Chapter 1: The Ghost of Canyon Road

 

Providence Springs, Montana, hadn’t changed much in the ten years since I chose it for my “retirement.” It was the kind of town where the main street was just called Main Street, and the only traffic jam happened when Old Man Miller’s cattle broke the fence.

I parked my weathered Ford F-150 outside Mitchell’s General Store. I noted the three motorcycles clustered near the entrance. Harleys. Loud pipes. No plates.

Inside, I could hear Rebecca Mitchell’s voice rising in panic.

“I already paid the association fee! I don’t have anymore!”

I pushed the door open. The bell chimed, a cheerful sound that clashed with the tension in the room.

Rebecca was behind the counter, clutching her apron. Two men were leaning over the counter. One was big, wearing a cut that identified him as the Sergeant-at-Arms for Devil’s Mayhem. The other was younger, twitchy.

“Insurance ain’t optional, Becca,” the big one growled. He swept a display of local honey jars off the counter. Glass shattered. Amber liquid pooled on the worn wood floor. “Be a shame if this place caught fire.”

I grabbed a red shopping basket and walked down the aisle, my boots making soft thuds on the floor. I picked up a bag of flour. A carton of eggs.

“Oh my,” I said loudly. “What a mess.”

The bikers whipped around.

“Store’s closed, lady,” the Sergeant snarled.

I ignored him, walking past them to the counter. I avoided the broken glass. “Rebecca, honey, I need to put this on Robert’s tab. And do you have a mop? I’d be happy to help you clean this up.”

The disrespect was deliberate. In their world, fear was currency. I wasn’t paying.

The big biker stepped into my path. He was a foot taller than me and outweighing me by a hundred pounds. He looked down, trying to use his bulk to intimidate.

“I said,” he hissed, “get lost.”

I looked up. I didn’t step back. I didn’t blink. I focused on his carotid artery, then his knee cap, then his throat. Three strikes. 1.2 seconds. He’d be on the floor choking before his brain registered the pain.

But not yet.

“My husband’s family helped build this town,” I said, my voice mild, like I was discussing the weather. “Rebecca’s grandfather gave Robert his first job. So I think I’ll stay.”

The biker stared at me. He saw a middle-aged woman in a flannel shirt and jeans. But for a split second, he saw something else in my eyes. Something ancient. Something cold. He blinked, confused by the lack of fear pheromones coming off me.

“You should be careful, Mrs. Kingsley,” he muttered, recognizing me from the files they undoubtedly had on all the locals. “Accidents happen.”

“Yes,” I said, finally breaking eye contact to look at the honey on the floor. “Like three weeks ago. When your prospect had that nasty spill out on Canyon Road. The one that wasn’t reported to the police?”

The room went dead silent.

That accident hadn’t been reported because it happened during a midnight run moving product. No one was supposed to know.

“We’ll finish this later,” the biker grunted to Rebecca. He jerked his head at the younger man, and they stormed out.

Rebecca sagged against the shelves. “Vicki, you shouldn’t have. They… they’re monsters.”

“They’re bullies, Becca,” I said, grabbing the mop from the corner. “And bullies get nervous when the victims stop crying.”

I helped her clean up, but my mind was racing. They were squeezing the town. The general store, the mechanic, the diner. They were systematically taking over. But why?

Devil’s Mayhem was a mid-level club. Meth, stolen parts, maybe some gun running. But this? This was a military-grade occupation strategy. They were securing a perimeter.

I drove home along Canyon Road, the winding two-lane blacktop that connected the interstate to the Canadian border. It was desolate. No cell service. Heavy tree cover.

Ideal for moving things you didn’t want seen.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. A text from an unknown number.

They’re watching you. Getting nervous. Like old times, M.

I deleted the message immediately. Marshal Cain was still monitoring the chatter. Good. I’d need a cleanup crew when this was over.

The sun was setting when I pulled into the ranch. Robert was on the porch, pacing.

“Sheriff Dawson stopped by,” he said, his voice tight. “He asked if our fire insurance was up to date. It was a threat, Vicki.”

I looked at the house. My sanctuary. The place where I learned to sleep without a gun under my pillow—or at least, without a round in the chamber.

“They’re going to make a move, Robert,” I said. “Tonight.”

“We need to leave.”

“No.” I walked to the gun safe hidden behind the pantry. I punched in the code. Inside, next to Robert’s hunting rifles, sat a matte black Pelican case.

