Interrogation Room 3 was a concrete box. Ten by ten. Beige walls, scuffed with the ghosts of a thousand other interrogations. A metal table bolted to the floor, two metal chairs. A single, small window high on one wall showed nothing but a sliver of flat, blue sky. A digital recorder already sat on the table, its small red light blinking. Recording.

The room smelled of stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and the faint, metallic tang of fear. It was a smell I knew well. I had sat in rooms like this before, on the other side of the table.

Ramsay gestated to the chair with a flick of his chin. “Have a seat, sweetheart.”

He settled into his own chair, the picture of dominant authority. He owned this room. He owned me. Tucker guided me into the seat, his touch still professional, impersonal. I wondered if he had any idea he was a pawn in a performance that had started 18 months ago. He was just a man doing his job, and for that, I respected him more than the peacock strutting in front of me.

“Remove the restraints,” Ramsay ordered, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. He was savoring this. “I want our guest to be comfortable for our little chat. Give her some water, too. We’re civilized here.”

Civilized. That was the word he chose. This man, who had just subjected me to a medieval public shaming, was now playing the part of the reasonable officer. The hypocrisy was so thick I could almost taste it.

The metallic click-clack of the handcuffs opening was deafening in the small room. The cuffs fell away. My wrists screamed in protest, red and raw from the nerves being pinched. I didn’t rub them. Not yet.

First, I placed my hands flat on the metal table, palms down. The surface was cold. I flexed my fingers, one by one, feeling the blood rush back, cataloging the pinpricks of returning sensation, checking nerve function. It was a precise, medical self-assessment, not the grateful rubbing of a civilian.

Through the one-way observation mirror, I knew Pierce and Cain were watching. I felt their scrutiny like a physical weight. I had to give them a show, too. Just a different one. This wasn’t for the crowd. This was for the professionals. I needed them to see the cracks in Ramsay’s story, not in me.

Ramsay opened his manila folder, the one he’d waved in the courtyard. He spread several documents across the table with a theatrical flourish. Photographs. Schematics.

“So,” he began, his voice dripping with condescending patience. “Let’s start with the basics. Your name. Your real name, this time.”

I met his gaze. My heart was beating at a steady 60 beats per minute. I had already cataloged the room: one door, two guards (Tucker and another by the wall, a new face), one-way mirror to my left. Ramsay was my primary focus. His pupils were dilated, not with anger, but with excitement. He was high on the power. This was a drug for him.

“Evelyn Cross,” I said. My voice was quiet, steady. No fear. No defiance. Just a statement of fact.

“Age?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Occupation?”

“Currently unemployed.”

Ramsay’s perfect eyebrows rose. “Unemployed. How convenient. And what did you do before your recent career change to federal criminal?”

For the first time, I let a flicker of something—not amusement, but interest—touch my expression. “I worked in logistics.”

“Logistics?” He made a show of writing it down on a yellow legal pad, his pen strokes exaggerated. “And I suppose your ‘logistics’ experience included detailed knowledge of classified military installations, did it? Accessing restricted data? Impersonating dead heroes?”

He fanned the documents toward me. They were aerial photos of the base, technical diagrams, security protocols. The planted evidence.

“Let’s talk about these,” he said, his tone shifting from mockery to a prosecutor’s sharp edge. “Detailed schematics of our defensive positions. Guard rotations accurate down to the minute. Classified protocols that would take months of surveillance to compile.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping, the performance returning. “Unless, of course, someone gave them to you. Who’s your handler, Evelyn? Which foreign service are you working for? Russia? China? Don’t tell me, North Korea? You don’t look the type, but hey, I’m open to surprises.”

This was the moment. The pivot.

I looked at the documents, not with the fear of a civilian caught, but with the professional interest of an analyst. My eyes scanned the images, not randomly, but in trained patterns. Top-left to bottom-right, identifying key infrastructure, threat vectors, ingress/egress points. My finger traced the edge of one aerial photo, my nail just barely brushing the laminate.

From behind the glass, I heard Master Chief Cain shift his weight. A heavy, creaking sound. He’d recognized the scanning technique. He knew what he was looking at. He was old-school intelligence, from a time before digital. He knew the tradecraft.

“I’ve never seen these documents before,” I said finally, my voice flat.

