threat at hand.

“They made it,” Ryan confirms, lowering his binoculars. “Package secure.”

My chest loosens marginally. After the firefight with the cabin team—four against two plus Chaos, no contest—I wasn’t sure we’d make it to the LZ in time. Those four operators had training, but they lacked the tactical cohesion Ryan and I developed through years of combat.

We left them zip-tied and unconscious in the snow, rushing toward the extraction point when we heard the UTVs and gunfire.

“UTVs still active,” I note, tracking the mechanical growls echoing through the trees.

“Martinez must have taken one out, but the others are still operational.” It could’ve been Jackson or Cooper, but I know my men.

Jackson was supporting Cooper, and Martinez held the lead.

I’m pretty damn sure Martinez took one out.

Ryan nods grimly. “Five hostiles remaining by my count. One driver down, one wounded.”

“Chaos, hunt.” The command sends the Malinois racing toward the tree line where the mechanical growls are loudest. I follow, using the terrain for cover, moving like the ghost that earned me my callsign.

We approach from the east, using the rising sun to our advantage. The light at our backs makes us more challenging to spot, while we can see them clearly. Five men in tactical gear, gathered around their vehicles, gesturing as they debate their next move.

“I’ll take the two on the right,” Ryan murmurs. “You and Chaos handle the other three.”

I give a curt nod, signaling Chaos. The dog understands immediately, his body lowering into attack position.

“On three,” I whisper. “One… Two… Now.”

We move simultaneously, emerging from the tree line with the precision that speaks to years of operating together.

Ryan’s rifle cracks twice in rapid succession, dropping his targets before they can react.

I take out one with a clean headshot while Chaos launches at another, taking him down with savage efficiency.

The fifth man manages to fire a single wild shot before my second bullet finds his chest. He drops, weapon clattering uselessly into the snow.

Silence falls over the clearing, broken only by the idling engines of the UTVs and Chaos’s low growl as he stands guard over his downed target.

“Clear,” Ryan calls, moving to check his targets.

“Clear,” I confirm, approaching the UTVs. One of the vehicles has a body slumped over the steering wheel— Martinez’s handiwork from earlier. Another has blood spattered across the passenger seat where the wounded man must have been sitting.

“All neutralized,” Ryan reports after checking the men. “What’s the plan?”

I survey the three UTVs, already calculating the fastest route to our fallback position. “We take one. Head north.”

We approach the lead UTV—a tactical model with a reinforced frame, expanded cargo area, and what appears to be light armor plating. Military-grade, not your typical recreational vehicle. Reynolds spared no expense.

I check the fuel gauge—three-quarters full. More than enough. Ryan collects the men’s weapons and secures them with ours. I start the engine, the powerful motor rumbling to life in the stillness.

“Let’s move,” I say, swinging into the driver’s seat.

Before Ryan can claim the passenger side, Chaos leaps up, planting himself firmly in the seat. His expression can only be described as smug as he looks at Ryan, then back at me.

“Seriously?” Ryan stares at the dog in disbelief. “Did he just call shotgun?”

I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips—the first genuine one since watching Willow’s helicopter disappear. “Looks that way.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Ryan shakes his head but climbs into the back cargo area without further complaint. “Your dog’s an asshole, you know that?”

“He’s earned it.” I reach over to ruffle Chaos’s ears, the dog leaning into my touch. “Good boy.”

Chaos settles into his seat with the satisfaction of a king on his throne, ears perked forward as we begin to move. The UTV handles well on the snow-packed terrain, its oversized tires gripping where regular vehicles would struggle to find traction.

I navigate through the forest with the instinctive knowledge of a man who’s made these mountains his home. Every ridge, every valley, every game trail is mapped in my memory. Reynolds’s men would have been lost trying to track us through this wilderness, even with their high-tech equipment.

“How far?” Ryan asks, bracing himself as we navigate a particularly steep incline.

“Fifteen miles northwest,” I answer, guiding the vehicle around a fallen tree. “Old mining complex. Abandoned in the sixties. One of my emergency caches.”

“And from there?”

“Secondary extraction. We’ve got a bush plane on standby at Jenkins Lake. Small enough to avoid radar detection, fast enough to get us to Idaho.”

Ryan nods, understanding the plan without needing further explanation. It’s why we work so well together—years of shared missions have given us a shorthand that transcends words.

Chaos suddenly stiffens, ears pricked forward. I immediately slow the UTV, scanning our surroundings. The dog’s senses are far more acute than ours, and he’s never given a false alarm.

“What is it?” Ryan asks, already reaching for his rifle.

I don’t answer immediately, trusting Chaos’s instincts. The Malinois is focused intently on something to our left, a low growl building in his chest.

Then I hear it—the distant thump of helicopter rotors. Not from the east, where Willow’s extraction headed, but from the south. Another aircraft is approaching fast.

“Reynolds’s reinforcements,” I mutter, immediately veering the UTV into denser tree cover. “Birds aren’t part of the UTV team’s equipment.”

“Must be the Billings crew Carson leads,” Ryan says, referencing Carver’s intel. “Ex-Rangers with air support.”

I cut the engine, killing our noise signature as the helicopter sound grows louder. Chaos remains alert but not agitated, which tells me they haven’t spotted us yet.

