Page 23 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

SIXTEEN

Willow

The helicopter blades slice through the Montana air, carrying me away from Mason, away from danger, and into a future I never dared to imagine. I stare out the window as mountains and forests blur beneath us, my mind replaying those final moments.

Mason’s promise, the gunfire, and the way he looked at me before turning back to face Steffan’s men.

I’ll be right behind you.

Four simple words that feel like both a lifeline and a lie. I’ve heard too many promises from too many men. Even with the best intentions, words are just that—air shaped by teeth and tongue, carrying no more weight than the clouds we’re flying through.

But I believe those words.

My gaze shifts to Cooper, his ashen face tight with pain as the medic tends to his wounded leg. The stark red of his blood stands in violent contrast to the sterile interior of the helicopter. He took that bullet for me. They all risked their lives for me, a woman they’d never met before today.

Bear’s massive head nudges my hand, pulling me from my thoughts. His dark eyes hold a kindness that seems impossibly deep for an animal. When I hesitantly scratch behind his ears, his eyes close in contentment, massive body leaning against my legs like he’s been mine forever instead of mere days.

“He likes you,” Martinez comments from his seat across from me, barely looking up from his tablet. “Bear doesn’t warm up to many people that fast.”

“He’s a good boy.” My voice sounds strange in my own ears, hollow and distant. The massive Newfoundland responds to my praise by shifting closer, nearly pushing me off my seat.

“Status report,” the pilot’s voice crackles through the comms. “We’ve got company on our six. Range eight miles, closing.”

Jackson tenses immediately. “Reynolds’s people?”

“Likely,” the pilot confirms. “They’re tracking our heat signature. We need to shake them.”

Martinez exchanges a glance with the medic. “We have to get off this bird. It’s too easily tracked.”

My stomach drops. “But Cooper?—”

“Needs medical, I know.” Martinez’s fingers fly across his tablet. “Rerouting now. There’s a fallback position twenty miles east. Emergency landing zone with ground transport waiting.”

The helicopter banks sharply, descending toward a valley carved between two mountains. My hands grip the seat as vertigo washes over me, the abrupt change in altitude making my ears pop.

“What’s the plan?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“We’re getting you off this bird and onto the ground,” Martinez explains. “Helicopters are too easy to track. We’ve got multiple vehicle exchanges planned. By the time Reynolds’s people figure out where we went, you’ll be three states away.”

Bear shifts with the helicopter’s movement but remains steady against my legs, his warm weight an anchor in the chaos. The massive dog seems to understand the gravity of the situation; his usual playfulness has been replaced by an alertness that speaks to his training.

“Two minutes to LZ,” the pilot announces over the roar of the rotors.

My heart jackhammers in my chest. I glance toward Cooper, still pale and blood-soaked on the stretcher. “Cooper?”

“Stays with the ‘copter,” Martinez answers without looking back. He’s already unzipping a thick canvas duffel secured beside the door. “They’ll fly him to the hospital. With any luck, the tail we picked up will follow them there.”

I glance out the side window, the Montana wilderness flashing by below. “Won’t they know we landed?”

The two Guardian operators exchange a look that says more than words ever could.

“Hopefully not.” Jackson’s mouth tugs into a grin as he pulls out a second harness.

Martinez hands him a bundle of webbing and turns to face me. “On your feet, luv. Time to earn your wings.”

“Wings? Wait—what are you doing?”

He crouches in front of me like he’s gearing up a rookie. “Can’t land. That bird following us? If they see us touch down, they’ll know this was the drop point. So we stay airborne. Fast, clean exit.”

My stomach sinks as I realize what he’s saying. “You’re not landing?”

“Nope.” Jackson loops thick webbing around Bear’s massive chest. The Newfoundland huffs, more curious than concerned. “We drop.”

“Drop? As in—out of the air? While it’s still flying?”

“Controlled descent,” Martinez says, cinching a strap around my waist. “We’re rappelling, sweetheart. And you’re with me.”

