Page 31 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

TWENTY-THREE

Willow

Steffan continues his monologue, unaware he’s performing for an audience that’s already three steps ahead. “I’ve been patient, sweetheart. Given you time to come to your senses. But my patience is running out.”

I can feel Mason beside me, his body radiating tension. His hand hovers near mine, not quite touching. Giving me space to process this moment.

“You’ve always been clever, Willow,” Steffan says on screen. “Too clever for your own good, but this little game ends now.”

Something clicks inside me. A final piece shifting into place.

“We need to use this,” I say, my voice cutting through the room’s tension.

Forest turns to me, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Use it how?”

“He thinks he’s found us,” I say, gesturing toward the screen where Steffan continues his threats. “Mitzy, does your trap show him a location? Something he believes is our hideout?”

Mitzy nods. “The decoy server farm is presenting as a remote property in northern Idaho. Basic security protocols, nothing that would suggest Guardian-level defenses. ”

“Then we set a trap.” The words feel right as I say them. Powerful. “We let him come to us. Let him think he’s found me. But we control the ground.”

Mason shifts beside me. “Absolutely not. We move you to a more secure?—”

“No.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I’m done running.”

The room goes silent. Mason’s eyes darken with concern, but I see something else there too.

Pride.

“He expects me to be cowering,” I continue. “Let’s show him who I’ve become.”

Forest strokes his beard, considering. “It has tactical advantages. Choose our ground, set the terms of engagement.”

“It’s too risky,” Mason argues, but his tone lacks conviction.

I step closer to him, close enough that only he can hear my next words. “I need this. I need to face him on my terms. Not in a courtroom surrounded by his people, but somewhere I know I’m not alone.”

His jaw works as he processes my words. Then, slowly, he nods.

“We’d need to secure a location,” Forest says, already shifting to planning mode. “Not here, obviously. Somewhere we can control completely.”

“The Blackwater safe house,” CJ suggests. “It’s been partially decommissioned. Perfect cover.”

“We capture him alive,” I say firmly. “He needs to face justice for everything he’s done. His network needs to be exposed.”

Forest exchanges a look with Mason that I can’t quite interpret. Then he nods. “Capture, not kill. That’s the mission.”

As they begin hammering out details, CJ steps away briefly, phone to his ear. I catch fragments: “Charlie team… Immediate deployment… Full tactical… Ethan, your team only…”

When he returns, he makes no mention of the call, but I understand instinctively—he’s creating layers of security even the rest of us don’t know about.

Mason’s hand finally finds mine under the table, fingers interlacing. “I don’t like this,” he murmurs.

“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “But it’s time.”

On the screen, Steffan finishes his threats with that smile I once feared more than his rage. “I know where you’re hiding. I know who’s helping you. And I know exactly how to make them suffer if you don’t return what’s mine.”

Mitzy cuts the feed. In the sudden silence, my resolve hardens like steel being tempered.

I am not his. Not anymore. Never again.

The training room smells of sweat and determination. My muscles burn pleasantly as Mitzy circles me on the mat, her petite frame deceptively relaxed.

“Remember,” she says, “you’re not fighting fair. You’re fighting to win.”

She lunges suddenly—a calculated attack designed to test my reflexes. I sidestep, redirect her momentum using her arm as leverage, just as she’s taught me over these past few weeks.

Mitzy hits the mat with a grunt, then grins up at me.

“Perfect.” She springs to her feet. “Now, men like Reynolds fight with their emotions. They get angry when they don’t immediately dominate.”

“Steffan always did have a temper underneath that controlled exterior,” I confirm, readjusting my stance.

“Use it against him. Let him think he’s winning. Let him overcommit.” Mitzy demonstrates, telegraphing a wide swing that leaves her center exposed. “Then strike where it hurts.”

We continue like this for another thirty minutes—Mitzy attacking, me defending, then counterattacking. My body moves with a new fluidity, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought ends. By the time we finish, my tank top is soaked, and my lungs burn with exertion.

But I feel ready.

In the armory, Mason waits with a black case. His expression is solemn as he sets it on the bench between us.

“Non-negotiable,” he says, opening the case to reveal a sleek, lightweight vest of ballistic material. “If you’re doing this, you wear protection.”