Ramsay laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Right. They just materialized in your backpack. Maybe your fairy godmother left them under your pillow. You expect me to believe that?”

I held his gaze. “I said I’d never seen these documents. I didn’t say I was unfamiliar with the information.”

The distinction, so subtle, landed in the room with the weight of a dropped grenade.

Ramsay’s smile faltered, just for a second. The practiced confidence wavered.

Behind the glass, Pierce straightened. I could almost hear him. What did she just say?

“Explain that,” Ramsay demanded, his voice a little tighter.

I leaned back slightly, keeping my posture open, non-confrontational. I was just a helpful “logistics manager.” “Norfolk Naval Base is a major East Coast installation. Its general layout, operational capacity, and primary defensive positions are matters of public record for anyone with basic research skills. Half of these photos,” I tapped one, “look like they were pulled from Google Earth. The resolution is civilian-grade.”

I pointed to one of the “classified” diagrams. “And this schematic of the power grid? It’s outdated. That substation by the south gate was refitted 18 months ago after the hurricane. This diagram still shows the old transformer array. What makes information classified, Staff Sergeant, isn’t its existence. It’s its accuracy and specificity. Most of this… it’s just noise. Impressive-looking noise, but noise nonetheless.”

I gave him a small, helpful smile. “If you paid for this information, I’d ask for a refund.”

Ramsay’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t going according to his script. He was supposed to be breaking down a hysterical wannabe, not debating operational security with a logistics manager. He had planted evidence, but he had planted bad evidence. Sloppy. Arrogant. Just like him.

“She’s right,” Commander Blackwood, the base CO, who had joined the others behind the glass, said quietly. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew he’d be there. I’d seen his car pull up. “Half of what he’s showing her could be pulled from Jane’s Defense Weekly.”

Ramsay, flustered, swept the photos aside and replaced them with a new set of documents. Personnel files.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Let’s talk about something more specific. Something you can’t find on Google.” He slammed the file down. “These are the active duty records for SEAL Team 6. Names, deployment histories, family information. The kind of data that gets people killed. We found this in your bag, too.”

My focus sharpened. This was different. This wasn’t open-source. This wasn’t “noise.” This was real. This was the blood.

My breathing pattern shifted. Still controlled, but deeper. Heightened alertness. I reached for one of the files. My movement was precise, confident. The gesture of someone who handled classified materials every day.

I scanned the top page. It was a deployment roster. My stomach twisted. I knew two of the names on that list. I had served with their brothers. I had attended a funeral for one of them. The rage was a cold, hard stone in my gut.

“This information is current as of last month,” I observed. My voice was cold now. All pretense of “logistics” was gone. “That suggests ongoing, active access to classified databases. Not a one-time theft. A leak.”

The observation hit Ramsay like a slap. He’d been so focused on his performance that he’d forgotten basic operational security. By showing me current intelligence, he had revealed a critical piece of the puzzle: the leak was active, and it was inside. He had just confirmed my entire investigation.

“That’s not your concern,” he snapped, but his composure was cracking. He was trying to regain control, but he was losing it.

“Isn’t it?” I set the file down and looked directly at him. “You’re accusing me of espionage based on outdated, public-domain documents I’ve never seen, while simultaneously demonstrating that highly classified, life-threatening information is being leaked from sources I couldn’t possibly have access to. That seems like a logical contradiction, Staff Sergeant.”

Behind the glass, Cain whistled softly, a sound I’d find out about later. “She’s not just running circles around him. She’s running the whole damn track.”

Ramsay stood abruptly. The chair screeched against the concrete, a harsh, grating sound designed to startle, to intimidate.

I didn’t flinch. Not an eyelid.

My head tilted, tracking his movement. My body remained relaxed, but poised. Ready to move.

“You know what I think?” he said, pacing behind me now, trying to use his height and position to intimidate. His voice was a low growl. “I think you’re a professional. Not some wannabe playing dress-up, but an actual intelligence operative. The question is, which service? CIA? DIA? Or maybe something… more exotic?”

It was a classic fishing expedition. He was desperate for a reaction, for anything to regain his footing.

I gave him nothing. “What would make you think that?”

The counter-question, the deflection, made his frustration boil over.

“Because civilians don’t sit there analyzing classified documents like they’re reading a restaurant menu!” he exploded, slamming his palm on the metal table. The sound was a gunshot in the small room. The water cup jumped.