I popped the latches.

Inside lay my past. A custom Sig Sauer P226 Legion. A ceramic knife. A secure comms earpiece. And a badge I hadn’t worn in ten years.

“They want the ranch,” I said, checking the slide action. It was smooth as silk. “They’re going to try to take me to leverage you.”

“Vicki, no!”

“It’s the fastest way inside, Rob.” I turned to him. “They’re running an operation out of the Miller Warehouse. I need to see what’s in there. I need to know who’s pulling the strings. Romano is a puppet.”

“You’re going to let them kidnap you?”

“I’m going to catch a ride,” I corrected. “I need you to be strong. When they come, you scream, you yell, you call the Sheriff. You play the part.”

“And what will you be doing?”

I holstered the weapon at the small of my back, covering it with my loose sweater.

“I’ll be hunting.”

Chapter 2: The Trojan Horse

 

Nightfall on the ranch is usually a symphony of crickets and wind in the pines. Tonight, it was silence.

The birds had stopped singing. The predators were here.

I sat in the kitchen, a half-finished cup of tea in front of me. I checked my watch. 10:42 PM.

CRASH.

The front window shattered inward. A flash-bang grenade rolled across the floor.

I closed my eyes and covered my ears before it detonated. Bang. A blinding white light filled the room, accompanied by a deafening concussive thump.

If I were a normal rancher’s wife, I’d be disoriented, blind, deaf.

Instead, I was counting.

One. Two. Three.

The front door was kicked in. Boots thundered on the hardwood.

“Secure the target! Go! Go!”

Tactical precision. These weren’t just meth-head bikers. These guys moved in a stack. Military training. Mercenaries hired to wear biker cuts?

I let out a scream—high, terrified. I scrambled backward, knocking my chair over, pressing myself into the corner of the kitchen cabinets.

Two men in balaclavas were on me instantly.

“Don’t move! Hands behind your back!”

I struggled just enough to make it look real, flailing my arms. One of them grabbed my wrist, twisting it painfully. I let him. He zip-tied my hands.

“Please!” I sobbed. “What do you want? Take the money! The safe is in the bedroom!”

“Shut up,” one of them growled. He grabbed me by the hair, hauling me to my feet.

Romano walked in through the broken door. He wasn’t wearing a mask. He wanted me to know. He wanted Robert to know.

Robert rushed into the room, exactly as we planned. “Vicki! Get your hands off her!”

The second gunman pistol-whipped Robert. He went down hard.

“Robert!” I screamed, lunging for him. The guard held me back.

Romano stepped over my husband’s groaning body. He looked at me with satisfaction. “I told you, Victoria. We have development plans. Maybe now your husband will be more motivated to sign the deed.”

“You’re crazy,” I wept. “You won’t get away with this.”

“We already have.” Romano nodded to his men. “Bag her. Get her to the warehouse.”

They threw a burlap sack over my head. The world went dark.

They dragged me out to a waiting SUV. Not a motorcycle—an armored SUV. I noted the sound of the engine. V8. Heavy suspension compression when I was shoved into the back seat.

As we drove, I didn’t cry. I sat perfectly still in the dark, breathing rhythmically.

I was mapping the route.

Left turn out of the driveway. Gravel to pavement. Accelerating. 60 miles per hour. Right turn after four minutes. Canyon Road. Slowing down. Gravel again.

Twelve minutes later, the car stopped. I heard the distinct sound of a heavy rolling metal door opening. We were inside.

“Get her out.”

They hauled me out of the car. The air smelled of diesel, old oil, and… something else. Ozone?

They marched me across a concrete floor and pushed me into a chair. The hood was ripped off.

I blinked against the harsh overhead lights.

I was in the center of the Miller Warehouse. It was a massive structure, usually used for storing hay. Now, it was a forward operating base.

Crates were stacked to the ceiling. Not farm supplies—military-grade shipping containers. Olive drab. Serial numbers stenciled in white.

Romano stood in front of me, gloating. About twenty other men were scattered around the room. Some were bikers, drinking beer. Others were different—wearing tactical pants, checking weapons, scanning perimeters.

“Welcome to your new guest room,” Romano sneered. “Comfortable?”

“Why?” I asked, letting my voice tremble. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because your ranch sits on top of a dead zone for satellite surveillance,” Romano said, seemingly too arrogant to care about operational security. “And tonight, we have a very special shipment moving through. Once it crosses your land into Canada, we get paid. And you… well.”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

“You’re going to kill me,” I whispered.

