Page 24 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

SEVENTEEN

Willow

Bear perks up at the sight of the water, his tail thumping excitedly against the seat. Despite everything, I find myself smiling at his enthusiasm.

The transfer from plane to boat is tricky. Bear leaps into the boat without prompting, turning to watch expectantly as I carefully step from the plane’s pontoon.

The boat—a sleek, powerful craft clearly built for speed—carries us across the lake.

“How are you holding up?” Jackson asks, settling beside me.

“I’m…” I pause, considering the question. “I’m still processing everything. It doesn’t feel quite real.”

He nods understanding. “First extractions are always surreal. Like you’re watching a movie of your own life.”

“Does it get easier?” I glance at him, curious.

“In some ways.” His expression turns thoughtful. “You get used to the protocols, the constant movement. But the reasons behind it—those never get easier.”

I think about Mason, about Ryan, about Chaos.

Cooper and his injuries .

I think about the gunfire that echoed through the Montana forest as we lifted off.

“Any word from Mason and Ryan?”

Jackson shakes his head. “Not yet. They’ll make contact when they’re secure.”

Bear shifts closer, as if sensing my concern, his warm weight pressing against my side. I run my fingers through his thick coat, finding comfort in the simple, tangible connection of a four-footed friend.

The boat ride lasts exactly twenty-three minutes before we reach the opposite shore. True to Martinez’s word, another SUV awaits.

“Final leg of the journey.” Jackson guides me toward a forest-green pickup truck.

Bear jumps into the vehicle bed, making himself comfortable with a contented huff.

“Stubborn beast,” Jackson mutters, but there’s affection in his tone.

The drive takes us up winding mountain roads, climbing higher into dense forest that seems to swallow us whole. After nearly an hour of relentless ascent, we round a final curve and the “safehouse” comes into view.

“Whoa,” I breathe, taking in the sprawling structure.

“Guardian HRS doesn’t mess around,” Jackson says with evident pride. “This is one of their premier facilities. Completely off-grid, self-sufficient, and virtually impenetrable.”

The “safehouse” is more like a fortress disguised as a luxury mountain retreat—a massive log structure nestled into the mountainside with commanding views of the valley below. Solar arrays gleam on the expansive roof, and I spot what looks like a helipad partially concealed by trees on one side.

“Home sweet home, at least for now.” Martinez offers me a hand as I exit the vehicle.

Bear is out before the engine fully stops, bounding up to the porch where he’s greeted warmly by a petite woman with a long brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

“Bear! You handsome devil,” she exclaims, kneeling to receive his enthusiastic greeting. “Where’s your daddy, huh?”

“Ghost’s on his way,” Jackson answers, helping me from the truck. “Willow, meet Skye Summers, co-founder of Guardian HRS and head of their medical division.”

Skye straightens, her green eyes sharp as she assesses me with professional interest. “Mrs. Reynolds. Welcome.”

“Just Willow, please.” The sound of Steffan’s name makes my skin crawl. “I’m not his wife anymore. Not in any way that matters.”

Understanding flashes across her face. “Willow, then. Let’s get you inside.” She turns to Martinez and Jackson. “Just got an update on Cooper. He’s in surgery and he’s going to be fine.”

“That’s great to hear.” Jackson and Martinez exchange a relieved look.

“Well, come inside.” Skye looks up. “We aren’t tracking anyone in the air or the woods, but best not to hang out here for too long.” She turns to me. “You’ll get a full safety briefing later, but rule number one is no going outside where anything flying, or spying, can confirm your identity.”

“Makes sense.” I follow her inside.

The interior of the mountain retreat is even more impressive than its exterior, featuring soaring ceilings, massive windows that overlook the valley, and state-of-the-art security systems that blend seamlessly with rustic luxury.

Despite its size, the space feels warm and welcoming in a way I hadn’t expected from a high-security facility.

“This way.” Skye leads us through what appears to be a great room toward a hallway lined with doors. “We’ve prepared a suite for you. You can rest, shower, eat—whatever you need. Bear can stay with you if you’d like.”

