PART 1
The polished marble floor of the Naval Memorial Center in Harbor Point, Maine, reflected the cold, white lights of the overhead chandeliers. It was a sterile, imposing atmosphere—perfect for a lie that had lasted thirty years.
James Monroe shifted in his plastic folding chair. At 92, every movement was a negotiation with gravity and pain. His knees, worn down by decades of jumping out of planes and crouching in mud, protested silently. But the pain in his chest was different. It was a dull, rhythmic thumping, a reminder of a clock winding down. A reminder of Chimera.
To the people in this room—the local politicians, the high school orchestra parents, the press—James was just Lily’s grandfather. A quiet, slightly grumpy old man who walked with a cane and fixed boat engines for cash. They saw the thinning white hair, the trembling hands, the way he leaned heavily on his cane.
They didn’t see the man who, three decades ago, moved through the shadows of Baghdad like smoke. They didn’t know that the “trembling” in his hands vanished the moment his finger touched a trigger.
“Grandpa, are you okay?”
James looked to his right. Lily, his sixteen-year-old granddaughter, looked concerned. She was dressed in her concert black, her cello case resting against her knees. She had her grandmother’s eyes—sharp, intelligent, and kind.
“I’m fine, kiddo,” James lied, forcing a smile. “Just stiff. These chairs weren’t built for old bones.”
“We can leave as soon as the ceremony is over,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “Mr. Finch said the VIP guest is speaking next, then we play, then we go.”
The VIP guest. James felt his heart skip a beat, a jagged spike of adrenaline that had nothing to do with his age. He looked toward the stage.
Standing at the podium, basking in the applause, was a man who had aged much better than James. Victor Blackwood. Once a CIA Special Advisor, now a celebrated “hero” of the intelligence community. His suit cost more than James’s house. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed. He radiated power and authority.
“Thank you,” Blackwood’s voice boomed, smooth as silk and cold as ice. “It is an honor to return to Maine to commemorate the 30th Anniversary of our victory in the Gulf. We are here to honor the brave men who served. The heroes.”
James gripped the handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white. Heroes. Blackwood had left James’s team to die in the sand. He had ordered the strike that killed them. He had buried the truth about the biological experiments.
And now, he was smiling at the crowd, playing the benevolent statesman.
“In fact,” Blackwood continued, scanning the front rows, “I see we have many veterans with us today. The backbone of this nation.”
His eyes swept across the room. James tried to shrink into his coat, to remain the invisible old man. But fate, it seemed to have a cruel sense of humor. Blackwood’s gaze stopped. He squinted against the stage lights, looking past the dignitaries, directly at the third row.
Directly at James.
A flicker of confusion crossed Blackwood’s face, followed instantly by a mask of polite curiosity. He didn’t recognize James—not really. It had been thirty years. James was a ghost. A dead man.
“Sir,” Blackwood said, stepping off the podium and walking toward the edge of the stage, microphone in hand. The spotlight followed him. “You, in the third row. You served?”
The room went silent. All heads turned toward James. Lily stiffened beside him.
James slowly used his cane to push himself up. His legs shook, but he locked his knees. He stood straight, fighting the urge to cough.
“I did,” James rasped. His voice was gravelly, unused to projecting.
“Which unit?” Blackwood asked, playing to the crowd. He was looking for a photo op. A nice moment with a senile veteran to boost his approval ratings.
“Navy,” James said simply.
“Ah, the Navy,” Blackwood chuckled, a patronizing sound that grated on James’s soul. “A sailor. Well, we thank you for your service. Did you see much action, or were you peeling potatoes in the mess hall?”
A ripple of polite laughter went through the room. It was a joke at the old man’s expense. A way to belittle him while pretending to honor him.
James stared at Blackwood. He saw the glint of arrogance in the man’s eyes. The same arrogance that had dismissed the lives of six SEALs as “acceptable losses” in 1991.
“I didn’t peel potatoes,” James said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming colder.
Blackwood’s smile faltered slightly. “Is that so? What was your call sign then, sailor? Every operator has a call sign.”
James looked at Lily. She was watching him, eyes wide. She knew nothing of his past. She only knew him as the man who made her oatmeal and drove her to music practice. She didn’t know about the blood. She didn’t know about Project Chimera.
But she was in danger. As long as Blackwood was in power, as long as the lie existed, Lily was a target.