“Because normal people don’t discuss operational security like they wrote the manual! And because every instinct I’ve developed over 12 years of service is screaming at me that you are not who you pretend to be!”

I waited. I let the echo of his shout fade. I let the silence stretch, filling it with my calm.

When I finally spoke, my voice was quiet, but it cut through his rage like a scalpel.

“If your instincts are that sharp, Staff Sergeant… perhaps you should trust them completely.”

The challenge hung in the air. He stared at me, his perfect features flushed, his chest heaving. For the first time, he looked uncertain. He looked… afraid.

He had started the day hunting a rabbit and was just now realizing he’d cornered a wolf.

The door to the interrogation room burst open, breaking the tension. Private Luna Hayes, a young soldier I’d seen in the courtyard, stumbled in, her hands shaking as she held a steaming mug.

“Staff Sergeant, you… you requested coffee,” she stammered, her eyes wide, terrified of interrupting, taking in the scene.

“Just put it down and get out!” Ramsay snapped, turning his rage on her. He needed a target, and she was a soft one.

Hayes flinched and hurried to the table. Her trembling hand sloshed hot coffee over the side of the mug, spilling it across the metal surface and onto her own fingers. She gasped, pulling her hand back, tears welling in her eyes.

Instinct took over.

Before anyone could react, before Ramsay could yell at her again, I reached into the pocket of my scuffed pants and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped packet. A sterile, antiseptic field wipe. The kind issued in every med kit.

“Here,” I said, my voice gentle. I tore it open with one hand, a precise, practiced tear, and offered it to her. “Clean the burn. Coffee is acidic; it can scar if you don’t neutralize it quickly.”

Hayes stared at me, then at the wipe, and gratefully took it. “Th-thank you, ma’am.”

As she dabbed at her skin, she watched my hands. The way I’d opened the packet, the way I held it.

“Field medicine basics,” I said quietly, answering her unspoken question. “Everyone should know how to treat minor injuries.”

Ramsay watched the exchange, his eyes narrowing to slits. After Hayes scrambled out of the room, he leaned across the table.

“Where exactly did you learn ‘field medicine,’ Miss Cross?”

“First aid certification is required for most high-risk logistics positions,” I replied evenly. “Workplace safety regulations. OSHA.”

It was a plausible lie. But it wasn’t an answer to his question.

Behind the glass, Commander Blackwood had made a decision. “I’m making some calls,” he said, his voice grim. “Pierce, keep watching. Cain, run a complete background check on Evelyn Cross. I want to know everything. Employment, credit reports, traffic tickets, library cards. Everything.”

“What classification level, sir?” Cain asked.

“Start with civilian. If that comes up empty… escalate.”

Blackwood left the observation room just as Ramsay’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the text message.

His face went pale. Not flushed with anger, but a sick, ashen gray.

He stared at the screen for a long, silent moment. Then he slowly, very slowly, lifted his eyes to meet mine.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “It seems our background check on you has hit… complications.”

I kept my expression neutral. “What kind of complications?”

“The kind,” he said, his voice shaking with a new emotion—not anger, but genuine shock—”where your fingerprints trigger classified access warnings in federal databases. Pentagon-level warnings.”

I held his gaze. My heart rate hadn’t changed. “That’s unusual.”

“‘Unusual’?” His voice cracked. “Lady, civilians don’t have fingerprints in classified databases unless they’ve done something to earn the personal attention of the Joint Chiefs. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Who are you really working for?”

Before I could answer, the door opened again. This time, it was Master Chief Cain. His weathered face was grim. He didn’t look at me. He locked eyes with Ramsay.

“Staff Sergeant. I need you in the hallway. Now.”

Ramsay, looking like a man underwater, numbly followed him out.

The door clicked shut.

I was alone.

For the first time since 0600 hours, I was completely alone.

I closed my eyes. Just for a second. I let out a single, controlled breath. Phase One complete. The bait was taken. The trap was set. Phase Two, initiating.

I opened my eyes. Through the one-way mirror, I knew Pierce was still there, watching. I stretched my neck, worked my shoulders, and performed a series of subtle muscle-tension exercises, the kind you do when you’ve been held in restraints or confined spaces. I rolled my wrists, testing the nerves Ramsay’s cuffs had aggravated.