“Let’s just say you’re an insurance policy.” Romano turned to walk away. “Watch her. If she moves, sedate her.”

He walked toward a glass-walled office on the mezzanine level.

I sat there, zip-tied, head bowed. I looked like a broken woman.

But under my eyelashes, my eyes were darting around the room.

Exit points: North and South. Guard positions: Two at the door, one on the catwalk. Weaponry: AR-15s, sidearms. The knot on my zip-tie: Single loop, plastic. Amateur.

And the crates. I focused on the nearest one. It had a symbol on the side. Not weapons. Not drugs.

A radioactive hazard symbol.

My blood ran cold. They weren’t just smuggling guns.

I shifted in my chair, testing the zip ties. I flexed my wrists, dislocating my left thumb with a sickening pop that was masked by the sound of a motorcycle engine revving nearby. I slid my hand free, then popped the thumb back into the socket. I kept my hands behind my back, holding the loose tie.

A young guard, maybe twenty years old, walked by. He looked nervous. He was holding a water bottle.

“Please,” I rasped. “Water.”

He stopped. He looked at the other guards. They weren’t paying attention. He stepped closer. “Just a sip. Don’t try anything.”

He held the bottle to my lips. I drank, my eyes locking onto his.

“You’re not like them,” I whispered.

“Quiet,” he hissed, but his hand shook.

“You’re scared,” I said softly. “You saw the labels on the crates. You know what radiation does to a person.”

He pulled the bottle away, his eyes wide. “How did you—”

“I know because I know what happens when things go wrong with shipments like this,” I said, my voice changing. The tremble was gone. The fear was gone.

“Who are you?” he asked, backing away.

I sat up straight. I rolled my neck, cracking it. I let the zip ties fall from my wrists to the floor with a soft plastic clatter.

The young guard froze.

“Run,” I said.

“What?”

“Run, kid. Before the Ghost starts hunting.”

Chapter 3: The Ghost Rises

 

The young guard, whose name tag read James, stared at the zip ties lying on the concrete floor. He looked back up at my face, and for the first time, he really saw me.

He didn’t see the rancher’s wife anymore. He saw the predator.

“I… I have to call Romano,” he stammered, his hand reaching for the radio on his chest rig.

I stood up. My wrists were bruised, my thumb throbbed where I’d dislocated it, but the pain was distant. Just information.

“James,” I said, my voice eerily calm amidst the warehouse hum. “If you touch that radio, you die. If you walk out that side door right now, you might live. Your choice. You have three seconds.”

One.

He hesitated, his eyes darting between his duty and his survival instinct.

Two.

His hand dropped away from the radio. He was smart. He turned and sprinted toward the fire exit, disappearing into the night without a backward glance.

Smart kid.

I moved. Not with the frantic energy of a panicked hostage, but with the fluid efficiency of a hunter. I crossed the distance to the nearest remaining guard—a heavy-set biker leaning against a crate of rifles, scrolling on his phone.

He never heard me.

I stepped into his blind spot. One hand clamped over his mouth, the other drove the heel of my palm into the vagus nerve in his neck. He dropped like a sack of cement.

I stripped him of his gear in under twenty seconds. Glock 17. Two spare magazines. A tactical radio. And a knife.

I tucked the earpiece in. Static. Then, voices.

“Romano, we got movement on the perimeter. Sensors are tripping.”

I keyed the mic. “That’s not sensors, boys. That’s the net closing.”

Silence on the channel. Then, Romano’s voice, tight with anger. “Who is this? Who’s on this channel?”

“You really should check your hostages for hidden transponders, Vincent,” I said, walking casually toward the shadows of the stacked crates. “Standard kidnapping protocol. But then again, you’re just a biker, aren’t you? Playing soldier.”

Up on the mezzanine, the office door flew open. Romano stormed out to the railing, looking down at the empty chair in the center of the room.

“She’s loose!” he screamed. “Find her! Lock down the exits!”

Chaos erupted. The twenty men on the floor scrambled, raising weapons, shouting orders.

I watched them from the top of a shipping container, hidden in the gloom of the rafters. They were running around like ants in a shaken jar. No discipline. No sectors of fire.

“There she is!” One of the tactical mercenaries—the pros, not the bikers—spotted the movement of my shadow. He raised his AR-15.