James looked back at Blackwood. The time for hiding was over.
“They didn’t call me a sailor,” James said, his voice cutting through the silence of the hall.
Blackwood raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? What did they call you?”
James took a breath. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
“Iron Ghost.”
The microphone dropped from Blackwood’s hand.
It hit the stage with a deafening thud, feedback screeching through the speakers. But no one covered their ears. They were too busy watching the blood drain from Victor Blackwood’s face.
The arrogance vanished. The politician’s mask crumbled. For the first time in thirty years, Victor Blackwood looked terrified.
“That’s impossible,” Blackwood whispered, though the acoustics of the room carried the sound to everyone. “You’re dead. I saw the report. You burned in the extraction.”
“Reports can be forged, Victor,” James said, stepping into the aisle. He didn’t look frail anymore. The cane wasn’t a crutch; it was a weapon. “Just like medical records. Just like mission logs.”
Murmurs erupted in the crowd. Phones were raised, cameras flashing. The “senile veteran” was suddenly the most dangerous man in the room.
“Security!” Blackwood screamed, his voice cracking. “Remove this man! He’s a threat!”
Two uniformed guards moved toward James, unsure of what to do. James didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes locked on Blackwood.
“Tell them, Victor,” James challenged, taking another step forward. “Tell them what we found in that basement in Baghdad. Tell them about the American soldiers you used as lab rats.”
“He’s delusional!” Blackwood shouted, backing away. “Get him out of here!”
One of the guards reached for James’s arm. “Sir, you need to comes with us.”
James moved.
It wasn’t the movement of a 92-year-old. It was muscle memory, etched into his bones by decades of survival. He shifted his weight, hooked the guard’s ankle with his cane, and applied pressure to a pressure point on the man’s wrist. The guard gasped and stumbled back, releasing him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” James said, straightening his jacket. “Not until I finish the mission.”
Lily stood up, terrified. “Grandpa?”
James looked at her, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. “Stay with the orchestra, Lily. Don’t move.”
He turned back to Blackwood. The Iron Ghost had returned. And this time, he wasn’t taking orders.
PART 2
The silence that followed James Monroe’s declaration was brief, a vacuum of shock that lasted perhaps three seconds before the atmosphere in the Naval Memorial Center shattered.
“Security!” Victor Blackwood screamed, his voice cracking, shedding the polished baritone of a statesman and revealing the shrill panic of a man whose ghosts had just walked out of a grave. “He is armed! He is a threat to national security! Take him down! Now!”
The crowd, composed mostly of parents, local dignitaries, and high school students, erupted into chaos. It wasn’t a stampede, not yet, but a confused, terrified shifting of bodies. People stood up, knocking over folding chairs, unsure if they were witnessing a psychotic break by a senile veteran or a genuine threat.
James felt the shift in the air. He felt the vibration of footsteps on the marble floor before he saw the movement. Two private security contractors—Blackwood’s personal detail, not the regular event staff—were moving from the wings of the stage. They didn’t move like mall cops. They moved with the aggressive, fluid purpose of men who had done time in Sandline or Blackwater. Hands hovered near their waistbands, reaching for concealed sidearms.
“Lily,” James said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the mayhem around them. “Get behind me. Do not let go of my jacket.”
“Grandpa, what is—”
“Move, child!”
Lily scrambled behind him, clutching the fabric of his worn tweed blazer. James shifted his grip on his cane. It was a simple thing, hickory wood with a brass handle, but in the hands of the Iron Ghost, it was a kinetic energy transfer device.
The first guard reached him. He was big, easily six-foot-four, with a neck that disappeared into his shoulders. He reached out with a heavy hand to grab James’s lapel, intent on throwing the old man to the ground.
“Sir, you need to—”
James didn’t wait for the sentence to finish. He didn’t have the strength to wrestle a man forty years his junior, so he didn’t try. instead, he used physics. As the guard’s hand extended, James pivoted on his left heel. He brought the tip of the cane up in a sharp, brutal arc, driving the brass ferrule directly into the soft bundle of nerves in the guard’s solar plexus.
The big man gasped, the air fleeing his lungs instantly. He doubled over. James stepped in, hooking the curved handle of the cane behind the man’s knee and jerking backward while simultaneously shoving the man’s shoulder forward. The guard hit the floor face-first with a sickening thud, his nose breaking on the marble.