In the hallway, Cain was delivering the news. “The background check is a nightmare, Staff Sergeant. Her Social Security number is valid, but the employment history is a ghost. Credit reports show regular, substantial income from a holding company that was officially dissolved three years ago. The bank records… they’re routing through known intelligence community financial networks.”

Ramsay leaned against the wall. “What are you saying, Master Chief?”

“I’m saying,” Cain said, his voice low, “that this woman has all the hallmarks of someone operating under official, deep cover. And you just paraded her in front of the entire base.”

The color drained from Ramsay’s face. “That’s impossible. If she were legitimate, she would have identified herself at the gate. She would have used her credentials.”

“Would she?” Cain’s skepticism was sharp. “If she’s running a long-term infiltration op, do you think she’d blow her cover just to avoid a few hours of interrogation from a base-level security sergeant? You didn’t just arrest a civilian, Ramsay. You may have just compromised a national security asset.”

Ramsay’s perfect world was crumbling. He’d built his career on being the best, the smartest, the most decorated. The idea that he’d been so profoundly wrong, so spectacularly fooled, was a blow to his entire identity.

He stumbled back into the interrogation room, his arrogance gone, replaced by a raw, desperate confusion.

I looked up at him mildly. “Problems with the background check?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he lied, but his voice was hollow.

I nodded thoughtfully. “Database anomalies can be challenging. Especially when you’re dealing with compartmented information systems.”

The jargon hit him like a physical blow. Compartmented information systems. Not a term civilians knew. Not something you learned from TV. It was specific, high-level intelligence language.

“How… how do you know about compartmented information?” he demanded.

I gave him a small, cold smile. “I read a lot.”

His phone buzzed again. A new text.

He looked at it. His hand was shaking so badly he almost dropped it. He went from pale to ghostly white. He stared at the screen, then at me, his eyes wide with something that looked like pure terror.

“Your… your fingerprint search,” he stammered. “It just triggered a Level One security alert at the Pentagon. A Red alert. They’re… God, they’re sending a classification review team. From D.C.”

“That seems excessive,” I observed, “for a simple identity verification.”

I leaned forward, dropping my voice, letting the mask of “Evelyn Cross” fall away, just a little. “Unless the identity being verified is supposed to be classified. Unless that identity… is supposed to be dead.”

The sound of vehicles approaching, fast, cut through the silence. Not just a car. A convoy. Black SUVs, government plates, tinted windows. The kind that showed up when a routine security matter became a national security crisis.

The door flew open. Commander Blackwood was back. His face was a mask of controlled urgency.

“Staff Sergeant Ramsay,” he said, his voice a formal command. “I need you to step outside. Now.”

“Sir, I’m in the middle of—”

“Your interrogation is suspended, Sergeant. Indefinitely. Pending clarification of numerous security matters.” Blackwood’s eyes were like steel. “Wait in the hallway.”

Ramsay, defeated, looking like a ghost himself, walked out of the room.

Blackwood closed the door. He took Ramsay’s seat. The entire dynamic of the room had inverted. The hunter was gone, and the real authority was in the room.

He studied me, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Cross,” he began, his voice low. “I have spent the last 30 minutes on a secure line with some very, very senior people in Washington. Your presence here has created… significant interest.”

I nodded. “I imagine it has.”

“I’m going to ask you a direct question,” he said. “And I need a direct answer. Are you operating under official cover?”

This was the moment. The decision point.

“That depends, Commander,” I said, my voice just as quiet. “On whether you have the clearance to know the answer.”

His eyes tightened. “I have Top Secret clearance. SCI. Special Access Programs authorization.”

“That may not be sufficient.”

The implication hung in the air, staggering. I was claiming a classification above his. A level reserved for the most sensitive operations, for the “ghost” programs that didn’t officially exist.

“What,” Blackwood asked, his voice barely a whisper, “would be sufficient?”

I looked at him, truly evaluating him for the first time. He was a good officer. Smart. Cautious. He’d seen through Ramsay’s circus. He’d earned this.

“Contact the Pentagon Duty Officer. The 24-hour secure line,” I said. “Ask them to run a verification request for Operation Nightfall.”

Blackwood’s blood ran cold. I saw the color drain from his face. He knew the name. Every senior officer did. The mission that never happened. The one that was a total disaster. The one that got an entire team wiped off the map.