I dropped him with a single shot to the shoulder. Non-lethal, but disabling.

The warehouse exploded with gunfire. Bullets sparked off the metal container I was using for cover.

“Cease fire, you idiots!” Romano bellowed. “You’ll hit the shipment!”

The shooting stopped raggedly.

“That’s right, Vincent,” I called out, my voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. “Don’t shoot the radioactive crates. You might turn this whole county into a wasteland before your buyer even arrives.”

Romano gripped the railing, his knuckles white. “Who are you?” he whispered, though his voice carried in the sudden silence.

I stood up slowly, letting the warehouse lights catch my silhouette. I held the Glock loose at my side.

“You know who I am,” I said. “You’ve heard the stories in the federal penitentiaries. You’ve heard about the woman who dismantled the Juarez Cartel from the inside out.”

A hush fell over the room. The older ex-cons, the ones who had done hard time, went pale.

“No,” one of the bikers whispered, taking an involuntary step back. “That’s a myth. The Ghost is dead.”

“I retired,” I corrected. “But you just woke me up.”

Chapter 4: The Trap Within a Trap

 

Romano wasn’t stupid. He was arrogant, but he had survival instincts. He realized quickly that the dynamic had shifted. He was no longer the captor; he was trapped in a cage with a tiger.

“Kill her!” Romano ordered. “I don’t care about the leverage anymore. Kill her now!”

But his men hesitated. The psychological seed had been planted. They weren’t looking at a target; they were looking at a legend. And legends don’t die easy.

My phone, which I’d recovered from the unconscious guard’s pocket (he’d stolen it from my purse), vibrated.

Cain: Perimeter set. We have eyes on the structure. Breach in 5.

Me: Hold position. The Buyer is inbound. I want the head of the snake, Cain. Not just the skin.

Cain: Risky, Vicki. We have thermal on 30 hostiles inside.

Me: I have them right where I want them.

I moved again, sliding down a maintenance ladder to the ground floor, keeping the massive crates between me and the gunmen.

“Romano!” I shouted. “Check your phone!”

He frowned, pulling his device from his pocket.

“While you were playing tough guy on my porch, I placed a GPS tracker in the wheel well of your chopper. Marshal Cain has been tracking us since we left the ranch.”

Romano looked at his phone, then threw it against the wall in a rage. “We’re burned! Pack it up! We move the shipment now!”

“You can’t move it,” I taunted. “Roadblocks are up on Canyon Road. Highway 93 is shut down. You’re boxed in.”

The panic in the room was palpable. The bikers were looking for exits. The mercenaries were checking their comms, realizing they were jammed.

That’s when the sound of heavy engines approached from the north side of the warehouse.

The bay doors rattled.

“Is that the Feds?” a biker yelled, raising his shotgun.

“No,” Romano said, a look of confusion crossing his face. “That’s the Buyer. He’s early.”

The massive rolling doors began to rise.

Three black SUVs with diplomatic plates rolled in, flanked by a transport truck. They moved with a precision that made Romano’s men look like children.

The vehicles stopped in a phalanx formation. The doors opened.

Twelve men stepped out. They wore expensive suits over body armor. They carried P90s—compact, lethal, expensive.

And then, the man in charge stepped out of the lead SUV.

I recognized him immediately from the dossiers I wasn’t supposed to have access to anymore.

Marcus Drake. Former CIA, current private contractor for foreign interests. A man who bought secrets and sold countries.

Drake looked around the chaotic warehouse—the panicked bikers, the armed mercenaries, and Romano sweating on the catwalk. He looked disappointed.

“Mr. Romano,” Drake said, his voice smooth and cultured, echoing off the concrete walls. “You assured me this facility was secure.”

Romano scrambled down the stairs. “It is! We just… we had a complication with the hostage.”

Drake scanned the room. His eyes stopped on the unconscious guard I’d taken out. Then, he looked at the shadows where I was hiding.

“A complication,” Drake mused. “Or a trap?”

“She’s just a rancher’s wife!” Romano insisted. “We have her contained!”

“Do you?” Drake walked over to one of the “nuclear” crates. He ran a gloved hand over the hazard symbol. “Because my perimeter sensors detected a federal frequency transmission originating from inside this building two minutes ago.”

Drake turned to Romano, his face devoid of emotion. “You led the U.S. Marshals right to my doorstep.”

“No! I swear!”

“Mr. Romano,” Drake sighed. “You are a loose end.”