At the mention of his name, the massive dog trots to my side, looking up at me with those soulful eyes that seem to understand everything.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I’d like that very much.”

Skye smiles. “I thought so. Mason mentioned he’s taken quite a shine to you.”

“Mason?” I stop mid-step. “You’ve heard from him?”

“Brief transmission about twenty minutes ago,” she confirms. “He and Ryan are en route. ETA tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

Relief crashes through me with such force that my knees nearly buckle. “He’s okay? They’re both okay?”

“Apparently,” Skye’s expression softens. “Mason Blackwood is notoriously hard to kill. Now, let’s get you settled.”

The suite is larger than any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in—a sitting area with plush sofas, a bedroom with a king-sized bed, and a bathroom featuring both a massive shower and a deep soaking tub. Fresh clothes wait on the bed, and a tray of food sits on the coffee table.

“Everything you need should be here,” Skye says. “If not, just use the intercom. Someone will come.”

“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate for what these people have done for me—risking their lives, creating this elaborate escape network, and treating my wounds, both visible and hidden.

Skye pauses at the door. “Oh, Mitzy will be by in about an hour. She’s our tech specialist. She’ll want to discuss the flash drive.”

With that reminder, my hand immediately goes to my pocket, confirming the small device is still there—three years of evidence, of suffering, of careful documentation .

“Get some rest,” Skye advises, then closes the door softly behind her.

Alone for the first time in what feels like days, I sink onto the edge of the bed, emotions finally catching up with me.

Bear immediately jumps up beside me, his massive weight making the mattress dip dramatically.

He settles with his head in my lap, eyes watching me with what seems like genuine concern.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, though the tears now falling freely suggest otherwise. “We’re safe.”

Bear whines softly, shifting to press more of his warm bulk against me.

His steady presence anchors me as I finally allow myself to fully feel everything—the terror of the past days, the grief for years lost to Steffan’s abuse, the strange, fierce hope that bloomed in Mason’s arms. The fact that I think I might be in love with a man I’ve known for barely a handful of days.

I don’t know how long I sit there, crying, while Bear offers his silent comfort. Eventually, the tears slow, then stop altogether, leaving me hollow but somehow lighter.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the dog, who responds by licking my hand once, then jumping down and padding to the bathroom door, looking back at me expectantly.

“Good idea.” I manage a watery smile. “A shower would help.”

The hot water is glorious, sluicing away the physical remnants of our journey—the sweat, the dirt, the lingering scent of fear. I stand under the spray until my skin pinks, letting the heat soak into muscles I didn’t even realize were tense.

By the time I emerge, wrapped in the plush robe provided, I feel almost human again. Bear has made himself comfortable on the bed, massive body sprawled across the crisp white duvet, but he immediately sits up when I appear.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” I tease, the normality of the moment striking me as both absurd and precious.

I dress in the clothes provided—soft leggings, a cashmere sweater, thick socks—all in my exact size. The attention to detail is both impressive and slightly unnerving. How much does Guardian HRS know about me?

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Bear is immediately alert and moves to my side.

“Who is it?” I call, one hand automatically going to the dog’s thick scruff.

“Mitzy,” comes the response. “Here about the flash drive.”

I open the door to find a woman with startling blue, purple, and black hair cropped in a pixie cut smiling at me. Her eyes carry the spark of intense intelligence, but her smile is as genuine as it gets.

“Willow, right? I’m Mitzy.” She extends a hand. “Head of tech operations here at Guardian HRS. May I come in?”

I step aside, and she enters, immediately dropping to one knee to greet Bear. “Hey, big guy. Long time no see.” Bear accepts her affectionate ear scratches with dignified patience before returning to the bed.

“You know Bear?” I ask, surprised.

“Oh yeah. Ghost brings him whenever he visits. That dog’s had more security clearance than most agents.” She straightens, her expression turning serious. “So, the flash drive. Mason mentioned it contains critical evidence.”