“When they ask for authentication codes,” I continued, my voice flat and cold, “tell them Ghost 7 requests extraction confirmation.”

Blackwood physically recoiled, as if I had struck him.

“That’s… that’s impossible,” he whispered. “Ghost 7 was killed in action. Eighteen months ago. She died with the rest of her team.”

I met his gaze, and for the first time, I let the exhaustion, the cold, and the infinite weight of the last 18 months show in my eyes.

“Reports of my death,” I said, “were greatly exaggerated.”

The silence in the room was absolute. Blackwood stared at me, seeing not the “impostor” in the wrinkled t-shirt, but the specter of a mission gone wrong.

Outside, the federal team—my team, my handlers—was storming the building. They were moving with purpose, securing the floor, their faces grim. They were here to contain the breach.

Blackwood was frozen, processing the revelation. A ghost was sitting in his interrogation room.

A knock. The door opened, and a woman in a sharp, conservative suit entered. She had cold eyes and the unmistakable air of a federal agent.

“Commander Blackwood?” she said, flashing credentials. “Special Agent Sarah Carson, FBI. We’re taking custody of the suspect and securing this facility.”

Blackwood, still stunned, just nodded.

Carson turned to me. Her eyes were sharp, analytical. “Miss Cross. I’m here to conduct your operational debrief.” She then looked at the two guards. “We’ll take it from here.”

Tucker and the other guard left. Blackwood, reluctantly, followed.

The door shut. It was just me and Agent Carson. My handler. The person I was supposed to trust.

“Ghost 7,” she began, her voice all business. “Please confirm your mission status.”

I took a breath. The performance was over. It was time to be an operator again.

“Active deep-cover infiltration of Norfolk Naval Base,” I recited, my voice crisp. “Purpose: identifying the source of unauthorized disclosure of classified SEAL team operational parameters to hostile foreign intelligence services. Duration: eight months active, 18 months total investigation.”

“Suspected targets?” Carson asked, her pen poised over a notepad.

This was it. The culmination of my entire mission. The reason for the arrest, the interrogation, the humiliation. It was all a test. A final provocation designed to confirm my target.

“Primary suspect,” I said, my voice like ice. “Staff Sergeant Colt Ramsay, Base Security Division.”

Carson nodded, not a flicker of surprise on her face. “Evidence basis?”

“Psychological profile indicates narcissistic personality disorder with a severe authority complex and significant, unexplained financial stressors. He’s vulnerable to bribery. He has access to the classified deployment schedules. His behavior today, his need to publicly humiliate me and his reckless display of classified materials he shouldn’t have even possessed, confirms the profile. He’s sloppy. He’s arrogant. And he’s our traitor.”

Agent Carson smiled. A thin, cold smile. “Excellent work, Ghost. Your assessment is correct. Ramsay is our man.”

She stood up. “A federal team is detaining him now. If your assessment holds, he’ll be facing federal charges within 72 hours.”

She opened the door. “Your mission is concluded. An escort will transport you to a secure facility for a full debriefing.”

I nodded. It was done. 18 months of living in shadows, of watching, of waiting. 17 compromised operations. Three dead SEALs. And we finally had the man responsible.

I felt a wave of relief so profound it almost made me dizzy.

As I was escorted from the building, I saw Ramsay. He was in the hallway, flanked by two of Carson’s federal agents. He wasn’t in handcuffs, not yet, but he was a prisoner. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated confusion and terror. He looked at me as I passed, his eyes pleading.

I looked right through him. He was a traitor who had sold American lives. He deserved no pity.

My handler, Agent Carson, put a hand on my shoulder. “You did good, Ghost. You got him. Let’s get you home.”

The federal sedan had barely cleared the main gate of Norfolk when the world turned inside out.

Agent Carson’s secure phone buzzed. Not a call. A text.

She read it, and her expression, always so controlled, shifted. A flicker of… annoyance?

“Change of plans,” she said to the driver. “We have to reroute.”

My internal alarms, quiet for the first time in months, suddenly screamed to life.

“What’s the situation?” I asked.

“Just a complication,” she said, her voice a little too smooth. “Ramsay. He somehow slipped custody during transport. They think he’s still on base.”

The driver executed a sharp U-turn, tires squealing, and raced back toward the base.

My blood ran cold.

Slipped custody? From two armed federal agents? Ramsay was good, but he wasn’t that good.