Drake raised a suppressed pistol and shot Romano in the chest. Thwip-thwip.

The leader of Devil’s Mayhem hit the floor, dead before he landed.

The warehouse erupted.

“Clean house!” Drake ordered his men. “Burn it all. Leave no witnesses.”

Chapter 5: The Devil You Know

 

The moment Romano fell, the alliance between the bikers and the mercenaries shattered.

It became a three-way war.

Romano’s bikers, realizing they were about to be executed by their business partners, opened fire on Drake’s security team. Drake’s men, professional and ruthless, returned fire with surgical precision.

And me? I was the chaos agent in the middle.

I sprinted toward the loading dock, diving behind a forklift as bullets chewed up the concrete around me.

“Cain! Now!” I screamed into the radio. “They’re executing the witnesses! Breach! Breach!”

BOOM.

The skylights shattered inward as federal tactical teams repelled from the roof. At the same time, the main doors were rammed by an armored BearCat vehicle.

“Federal Agents! Drop your weapons!”

The noise was deafening. Flash-bangs, automatic gunfire, screaming.

I popped up from cover. I wasn’t shooting at the Feds, and I wasn’t shooting at the panicked bikers. My target was Drake.

He was moving toward the transport truck, his security team forming a protective diamond around him. He wasn’t trying to fight; he was trying to salvage the cargo.

I moved parallel to them, using the confusion to close the gap.

One of Drake’s men spotted me. He swung his P90 in my direction.

I didn’t stop. I slid across the hood of a sedan stored in the warehouse, firing two shots. Double tap. Center mass. He went down.

I landed on my feet and kept moving.

“Drake!” I yelled.

He stopped at the ramp of the truck and turned. He saw me—a middle-aged woman in torn jeans, holding a Glock with a grip that said I’d fired a million rounds.

Recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Agent Kingsley,” he smiled, as if we were meeting at a cocktail party. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m a Ghost, Marcus. We don’t die.”

“You’re too late,” he said, gesturing to the crates being loaded. “The shipment is leaving.”

“Those aren’t nuclear cores, are they?” I called out, stepping into the open, ignoring the gunfire raging around us.

Drake paused. “Observant.”

“I saw the weight distribution on the forklift. Too light for lead shielding. And the radiation signature Cain picked up? It’s fake. A localized emitter to scare off customs inspectors.”

I took a step closer.

“You aren’t smuggling weapons, Marcus. You’re smuggling data.”

Drake’s smile vanished. “Kill her.”

His remaining three guards raised their weapons.

I dropped to a knee, exhaling steadily. The world slowed down. This was the moment. The “fatal funnel.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Three guards stumbled.

But Drake was already moving. He jumped into the cab of the transport truck. The engine roared to life. He slammed it into gear, driving straight through the closed bay door on the south side, shattering the metal and speeding out into the night.

“Cain!” I shouted, tapping my earpiece. “The target is mobile! He has the truck!”

“We’re blocked in!” Cain’s voice was frantic. “The bikers have the entrance pinned down! We can’t get the pursuit vehicles out!”

I looked around. The chaos was absolute. Smoke filled the air.

My eyes landed on Romano’s custom chopper, lying on its side where he’d fallen. The keys were still in the ignition.

I holstered my weapon and ran for the bike. I heaved it upright, the heavy chrome machine groaning.

I straddled the seat. It was too big for me, but it didn’t matter. I kicked the starter. The engine thundered to life, a beast waking up.

I looked at the hole in the wall where Drake had vanished.

“Robert is going to be so mad,” I muttered.

I revved the engine, dumped the clutch, and shot out of the warehouse, chasing the devil into the dark.

Chapter 6: The Canyon Run

 

The wind on Canyon Road cuts like a knife at sixty miles an hour, especially when you aren’t wearing a helmet.

I leaned Romano’s chopper into the first curve, the foot peg sparking against the asphalt. The engine roared beneath me, a vibrating beast of chrome and horsepower. I wasn’t used to this kind of weight—I preferred agile sport bikes—but right now, I needed raw speed.

Ahead, the taillights of the transport truck were two angry red eyes disappearing around the bend.

Drake was pushing that rig hard. He knew the road, or at least his GPS did. He was taking the racing line, using both lanes, cutting the corners.

I twisted the throttle. The bike surged. Seventy. Eighty.

The gap closed.

I could see the rear of the trailer now. The metal door was crumpled where he’d smashed through the warehouse gate.