I nod, retrieving it from my pocket. “Three years’ worth. Financial records, witness tampering, weapons deals with terrorist organizations, and offshore accounts. Everything needed to bring Steffan down.”

Mitzy whistles low. “No wonder he wants you dead.” She produces a sleek laptop from her messenger bag. “Mind if we take a look? I’d like to make multiple secure backups immediately.”

“Please.” I hand her the drive, the weight of responsibility lifting slightly as it passes from my possession. “The more copies that exist, the less power Steffan has.”

We spend the next two hours going through the drive’s contents, Mitzy occasionally mutters technical jargon I don’t understand as she creates encrypted backups and routes them to secure servers.

“This is…” she pauses, staring at the screen. “This is explosive stuff. Your husband wasn’t just corrupt—he was running a full-scale operation.”

“Former husband,” I correct automatically. “And yes, I know. That’s why I spent three years gathering evidence. I needed to make sure when I finally escaped, he couldn’t just make it all disappear.”

Mitzy looks at me with new respect. “Smart. Dangerous, but smart.”

Mitzy’s eyes narrow as she scrolls, her fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the keys.

“The files on this USB are a chaos of data—no unifying titles, no structured folders, just fragments of financial statements, security protocols, court transcripts, energy contracts. Like a hoarder’s hard drive. ”

“I took what I could when I could. That’s no surprise, but is it enough? Enough to take him down?”

“Definitely. The problem is this is messy,” Mitzy mutters.

“That’s what I said.”

“But not messy enough.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“These files shouldn’t connect.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, watching her brow furrow deeper.

“They do,” she says slowly. “Barely. But, then they don’t. It’s like a shadow running through the metadata. Version histories, revision comments, internal notes.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Mitzy leans in, typing faster. “Most of these files were scrubbed or anonymized—some of them encrypted in layers. But not perfectly. There’s a tag that keeps showing up, buried in old edits and hidden fields.”

“A tag?” I shake my head. “Sorry, but you’ve lost me.”

“Obsidian.”

“What’s Obsidian?”

“No idea,” Mitzy replies. “But it’s an odd reference, occurring across many of these files—legal, military-adjacent, even biotech.

Some are scanned memos, while others resemble early-stage research proposals or covert budget approvals.

All of it smells black-ops adjacent. It’s as if someone was quietly pulling strings behind federal walls.

It’s just weird. You may have snagged a thread tied to an unsanctioned ghost project. ”

“I’m not surprised. Steffan and integrity are like oil and water.”

Mitzy turns back to the screen. “I’m still digging, but this could be more than we realize. It could explain why Steffan wasn’t willing to let you go.”

“It was worth the risk.” I think of the bruises, the humiliation, the years of careful planning while enduring systematic abuse. “It has to be.”

A soft knock interrupts us. Bear’s head lifts, but he doesn’t seem alarmed, which I take as a good sign.

“Come in,” I call.

The door opens to reveal a man who can only be described as a giant carved from mountain stone.

He has the kind of height that makes doorframes nervous—to my best guess just shy of seven feet—and a body built like a battering ram.

Tree- trunk legs, shoulders broad enough to block sunlight, and hands the size of dinner plates.

His hair is a shock of white blond, thick and unruly, falling over ice-blue eyes that crinkle with warmth when they land on Bear. A small scar slices through his left brow, barely noticeable, but enough to hint at stories not easily told.

“There’s my favorite fur missile.” His voice rolls through the room like distant thunder, like boulders crashing against each other in some forgotten canyon. Low. Deep. Resonant. A sound you feel in your chest more than your ears.

Bear launches off the bed, barreling into the newcomer with such enthusiasm that a lesser man would have been knocked flat. The giant merely laughs, absorbing the impact and rubbing Bear’s ears.

“Willow, meet Forest Summers,” Mitzy says, her tone suggesting this introduction is significant. “Creator and head of Guardian HRS.”