“How?” I demanded, my voice sharp. “The transport vehicle?”

“Found abandoned,” Carson said, not looking at me. “Guards are unconscious, but alive. Looks like a chemical sedation.”

My mind raced. Sedation. Not a struggle. Not a fight. An extraction.

“That’s not an escape,” I said, my voice flat. “That’s a rescue. He has help.”

The implication hit me like a physical blow. If Ramsay had an extraction team inside a federal cordon… the conspiracy was bigger than we knew. It meant my 18-month investigation had been compromised from the beginning.

We roared back onto the base, which was now in chaos. Alarms were blaring. Searchlights cut through the twilight. Marines were setting up checkpoints.

Carson was on the phone, barking orders. “Activate tactical teams! I want a full perimeter. I want thermal imaging. Find him!”

She turned to me, her face a mask of professional urgency. “Ghost 7, I’m reactivating your operational status. We need you. You know his psychology better than anyone. Where would he go?”

I stepped out of the car into the heart of the command center, which was now a federal operations hub. Maps, screens, radio chatter.

Commander Blackwood was there, his face grim. “We’ve locked down the base, but he knows our protocols inside and out. If he’s here, he’s in a place we won’t look.”

“What’s his state of mind?” Carson asked me.

“Desperate,” I said, my mind running tactical scenarios. “His world just ended. His career is gone. He’s facing life in prison. The profile I built… he’s narcissistic. When his ego is completely destroyed, he’ll become unpredictable. Violent.”

“He’s a threat,” Carson said.

“He’s a massive threat,” I agreed.

A communications tech handed me a secure sat-phone. “Ma’am, an encrypted message just came through on a closed network. It’s… addressed to you. To Ghost 7.”

I took the phone. My hands were steady.

One line of text.

Ghost 7. Amphitheater. One hour. Come alone or others die.

I showed it to Carson.

“It’s a trap,” she said instantly. “He’s trying to take a hostage. We’ll position snipers. Assault teams.”

“No,” I said, the word a flat command.

Carson stared at me. “You can’t be considering going alone.”

“I’ve been hunting this man for 18 months,” I said, my voice like steel. “I built the profile. He’s not asking for a hostage. He’s asking for me. This was always going to end with a confrontation. If you send in teams, he’ll vanish, or he’ll start killing civilians to force your hand. Let me go. I’ll be your tracker.”

Carson studied me, then nodded. “Fine. But you’ll be wired. Embedded comms. Real-time tactical support. The moment he becomes a threat, my teams intervene. Understood?”

“Understood.”

An hour later, I was no longer Evelyn Cross. I was in full tactical gear. The wrinkled t-shirt was gone, replaced by Kevlar and web-gear. I checked my weapon, my comms, my backup. The transformation was complete.

I walked across the silent, locked-down base. The emergency lights cast long, terrifying shadows. The amphitheater was a B-shaped concrete bowl, built into a hillside. The central stage was lit by harsh floodlights, a perfect circle of light in a sea of darkness. A perfect kill zone.

I walked into the center of the light, my hands visible.

“I’m here, Ramsay!” I called out.

“Ghost 7.” His voice echoed from hidden speakers. It wasn’t the voice of a panicked fugitive. It was cold. Calm. Just like mine. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Where are you, Colt?”

“Close enough to talk. Far enough to make sure your federal friends don’t interrupt.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“The truth,” his voice echoed. “Something that seems to be in short supply. You’ve spent 18 months investigating me for espionage. But you never asked the most obvious question.”

My blood chilled.

“If I’m the leak,” he continued, “if I’m the traitor… why would I risk exposing myself by interrogating you so aggressively this morning? Why would I create a public spectacle that guaranteed federal scrutiny?”

It was a valid point. A very, very good point. A guilty man would have buried my arrest, not broadcasted it.

“People make mistakes under pressure,” I said, my comms open, Carson listening to every word.

“Or,” Ramsay’s voice shot back, “when they’re being set up by someone who needs a scapegoat.”

The world stopped.

Set up.

“Who set you up, Colt?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

“Someone with access to your entire 18-month investigation. Someone who knew Ghost 7 had survived and was operating under deep cover. Someone who could feed you fabricated evidence, twist my financial records, and build a psychological profile that perfectly framed me.”