Suddenly, the back of the truck lit up.

Muzzle flashes.

Drake had a passenger. One of his security detail had made it into the cab and was now climbing back along the side of the trailer, hanging on like a tick, firing a submachine gun at me.

Bullets pinged off the asphalt, kicking up sparks and stone shards.

I didn’t panic. Panic gets you killed. I assessed the geometry.

Distance: 50 yards. Speed: 85 mph. Road surface: Cold, slightly damp. Target: A moving gunman on a bouncing truck.

I couldn’t return fire. I needed both hands to control the heavy bike on these winding roads. I had to get closer. Inside his effective range.

I downshifted, the engine screaming in protest, and surged forward. I tucked my body tight against the gas tank, making myself a smaller target.

The gunman fired a burst. A round shattered the bike’s side mirror, sending glass flying past my cheek.

“Too slow,” I gritted out.

We were approaching Dead Man’s Curve—a 180-degree hairpin turn with a sheer drop-off into the gorge on the left. It was the deadliest mile in the county. If Drake took it at this speed, the truck would tip.

He’d have to brake.

I watched the truck’s brake lights flare red. The rig shuddered as the air brakes locked. The trailer swung wide, drifting into the oncoming lane.

That was my window.

I didn’t brake.

I accelerated.

I shot the gap between the jackknifing trailer and the rocky cliff face on the right. It was a space no wider than a sidewalk. I felt the heat of the truck’s tires, smelled the burning rubber.

I shot past the gunman before he could traverse his weapon. I was parallel with the cab now.

Drake looked out the driver’s side window. His eyes went wide. He hadn’t expected the “old lady” to pull a maneuver that would make a MotoGP racer sweat.

I pulled my Glock with my left hand, keeping the throttle pinned with my right.

I didn’t shoot Drake. Too risky at this speed. If he slumped over the wheel, 80,000 pounds of steel would crush me.

I aimed for the front tire.

Bang.

The tire blew. The truck lurched violently to the left, toward the guardrail and the drop-off.

Drake fought the wheel, overcorrecting. The truck slammed back to the right, smashing into the rock wall. Sparks showered over me as I gunned the bike, shooting ahead just as the truck ground to a halt, blocking the entire road.

I skidded the bike to a stop fifty yards up the road, spun it around, and killed the engine.

Silence rushed back in, broken only by the hissing of the truck’s radiator and the distant wail of sirens.

I stood in the middle of the road, weapon drawn.

“End of the line, Marcus.”

Chapter 7: The Ghost vs. The Mercenary

 

Steam billowed from the crushed front end of the truck. The driver’s door groaned open.

Drake fell out, coughing. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his expensive suit ruined. He scrambled to his feet, clutching a silver hard drive case—the “nuclear” football.

He looked at me standing there in the moonlight. He looked at the gun in my hand. And he laughed. A wet, jagged sound.

“You can’t touch me, Victoria,” he wheezed. “I have diplomatic immunity. I have files on that drive that will topple governments. If I don’t check in within ten minutes, they auto-publish to every news outlet in the world.”

“Bluff,” I said, taking a step forward. “You were selling that data, not holding it for ransom. You’re a businessman, Marcus. Businessmen don’t burn their own inventory.”

He snarled and pulled a backup weapon from his ankle holster.

I didn’t flinch. I fired once.

The bullet struck the pavement inches from his foot. A warning.

“Drop it,” I commanded.

“You’re old,” he spat, raising his gun. “You’re a relic. You should have stayed in the kitchen.”

He fired.

I didn’t try to dodge. I moved forward.

The bullet grazed my arm, burning like a hot poker. But I was already inside his guard.

I slapped the gun away with my left hand and drove the barrel of my Glock into his sternum. He gasped, doubling over.

He tried to knee me, using close-quarters combat techniques taught at the Farm. He was good. Fast. Stronger than me.

But he was fighting with anger. I was fighting with math.

I pivoted, using his momentum against him. I hooked his leg, sweeping him off his feet. He hit the asphalt hard.

Before he could recover, I kicked the gun away and stepped on his wrist, applying just enough pressure to make him scream.

I leaned down, picking up the silver case with my free hand.

“This is the difference between us, Marcus,” I said softly. “You fight for money. You fight for leverage.”

I pressed the muzzle of my gun against his forehead.

“I fight for my home.”

