Page 34 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

“Yes,” I finally admit. “Three years of documentation. Every meeting. Every transaction.”

Kostic nods thoughtfully. “And my organization? We feature prominently?”

“Yes. Extensively.” I meet his gaze steadily.

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—a cold calculation moving behind them like shadow beneath ice. He takes a moment, considering.

“I hear Guardian HRS technology is especially savvy,” he says. “Particularly when it comes to digital manipulation.”

Mason tenses beside me. “What are you suggesting?”

“I wish to make a deal.” Kostic straightens his already immaculate tie .

“No deal,” Mason says immediately, voice hard.

I place a hand on his arm. “What do you have in mind?”

Kostic smiles—not the practiced social expression, but something genuine and therefore more frightening.

“Simple,” he says, spreading his hands. “Remove my organization from your files. Eliminate all references to our operations. Do that, and we have no quarrel.” He gestures to Steffan’s body.

“With Judge Reynolds dead, there will be no trial. No testimony. The corruption in his network can still be exposed without—certain complications.”

“You want us to tamper with evidence,” Mason states flatly.

“I want a business arrangement,” Kostic corrects. “You get what you need—the dissolution of Reynolds’s network. I get what I need—continued operational security.”

“And if we refuse?” I ask.

Kostic doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he looks out the window where the sporadic gunfire has completely ceased.

“Your team fought admirably. Professional. Disciplined. But significantly outnumbered.” His eyes return to mine.

“I would prefer that our organizations maintain a respectful distance rather than an—antagonistic relationship.”

The threat is clear without being explicit.

“Mason,” I say quietly. “Reynolds is gone. The immediate threat is neutralized.”

“He’s a weapons dealer, Willow,” Mason replies, voice low. “Responsible for arming terrorists, cartels?—”

“And I will continue those operations with or without your interference,” Kostic interjects smoothly. “The only question is whether we part ways peacefully today or become permanent adversaries.”

I weigh the options quickly. The evidence we have could implicate dozens of corrupt officials, judges, and law enforcement. We could still dismantle Reynolds’s network without Kostic’s organization being mentioned.

“If we do this,” I say slowly, “you guarantee you’ll never come after us. Never interfere with the cases against Reynolds’s other associates.”

“You have my word.” Kostic places a hand over his heart, the gesture somehow not appearing theatrical despite its formality. “Remove my organization from your files, and we have no reason to ever speak again.”

Mason and I exchange glances. The tactical reality is clear—we’re outnumbered, and the priority has always been dismantling Reynolds’s corruption.

“This ends here,” Kostic states, not a question but a command. “Reynolds disappears. His corruption is exposed. My name remains unmentioned. Agreed?”

Mason and I exchange glances. What choice do we have?

“We have a deal,” I say finally. “Mitzy can alter the files. No trace of your organization.”

“Agreed,” Mason echoes.

“Excellent.” Kostic buttons his suit jacket with an air of finality. “My men will retrieve the body. No traces will remain.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Mrs. Reynolds?—”

“I’m not Mrs. Reynolds,” I interrupt. “I haven’t been for some time.”

A flash of genuine amusement crosses his features. “Indeed. My apologies.” He studies me with newfound interest. “You’re a formidable woman. Far more than your husband deserved.” He inclines his head slightly. “Until our paths cross again.”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” I reply.

His smile deepens. “Let’s hope.” Then he’s gone, his men following silently, leaving us with the cooling body of the man who once controlled my every breath.

Mason immediately calls out on his radio to coordinate the extraction. Ryan and Martinez secure the room while Cooper checks the perimeter. Organized chaos as the operation pivots from capture to evacuation.

I stand motionless, staring at Steffan’s body. The man who terrorized me for years is reduced to an empty shell on a hardwood floor. Blood stains the expensive Italian leather of his shoes. Eyes vacant, staring at nothing.

Mason approaches cautiously. “Willow? We need to move.”

I nod, unable to look away from the body. “Is it wrong that I feel nothing?”

“No. It’s not wrong.” His hand finds mine, warm and solid.

“I wanted him to face justice. Real justice.”

“I know.” Mason gently turns me away from the sight. “But maybe this is justice. Just not the kind we planned for.”

Outside, the low thump-thump-thump of an incoming helicopter breaks the quiet. Kostic’s forces withdraw, melting into the forest as suddenly as they appeared.

As Mason leads me to the helicopter, I glance back at the house where my nightmare ended. At the husband who was my abuser. The past I’m finally, and truly, leaving behind.

“I stood up to him,” I say quietly as we board the helicopter. “I wasn’t afraid.”

Mason’s arm tightens around my shoulders as we lift off. “You never have to be afraid again.”

“I know.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. I rest my head against his shoulder, watching the safe house shrink beneath us. Kostic’s men will retrieve Steffan’s body, erasing all evidence of what happened here.

It’s not the justice I wanted. Not the ending I planned. But it’s an ending nonetheless.

“What do we do now?” I ask as we head toward the Guardian HRS safe house in Idaho.

Mason’s fingers lace with mine, strong and steady. “Whatever you want.”

Below us, the forest stretches, endless and dark. Above, the first stars pierce the dusk. And ahead—for the first time in years—lies a future that belongs only to me.

Mason takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “You did it, Willow. You brought him down.”

“We did it,” I correct, leaning into his solid warmth. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

His lips brush my temple. “You would have found a way. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

The compliment warms me from within, but I shake my head. “Strong doesn’t mean doing it alone. I tried that route for three years. Nearly got myself killed.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes tracing my face with that intensity that still makes my heart race. “How are you feeling? Really?”

I consider the question, searching for the truth he deserves. “Relieved. Vindicated. Exhausted.” I swallow hard. “And sad, strangely enough. Not for Steffan—never for him—but for the years I lost. The person I might have been if I hadn’t met him.”

“You didn’t lose those years,” Mason says softly.

“You survived them. Used them to gather evidence that’s now dismantling criminal networks across three states.

” His hand squeezes mine gently. “And the person you might have been wouldn’t have been as strong, as resilient, as extraordinary as the woman sitting beside me now. ”

Tears prick at my eyes, but they’re different from the ones I’ve shed over the past six months—not tears of pain or fear, but of release. Of understanding that even our darkest chapters shape us in ways that matter.

“Take me home,” I whisper, suddenly eager to shed the formal suit, the careful makeup, the public persona I’ve maintained throughout the trial. “I’m ready for this day to be over.”