The second guard hesitated. He saw a frail old man move with the speed of a striking cobra. That hesitation cost him.
James side-stepped, putting a row of empty chairs between them. “I wouldn’t,” James warned, his breathing heavy but controlled.
“Freeze!” the second guard shouted, drawing a Taser.
“James!”
The shout came from the side exit. James turned his head to see a wheelchair crashing through the double doors, pushed by arms that looked like knotted rope. Daniel Morgan.
“Exit is burned!” Daniel roared over the noise of the crowd. “They have a team at the front! We need the service corridor!”
“Lily, run to the man in the chair!” James ordered, shoving his granddaughter toward Daniel.
“I’m not leaving you!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face.
“Go!” James bellowed, a command voice that hadn’t been used since the extraction zones of Panama.
Lily ran. The second guard, realizing his primary target was distracted, lunged. He fired the Taser. The prongs exploded from the cartridge, but James had already anticipated the angle. He grabbed a folding chair and swung it up like a shield. The prongs bit into the plastic backing of the chair, arcing uselessly with a loud crack-crack-crack.
James threw the chair at the guard, tangling the man’s legs, and turned to run.
Running at 92 wasn’t running. It was a desperate, painful shuffle. Every step sent a shockwave of agony through his arthritic knees. His heart, the traitorous organ that had been slowly dying for decades, hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Not yet, he begged it. Hold together for ten more minutes.
He reached the side doors just as Daniel spun his wheelchair around, grabbing Lily’s hand.
“They locked down the perimeter,” Daniel said fast, leading them into the concrete bowels of the service hallways. “Blackwood isn’t taking chances. He’s called in a ‘Code Red’ on his private comms. That means cleaners. No witnesses.”
“How do you know that?” Lily asked, breathless, her cello case banging against her legs as she ran alongside the wheelchair.
Daniel tapped a small earpiece he was wearing. “Because I’ve been monitoring their frequency for five years, kid. Left, go left!”
They burst into the loading dock area. It was cooler here, smelling of diesel and wet trash. A white catering van was parked near the bay door, but a black SUV was already screeching to a halt outside, blocking the ramp.
Two men in tactical gear stepped out of the SUV. They weren’t carrying Tasers. They had suppressed MP5s.
“Get back!” James shouted, pushing Daniel and Lily behind a stack of wooden pallets.
Thwip-thwip-thwip.
Bullets chewed into the wood, sending splinters flying.
“We’re pinned!” Daniel shouted, pulling a Glock 19 from a hidden holster under his seat cushion. He fired two shots blindly over the pallets to keep the heads of the attackers down. “I’ve got maybe one mag, Jim. Then we’re done.”
James looked around. They were trapped. The loading dock was a dead end. His eyes scanned the environment—crates of soda, a forklift, a propane heater…
“The fire suppression system,” James rasped, pointing to the red pipes running along the ceiling. “Danny, can you hit the valve?”
Daniel looked up, calculating the angle. “It’s a small target.”
“You’re the best sniper in the Navy,” James said, gripping his cane. “Make the shot.”
Daniel took a deep breath, steadying his hand on the armrest of his wheelchair. He ignored the bullets chipping away at their cover. He exhaled.
Bang.
The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. The valve on the ceiling pipe exploded. Highly pressurized water mixed with fire-retardant foam blasted downward, creating an instant, blinding white curtain between them and the shooters.
“Move!” James yelled.
Under the cover of the chaotic spray, they didn’t run toward the exit. They ran deeper into the building, toward the underground parking garage.
“My van is on level B2,” Daniel said, wiping the foam from his face. “It’s armored. If we can get to it, we have a chance.”
The journey down the stairwell was a nightmare. James had to lean his entire weight on Lily to make it down the steps, his legs trembling so violently he thought they would snap.
“You’re doing great, Grandpa,” Lily whispered, her voice shaking but resolute. “Just a little further.”
They burst onto Level B2. It was dim, lit only by flickering fluorescent tubes. In the corner sat a beat-up, rust-colored Ford Econoline van. It looked like junk, but to James, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Get in!” Daniel unlocked it remotely.
As they scrambled inside, the stairwell door burst open. The two tactical shooters emerged.
James shoved Lily onto the floor of the van and dove into the passenger seat. Daniel hauled himself into the driver’s side, his upper body strength compensating for his missing leg, and yanked the wheelchair in after him.
