Chapter 3 - Ghosts of the Command
"Miller?" I stared at the old man, lowering my empty sidearm as the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder filled the cabin. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Miller stepped over the threshold, casually ejecting a smoking twelve-gauge shell that hit the hardwood floor with a heavy clack. "Well, sugar, word gets around when a black-ops clean-up crew rolls twelve-deep past the county line in unregistered black Suburbans. Some of us still listen to the old ham radio frequencies. Besides, nobody messes with the best damn florist in Henderson County on my watch."
Ethan scrambled out from behind the dining table, his clothes covered in white drywall dust, his hands shaking so violently he could barely clasp them together. He looked from Miller’s shotgun to the fallen operators on the floor, and finally back to me. His voice was barely a whisper. "Who... who are these people?"
"They're ghosts, Ethan," I said, my voice softening as I walked over to him, gently placing a hand on his dusty shoulder. "Men trained by the same system that trained me. And as long as Marcus Vance is breathing outside, they won't stop coming. Miller, how many are out there?"
Miller’s face hardened, his faded blue eyes losing their warmth. "At least two more vehicles parked down by the tree line. Vance brought a full quick-reaction team. They’ve cut the landlines and jammed local cell towers. We're on our own."
"Then we don't wait for them to breach again," I said, a cold, hard resolve settling deep into my bones. For three years, I had tried to bury Claire Rowan the sniper beneath the soil of a peaceful mountain greenhouse. But tonight, I realized something important: you can't outgrow your past by hiding from it. You can only end it.
"Claire," Ethan said, stepping directly into my path, grabbing both of my shoulders. His eyes were wide, but the panic had vanished, replaced by an agonizing, fierce clarity. "If you go out there... or if you draw them away... are you coming back?"
I looked at the man I loved—the man who knew how I took my coffee, who held my hand while we walked through farmers' markets, who had asked me to build a future with him under a peaceful sky. I reached up, my thumb gently wiping a smudge of soot from his cheek.
"I buried one life to start this one with you, Ethan," I whispered, feeling a hot tear finally break free and track down my own dusty face. "I'm not about to let them take it back."
I turned back to the M40A6 rifle resting on the table, stripping the bolt back to check the chamber. Pristine. Oiled. Ready.
"Miller, cover the back deck. If anyone tries to flank through the kitchen, slow them down," I commanded, reverting entirely to the tactical lead I once was.
"Copy that, Captain," Miller grinned grimly, racking a fresh slug into his shotgun.
"Ethan," I turned back to my fiancé one last time. "Get into the root cellar beneath the pantry. Lock the iron hatch from the inside. If you hear shooting, do not open it for anyone—not even my voice. Understand?"
Ethan didn't argue. Instead, he did something that surprised me more than his shock had. He leaned forward, pulled me into a fierce, desperate embrace that crushed the tactical harness against my ribs, and kissed me hard, tasting of copper and fear.
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"Bring yourself back to me, Claire," he whispered against my ear. "Or I swear to God, I'll learn how to shoot and come looking for you."
I smiled, a genuine, bittersweet smile, and kissed him back before gently pushing him toward the pantry.