He stared up at me, terror finally replacing the arrogance in his eyes. He realized then that there was no diplomatic immunity in the middle of a Montana canyon. There were no lawyers. There was just the Ghost.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Kill me. The Agency will hunt you down.”

“No,” I said, stepping back.

He blinked, confused.

“I’m not an assassin anymore,” I said. “I’m a Deputy.”

Lights flooded the curve. Marshal Cain’s SUV screeched to a halt behind the wrecked truck. Tactical officers poured out, swarming the scene.

“Secure the target!” Cain yelled.

I holstered my weapon and tossed the silver case to Cain as he ran up.

“It’s all there,” I said. “Identities of deep-cover agents. Launch codes. The whole enchilada.”

Cain looked at the case, then at Drake, who was being zip-tied by two agents. Then he looked at me. I was bleeding, covered in road dust, hair wild, standing next to a stolen chopper.

“You look like hell, Vicki,” Cain grinned.

“I feel like I’m fifty-three,” I replied, touching my wounded arm. “I’m going to need an ice pack.”

“You’re going to need a lawyer for all the laws you broke tonight,” Cain said, but his tone was full of respect. “Grand theft auto, speeding, assault with a deadly weapon, discharge of a firearm…”

“Self-defense,” I shrugged. “Just a helpless rancher’s wife trying to get home to her husband.”

Chapter 8: The Sunrise

 

The sun came up over the Double R Ranch just like it always did. The light hit the peaks of the mountains, turning the snow pink and gold.

I sat on the porch swing, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Robert sat next to me, holding my hand. His other hand held a fresh cup of coffee.

The bruises were starting to bloom on my wrists. My arm was bandaged. My body felt like I’d been tumbled in a dryer full of rocks.

But the silence… the silence was beautiful.

Sheriff Dawson had resigned that morning. Turned out, once the Feds started seizing assets, his courage crumbled. He was currently singing like a bird in an interrogation room about the kickbacks he took from Romano.

Devil’s Mayhem was gone. The RICO charges Cain was filing would put them away for life. The land grab was over.

“Are you okay?” Robert asked softly.

I looked at him. “I’m sorry, Rob. I’m sorry I brought this to our door.”

“You didn’t bring it, Vicki. It came to us. You just… handled it.” He squeezed my hand. “I saw you last night. Before they took you.”

“Yeah?”

“I saw who you used to be.”

I looked down into my coffee. “Does it scare you?”

Robert was quiet for a long time. Then he leaned over and kissed my temple.

“It makes me feel like the safest man in the world.”

A black sedan pulled up the long driveway. Not tactical. Official.

Marshal Cain stepped out. He walked up to the porch, holding a large manila envelope.

“Morning, Robert. Victoria.”

“Marshal,” I nodded. “Here to arrest me?”

“Thought about it,” Cain chuckled. “But the Director decided that since you recovered the single most damaging intelligence leak in the last twenty years, we could overlook the speeding ticket.”

He handed me the envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Reinstatement papers,” Cain said. “Full status. Senior Consultant. You wouldn’t have to leave the ranch. We just… we need you to answer the phone when we call. The Ghost is a valuable asset.”

I looked at the envelope. I felt the weight of the badge inside. The pull of the life I thought I’d left behind.

I looked at the mountains. I looked at Robert, who was watching me with no judgment, just love.

I handed the envelope back to Cain.

“Keep it, Simon.”

Cain looked surprised. “Vicki, you’re the best we have. Last night proved that.”

“I’m retired,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “I have fencing to fix. I have a garden to plant. And I have a husband to annoy.”

Cain smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “If you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

He turned to walk away.

“But Simon?” I called out.

He stopped.

“Tell them,” I said, my voice dropping that fraction of an octave again. “Tell the cartels, the syndicates, the Drakes of the world. Tell them the Ghost isn’t dead.”

I stood up, the blanket falling from my shoulders, revealing the holster still clipped to my belt.

“Tell them she’s sleeping. And God help anyone who wakes her up again.”

Cain nodded once, got in his car, and drove away.

I sat back down next to Robert. The birds were singing again. The nightmare was over.

“So,” Robert said, clinking his mug against mine. “About that fence.”

I laughed, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, it wasn’t a performance.

“Let’s go fix it.”

The Devil’s Mayhem MC came looking for a victim. They found a legend. And now, they were just another ghost story told around campfires—a warning to wolves not to wander into the land of the lion.

(THE END)