I nod, understanding this is his way of supporting my choice while still needing to keep me safe. He lifts the vest carefully, stepping behind me to help me into it. His hands are gentle as they position the plates, then firm as they tighten the straps.

“It’s designed for women,” he explains, his breath warm against my ear as he works. “Kevlar composite with ceramic strike plates. It’ll stop anything short of a high-powered rifle round.”

His fingers brush against my ribs, adjusting the side panels. Even through the tactical material, his touch sends electricity along my spine. He reaches around to secure the front plate, his palm resting briefly over my heart.

“It’s lighter than I expected,” I say, placing my hand over his.

“Latest Guardian tech. Doesn’t mean you take unnecessary risks.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes tell a different story when I turn to face him.

“I won’t,” I promise. “This isn’t about revenge, Mason. It’s about ending it. On my terms.”

He nods, then helps me out of the vest. “We’ll continue training with it on. You need to get used to moving in it.”

As we exit the armory, I catch a glimpse of movement in a connecting hallway—six men in tactical gear. Their leader, tall with sharp features and watchful eyes, pauses briefly to acknowledge Mason with a curt nod.

“Ethan,” Mason returns the nod. “Good hunting.”

The man—Ethan—glances at me, his assessment quick but thorough. Then he’s gone, his team disappearing like shadows into another section of the facility.

“Charlie Team,” Mason explains, noting my curiosity. “Forest’s elite tactical unit.”

“Part of the operation?”

Mason’s expression reveals nothing. “Insurance we don’t talk about.”

I understand then—they’re the contingency no one mentions. The forces that only appear if everything goes wrong. Somehow, this knowledge doesn’t frighten me. It reassures me.

We’ve planned for every possibility.

The safe house sits in a small clearing, surrounded by dense forest on three sides and a steep ridge on the fourth. To casual observation, it’s just another remote cabin—weathered wood siding, metal roof, generator humming quietly behind the structure. But I know better.

The windows are bulletproof. The walls are reinforced with ballistic panels. The perimeter is rigged with motion sensors and infrared cameras. And somewhere out there, hidden even from us, Charlie Team waits in silence.

Inside, I adjust the lightweight body armor beneath my sweater. It feels strange, constricting yet reassuring. The weight of it grounds me in this moment.

“Thirty minutes,” Mason says, checking his watch. “Mitzy confirms their convoy is on schedule.”

I nod, trying to steady my breathing. We’re in position in the main living area—the predetermined confrontation point. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer clear views of the approaching road, while strategically placed furniture creates cover if needed.

The plan is elegant in its simplicity. Steffan will send his team to secure the perimeter.

They’ll encounter moderate resistance—enough to seem realistic but not enough to deter them.

Steffan will remain back until the initial breach is complete, then enter to retrieve me personally.

Standard procedure for him—always letting others take the initial risks.

When he enters, he’ll find me waiting. Mason and the others will be nearby but hidden, ready to move the moment Steffan is fully committed.

“You okay?” Mason asks, his voice low as he checks his sidearm one last time.

I take a deep breath, centering myself. “I’m ready.”

He studies me, then nods. “Remember your training. Don’t take unnecessary risks. And most importantly?—”

“Trust the team,” I finish. “I know.”

“I’ll be right over there,” he indicates a hallway alcove with clear sightlines to our position. “You won’t see me, but I’ll see everything.”

“I know,” I repeat, this time with a small smile. “That’s why I can do this.”

“They’re here. Get in position.” He kisses me briefly, fiercely, then checks his earpiece. As Mason disappears into his hiding spot, I move to my designated position—standing before the main window, silhouetted against the late afternoon light.

Visible. A target.

Bait.

My heart doesn’t pound with fear but with anticipation. The body armor presses against my ribs with each breath, a constant reminder that I’m protected .

Prepared.

Through the window, I catch the first glimpse of vehicles approaching—three black SUVs moving in tight formation up the access road.

Professional. Coordinated. Armed.

The first shots crack through the stillness, controlled bursts from the perimeter defense teams. The SUVs halt in a practiced formation, doors opening as tactical teams deploy in textbook cover patterns.

I watch dispassionately as the ballet of violence unfolds. Guardian operators falling back strategically, appearing to be overwhelmed while actually channeling Steffan’s forces exactly where we want them. The gunfire is sporadic but intensifies as they approach the house.

Then I see him.