My heart, which had been steady at 60 bpm, hammered once. Hard.

“Someone,” Ramsay said, his voice laced with venom, “like your handler. Agent Sarah Carson.”

It was impossible. It was… it was the only thing that made sense.

“Prove it,” I whispered.

“Check your left cargo pocket,” he said.

My hand moved. I felt a small, cold object that had not been there when I geared up. A micro-data drive. He’d had someone plant it on me. He had allies inside the federal team.

“Carson has been running intelligence to Chinese operatives for three years,” Ramsay’s voice explained. “She used her position to identify threats, then used operatives like you to eliminate them. You weren’t hunting a traitor, Ghost. You were cleaning house for one.”

My comms earpiece crackled. It was Carson’s voice, sharp and urgent.

“Ghost 7! We have confirmed hostile movement! Ramsay is not alone. Snipers are authorized to engage. Clear the target area immediately!”

I looked around. I saw no snipers. No assault teams.

“She’s lying,” I whispered, keying my mic off.

“In about 10 seconds,” Ramsay said, “she’s going to give the order to terminate this operation with extreme prejudice. She’ll claim you were killed when Ramsay tried to take a hostage. She’s here to eliminate us both.”

Ramsay emerged from the shadows of the sound booth. He was still in his uniform, his hands empty and raised.

“She’s been monitoring you since you arrived at Norfolk,” he said, walking toward me. “Every report you filed, every piece of evidence you thought you found… she fabricated it. She handed me to you on a silver platter.”

My earpiece: “Ghost 7, clear the area! That’s a direct order! We are engaging!”

I looked at Ramsay. The man I had hunted for 18 months. The man I’d believed responsible for the deaths of my brothers-in-arms.

And I saw the truth.

I saw a patriot who had been framed. Just like me.

“Colt,” I said, my voice low and urgent. “Do exactly as I say. Don’t hesitate.”

He nodded, his military discipline taking over.

I started walking, casually, toward the main exit. “Stay parallel. Maintain visual. Be ready to move on my mark.”

We had taken three steps.

CRACK.

The first shot shattered the night. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a suppression shot. It was a kill shot.

The bullet struck the concrete where I had been standing a half-second before.

CRACK-CRACK!

Two more shots. Aimed at both of us.

“Cover!” I screamed.

We dove behind a concrete barrier as a hail of gunfire erupted from the shadows. These weren’t federal agents. These were assassins.

“Federal snipers don’t shoot to kill without a warning!” Ramsay yelled from behind his barrier.

“No,” I yelled back, my voice grim. “They don’t.”

Carson was cleaning up her loose ends. And we were the loose ends.

My training took over. Cold, tactical clarity. I activated my emergency beacon—a deep-channel, encrypted signal that bypassed the FBI and went straight to Pentagon Special Operations Command.

“They’re jamming military frequencies!” Ramsay shouted.

CRACK-THWIP!

Bullets chewed at our cover. They were forcing us into a kill zone.

“We have to move!” I shouted. “Maintenance building, to our nine! On my mark! Irregular sprint pattern! MARK!”

We broke cover. We ran in opposite directions, zig-zagging, before converging on the dark doorway of the maintenance building. Bullets kicked up dust at our heels.

We crashed through the door, a tangle of limbs and tactical gear.

Ramsay, running full-speed, caught his boot on the threshold and stumbled, colliding hard with my back.

We both went down.

The impact was brutal. My right shoulder slammed into the concrete floor. Ramsay’s full weight drove me down.

There was a loud RRRRIP.

My tactical shirt, snagged on a metal conduit, tore open from my shoulder to my elbow.

We lay there, stunned, breathing hard, as the gunfire continued outside.

Ramsay pushed himself up on his elbows. “Eve… Ghost… I’m sor—”

The words died in his throat. He just… stared.

He wasn’t looking at my face. He was looking at my right arm, now exposed under the harsh fluorescent light of the maintenance bay.

The skin from my shoulder to my elbow was not unblemished. It was covered in an intricate, precise tattoo. A masterwork of black ink.

It was a compass rose. In its center, an arrow pierced straight and true.

But it was the text, written in a stark, military script around the edge of the compass, that made Ramsay’s blood freeze.

OPERATION NIGHTFALL. GHOST 7. 38°52′ N, 77°03′ W. MORTUUS SED NON OBLITUS.