I freeze as he lifts a padded harness, guiding my arms through the loops. “I’ve never?— ”

“Didn’t ask if you had,” he says, buckling the straps tight. “I’m your brake. You just hold on and let me do the work.”

“How is that supposed to make me feel better?!”

Jackson laughs from across the cabin, double-checking Bear’s rig. “He says the same thing to every recruit.”

“I’m not a recruit.”

“You are today.”

Martinez clips me to his harness. The click of the carabiner sends a jolt down my spine.

“You’ll come down with me,” he says, voice calm and steady. “Jackson’s taking Bear. Dog’s done this before.”

“He has?”

“We train for weird,” Jackson says, giving Bear’s harness a tug. The dog gives a happy bark like he’s just been promised bacon.

Martinez kneels to check our tether lines, his hands confident, methodical. He meets my eyes. “You trust me?”

I nod, because words have fled. My pulse thunders in my ears. My legs are shaking.

“Good. Just hang on.”

The pilot shouts, “Thirty seconds!”

Doors slide open, and the world fills with wind and white and the shrieking chop of rotors. Cold slaps my face like a warning.

Jackson swings out first with Bear strapped to his chest, descending into a snowy clearing like it’s just another Tuesday.

“Your turn, Willow.” Martinez steps up to the edge, our harnesses clipped together. He glances down, then at me. “Deep breath. One step. That’s all it takes.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod.

“Count of three. One… Two… Three.”

We step into the void.

The world falls away.

Wind whips past, bitter and biting. Martinez brakes the descent, guiding us down. The earth rushes up to meet us, and just when I think we’ll crash, his feet hit snow with a controlled crunch.

We’re down.

I collapse into his side, legs barely holding me up.

“See? Easy,” he murmurs.

“Remind me to define that word for you later.”

He laughs, unhooking our harnesses.

Jackson’s already unclipping Bear, the dog bounding forward through the snow, tail wagging like this is all a big game.

The helicopter banks hard, veering east, carrying Cooper and our would-be tail with it.

Hopefully.

A black SUV waits at the edge of the trees, engine running, two figures in tactical gear standing beside it. They approach quickly.

“The other bird is three minutes out,” Martinez says. “We need to move.”

“Roger that.” The man turns to me. “Ma’am, I’m Axel with Guardian HRS. We’re going to get you somewhere safe.”

“In the vehicle, please.” Axel guides me toward the SUV. “Time is critical.”

Bear jumps into the back without command, making himself comfortable across the rear seat. I slide in beside him, his warm bulk immediately pressing against my side. Martinez and Jackson take the middle row, while Axel slides behind the wheel.

“Seat belts,” he reminds us, then immediately accelerates down what appears to be a logging road, the SUV’s suspension absorbing the worst of the bumps but still jostling us roughly.

“Where are we going?” I ask, one hand gripping the door handle, the other buried in Bear’s thick fur.

“First vehicle exchange is three miles ahead,” Axel explains. “ Then we’ll take back roads to a secondary location for another swap.”

“They’re good at this.” Jackson notices my confusion. “Guardian HRS specializes in extracting high-value targets from hostile situations. They’ve got protocols for everything.”

“Reynolds has FBI connections,” I remind them. “They’ll be looking for us.”

“Exactly why we’re switching vehicles multiple times,” Martinez says without looking up from his tablet. “First rule of evasion—never stay in one vehicle too long. Second rule—change your signature as often as possible.”

The SUV barrels down the rough road for exactly eight minutes before Axel abruptly turns onto what appears to be a game trail barely wide enough for our vehicle. The branches scrape against the windows as we push through, emerging into another small clearing where a nondescript white van waits.

“Transfer point,” Axel announces. “Everyone out.”

The switch happens quickly. Bear leaps from vehicle to vehicle like he does this every day.

“What about the SUV?” I ask, looking back at the SUV.

“Axel will drive to a different location, creating a false trail.”

Minutes later, we’re moving again, this time in a commercial plumbing van with faded lettering on the sides.