Through gaps in the canopy, I catch a glimpse of the aircraft—a sleek black helicopter with no visible markings. Definitely private military contractors, not law enforcement. It circles the area where the UTV firefight took place, then hovers for several minutes.

“They’re assessing the scene,” Ryan observes. “Wondering where their men went.”

“And where we are,” I add.

The helicopter continues its slow circle, expanding outward. It’s executing a standard search pattern, methodically covering the terrain. Eventually, it will spot our UTV tracks unless we move deeper into cover.

Ryan pulls out a small handheld device, scanning the UTV. His expression darkens. “Found it. Tracker embedded in the chassis. Military-grade. That’s how they’re following.”

“Shit.” I glance at the helicopter’s search pattern. “We need to move. Now.”

“Options?” Ryan asks.

I consider our position, the terrain, and our resources. “We ditch the UTV. Proceed on foot to the mining complex. It’s about 15 clicks northwest.”

Ryan nods, already gathering essential gear. “Old school. I like it.”

“Chaos, security,” I command. The dog immediately takes up a watch position while Ryan and I quickly strip the UTV of anything useful—weapons, ammo, survival gear, and comms equipment.

“We leave the tracker active,” I decide. “Let them chase ghosts.”

Ryan plants a small surprise under the UTV’s seat—nothing lethal, but enough to discourage pursuit. “Present for whoever comes looking.”

“Ready?” I ask, shouldering my pack.

“Born ready,” Ryan responds, securing the last of his gear.

“Chaos, on me.” The dog falls in beside me as we disappear into the dense forest, leaving the UTV behind as bait.

We wait in tense silence as the helicopter completes its search pattern, gradually moving toward our position, honing in on the tracker’s signal. We don’t stick around, moving again, heading northeast toward the ravine.

“Still 15 clicks to the mining complex,” Ryan notes, checking his GPS. “Terrain’s rough. ETA four hours if we push it.”

“Then we push.”

The pace I set is punishing—fast enough to put distance between us and our pursuers, but sustainable for trained operators like us. Chaos moves effortlessly through the snow, occasionally ranging ahead to check for threats before circling back.

The eastern ravine appears ahead—a deep cut in the landscape with steep walls and dense vegetation—perfect for evasion. We slip into it silently, the ravine’s walls closing around us, providing natural cover from aerial surveillance.

“Chopper’s almost on the UTV,” Ryan confirms, checking a small tracking device of our own. “Your surprise should be waiting for them.”

As if on cue, a muffled thump echoes in the distance. I allow myself a grim smile. “That should keep them busy for a while.”

We push deeper into the ravine, moving through knee-deep snow.

“You know,” Ryan says after a while, “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Invested. Personal.” He pauses. “Even with Rachel, you kept a certain distance.”

The mention of Rachel sends a familiar pang through my chest—not the searing guilt it once was, but a duller ache of regret. “This is different.”

“I see that.” Ryan’s tone holds no judgment, just observation. “Just be careful, brother. You’ve got a lot at stake.”

I don’t respond immediately, as I focus on navigating a particularly treacherous section of the ravine. Chaos moves ahead, testing the snow depth, finding the safest path.

“She’s worth it,” I finally say, the words emerging with a conviction that surprises even me.

Ryan accepts this with a simple nod. He knows better than to push further.

The ravine gradually widens, eventually opening onto an old logging road overgrown with vegetation but still passable. I increase our pace, knowing we’re on a direct path to the mining complex.

“How much of a head start does Willow have?” Ryan asks as we push forward.

“About thirty minutes by air. They’ll be at Guardian HRS’s safehouse before we reach the mine. I trust the Guardians to evade any pursuit by Reynolds.”

“And the evidence?”

“She has the primary drive. I have a backup we made at the cabin.” I check my watch. “Once we reach the mine, I’ll contact Guardian HQ, confirm her arrival and status. We’ll get the location.”

Three hours of hard marching later, the mining complex finally comes into view—a collection of weathered buildings nestled against the mountainside, partially reclaimed by nature. My fallback point.

I signal for caution as we approach, scanning for any signs of disturbance or danger. Everything appears undisturbed, exactly as it should be .

“Home sweet home,” Ryan mutters as we reach the largest structure—an old processing facility with reinforced walls and minimal windows. Perfect for defense.

Chaos immediately circles the building to check for threats. His training is impeccable—he never assumes safety until confirmed.

“Let’s get inside and establish comms,” I say, pulling out my keys. “I want to confirm Willow’s status before we do anything else.”

Ryan nods, helping me secure the perimeter. “And then?”

“We finish this.” My voice hardens with resolve. “Reynolds, his network, his entire operation—all of it goes down.”

“Like old times, then,” Ryan says with a grim smile.

“Better,” I correct him. “This time, we’re not bound by ROE or political considerations. This time, we’re free to do what needs to be done.”

Rules of Engagement were always the bane of our existence in official combat zones—the restrictions that often prevented us from effectively eliminating threats. Now, operating as private contractors against a criminal network, those constraints no longer apply.

Chaos returns from his perimeter check, giving a soft woof to indicate all clear. He falls in beside me as we approach the building, his warm body pressing against my leg in silent solidarity.

“I’m coming, Willow,” I whisper to the wind. “Just like I promised.”

The mining complex door creaks open, revealing the emergency cache I established years ago—communications equipment, weapons, supplies, everything needed to continue the fight. We step inside, closing the door on the Montana wilderness.