Dead but not forgotten.

The coordinates weren’t for some foreign battlefield. They were for Washington, D.C.

Ramsay’s eyes, wide with shock, traced the lines. He looked from the tattoo to my face. The realization, the full, crushing weight of who I was, hit him.

“Holy cow,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re her. You’re actually Ghost 7. The survivor.”

I pushed myself to a sitting position, making no effort to cover the tattoo. The secret I had guarded for 18 months was out.

“Operation Nightfall,” he said, his voice full of a new, terrible awe. “The mission that went sideways. Six operatives went in… one came out. Officially, Ghost 7 died with the rest of her team.”

“The reports were exaggerated,” I said, my voice heavy with the memory of the five men who didn’t come back.

“Those coordinates…” he said, “That’s the Pentagon.”

“The mission location is classified,” I said. “What matters is that five good men died while I lived. This… this is to remind me why I do this. Why I hunt men like Carson.”

The sound of new vehicles broke the tension. Not the sedans of Carson’s team. This was the heavy rumble of military transport. Tracked vehicles.

My emergency beacon had worked.

My earpiece, silent for so long, crackled to life. But it wasn’t Carson.

“Ghost 7, this is Commander Blackwood. We’ve lost contact with Agent Carson and are assuming operational control. Marine Special Operations units are securing your position. We are friendly.”

The cavalry had arrived. The real cavalry.

Ramsay looked at me, his expression a complex mix of shame, awe, and remorse.

“Ghost 7… Eve,” he said, his voice thick. “This morning. When I arrested you… the things I said… the humiliation… I thought I was protecting my base. If I had known… If I had known who you were, what you sacrificed…”

“You were doing your job, Sergeant,” I interrupted, cutting him off. My voice was sharp, but not unkind. “Your instincts were right. There was a spy at Norfolk. You just had the wrong target.”

“But the way I treated you…”

“Colt,” I said, using his first name for the first time. “Warriors don’t apologize for doing their duty. They learn from it. And they do better next time.”

I stood up and offered him my hand. The one without the tattoo.

He took it and rose. He was a good soldier. He’d been framed, but his honor was intact.

“What happens now?” he asked.

I looked toward the door, where the shadows of Marine operators were now taking up positions.

“Now,” I said, my hand instinctively going to the data drive in my pocket. “We finish what we started. Carson’s network is bigger than just her. And they just tried to kill two American operatives.”

I pulled my torn shirt together as best I could, but the compass rose, my past, was still visible.

“They’re not just traitors,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, cold with a promise of what was to come. “They’re a target list.”

We walked out of the maintenance building and into the secure perimeter of the Marines.

Colonel Mitchell, a man I recognized from Pentagon briefings, met us. His eyes immediately went to the tattoo on my arm, and his expression was one of profound respect.

“Ghost 7,” he said, saluting. “Staff Sergeant Ramsay. Pentagon sends its compliments. Agent Carson and her assassination team are in custody.”

He turned to Ramsay. “Sergeant, that data drive you secured contains evidence of the largest espionage ring in modern history. Your name is cleared.”

Ramsay just nodded, still processing.

“But the news isn’t all good,” Colonel Mitchell continued, his face grim. “We’ve lost contact with three other Ghost operatives in the last 72 hours. Two in Southeast Asia, one in Eastern Europe. Carson’s network has been hunting all of you.”

The news hit me like a physical blow. Three more. Captured or killed.

“The investigation is expanding,” Mitchell said. “This isn’t just espionage anymore. It’s a war.”

He looked at me. He looked at Ramsay.

“Ghost 7, your cover is blown, which means your mission profile just changed. Staff Sergeant Ramsay, your analytical skills have been… noted.”

I knew what was coming.

“We’re building a new task force,” Mitchell said. “Off the books. Its only mission: to hunt down every last member of Carson’s network and recover our missing assets. Dead or alive.”

I looked at Ramsay. He’d started the day as my target. He’d ended it as the only person on earth who knew my full story.

“Interested in some overseas travel, Master Sergeant?” I asked.

A slow, grim smile spread across Ramsay’s face. “After today, hunting spies in a jungle sounds almost relaxing.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, my eyes drifting to the coordinates on my arm. The coordinates that reminded me of the cost.

“The war in the shadows is over,” I said. “Now, we bring the war into the light.”