The driver identifies himself as Griff. The van’s interior has been stripped and retrofitted, but from the outside, it looks like any service vehicle that might be traveling through rural Idaho.

“Thirty minutes to the next switch,” Griff announces.

The next swap occurs at an abandoned gas station miles from any main road.

“These should fit better than what you’re wearing.” Griff tosses me a bag of fresh clothes—jeans, a sweater, and a heavy jacket, all in subdued colors that won’t stand out.

Mason’s borrowed clothes were practical but enormous on my frame.

These new garments fit properly, allowing for easier movement.

I run my fingers through my hair, catching sight of my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror.

Beneath the fatigue and fear, something new glimmers in my eyes—determination, maybe. Or hope.

Bear is waiting when I emerge, pressing immediately against my legs like he can’t bear to be separated from me. His steadfast presence grounds me in a way I can’t articulate.

“You’re good with him,” Martinez observes as we prepare for the next vehicle transfer. “He’s usually Mason’s shadow.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” I say, scratching behind Bear’s ears. The massive dog leans into my touch, nearly knocking me over with his enthusiasm.

Martinez snorts. “Don’t let him fool you. That ‘sweetheart’ is a trained protection animal who could take down a man at a single command.”

I look down at Bear’s gentle eyes and struggle to reconcile that image with the war machine Martinez describes. “Right now, he just seems like a big love muffin.”

“Love muffin?” Jackson laughs. “I’m definitely telling Ghost you called his tactical assault dog a ‘love muffin’ when he catches up to us.”

When, not if. The subtle confidence in Jackson’s phrasing eases something tight in my chest.

Our next vehicle is a modest RV—the kind retirees might use to tour national parks.

“Perfect cover,” Martinez explains as we get underway. “Tourist vehicle, common in these parts. We’ll take back roads to a private airfield.”

“Airfield?” I glance out the window. “We’re flying again?”

Jackson nods. “Small plane, off the radar. It’ll take us deeper into Idaho.”

I sink into a seat, exhaustion suddenly crashing over me.

Bear immediately jumps up beside me, his massive head resting on my lap as if sensing my need for comfort.

His warmth and steady presence lull me into a light doze as the RV winds through mountain roads, putting more distance between us and the Montana border.

I dream of Mason—his steel-gray eyes, the scar bisecting his eyebrow, the way his hands cupped my face with both strength and tenderness. In my dream, he’s running through endless snow, always just out of reach, always calling my name…

“Willow.” A hand gently shakes my shoulder. “We’re here.”

I blink awake to find Jackson standing over me. Through the RV’s windows, we’ve stopped at what appears to be a small private airfield. A single-engine plane waits on the runway, propeller already turning.

“Time to move.” Jackson’s voice is gentle but urgent.

Bear jumps down, stretching his massive body before nudging my hand. I follow Jackson outside, the cold air instantly clearing the fog of sleep from my mind.

The plane is smaller than I expected—a six-seater.

“Is this safe?” I ask, eyeing the small plane dubiously.

“Yes,” Martinez assures me.

Bear boards without hesitation, somehow squeezing his massive frame into the limited space as if he’s done this a hundred times before. I follow with more trepidation, strapping myself into the seat beside him.

The takeoff is smoother than I expected, the small plane lifting effortlessly into the afternoon sky. Through the window, the landscape changes beneath us—forests giving way to mountains, valleys, and eventually a massive lake gleaming like polished silver in the distance.

“That’s our destination,” Jackson explains, noticing my interest. “Guardian HRS has a facility on that lake. We’ll land on the water and transfer to boats.”

“Land on the water?” I look at him in alarm.

He grins. “Floatplane. Another change in transportation signature to throw off any pursuit.”

The pilot expertly maneuvers the aircraft lower as we approach the lake, the pontoons beneath us now visible as we prepare for landing. I grip the armrests, heart pounding as we descend toward the water’s surface.

The landing is surprisingly gentle—a slight bump, then the sensation of gliding across the lake as the plane slows. A boat approaches.

“We’re almost there,” Martinez announces.