The shooters opened fire. The back window of the van shattered, showering Lily with safety glass.
“Heads down!” Daniel screamed, slamming the van into gear.
The engine didn’t sound like a standard Ford. It roared with the deep, throaty growl of a modified V8. Daniel punched the gas. The van surged forward, tires squealing on the concrete.
“Ram them?” Daniel asked, eyes wild.
“No,” James said, clutching his chest. “Evade. Get us to the safe house.”
Daniel swerved toward the exit ramp, clipping the side of the shooters’ SUV as they tried to block him. Metal shrieked against metal, sparks showering the darkness. The heavy Ford shuddered but held its line, blasting up the ramp and out into the blinding afternoon sun.
They hit the streets of Harbor Point doing sixty. Daniel wove through traffic with the precision of a stunt driver, checking the mirrors constantly.
“We lost them,” Daniel said after ten tense minutes of silence. “For now.”
James slumped back in the seat. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, crushing exhaustion. He looked back. Lily was sitting amidst the broken glass, hugging her knees. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was staring at him.
“You killed people,” she said softly.
“I disabled them,” James corrected hoarsely. “There is a difference.”
“Who are you?” she asked. “Really?”
James turned to face her, the pain in his chest a constant reminder of why this conversation couldn’t wait. “I’m your grandfather, Lily. That has always been the truth. But before that… I was a soldier who saw things he wasn’t supposed to see. And the men chasing us? They are the ones who want to make sure I never talk about it.”
“And my parents?” Her voice broke. “Blackwood… he said…”
“He killed them,” James said, not sugarcoating it. “He made it look like an accident. Just like he tried to kill me.”
Lily closed her eyes, her hands balling into fists. When she opened them again, the fear was gone, replaced by a cold, hard anger that James recognized. It was the Monroe temper.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the only place left,” Daniel answered from the front. “To the truth.”
THE SAFE HOUSE – 17:00 HOURS
The “safe house” was a misnomer. It was a hunting cabin deep in the pines, ten miles off the main highway, accessible only by a dirt logging road. It belonged to Eleanor Mitchell.
When they arrived, Eleanor was waiting on the porch, a shotgun resting casually in the crook of her arm. She didn’t look like the kind school nurse who gave out ice packs. She looked like a woman who had been expecting a war for thirty years.
“Get him inside,” Eleanor ordered as Daniel pulled the van up. “He looks like he’s going into cardiac arrest.”
They helped James into the living room, laying him on a worn leather couch. The cabin was sparse but fortified—heavy shutters on the windows, a police scanner chattering in the corner, and stacks of hard drives on the dining table.
Eleanor immediately went into triage mode. She listened to James’s heart, her face grim. She administered a shot of something that burned going in but eased the constriction in his chest within minutes.
“Nitroglycerin and a beta-blocker cocktail,” Eleanor explained, checking his pupil response. “It bought you a few hours, James. But your heart… it’s giving out. You know that.”
“I know,” James whispered. “Just keep me moving until tonight.”
“Tonight?” Lily asked. She was standing by the fireplace, looking at a wall of photos Eleanor had pinned up. Photos of Blackwood. Photos of a chemical plant in Iraq. Photos of young soldiers—James and Daniel among them—smiling in the desert sun.
“The Gala,” James said, sitting up slowly. “Blackwood is hosting a Victory Gala at the base tonight. All the brass will be there. The Secretary of Defense. The press.”
“It’s a suicide mission,” Daniel said, rolling his wheelchair to the table and booting up a laptop. “The base is on high alert. You can’t just walk in there.”
“We don’t need to walk in,” James said. “We need to break in. We need to put the evidence in front of the Secretary before Blackwood can spin the narrative.”
“What evidence?” Lily asked. “You just said reports can be forged.”
Eleanor walked to a floor safe in the corner of the room. She spun the dial and pulled out a heavy, lead-lined box. From it, she produced a single, silver USB drive and a stack of yellowed, brittle paper documents.
“This,” Eleanor said, handing the papers to Lily. “This is what your grandmother died for.”
Lily took the papers. “Project Chimera,” she read aloud. “Subject 18: James Monroe. Genetic modification via viral vector… expected outcome: enhanced adrenal response, rapid tissue repair… Side effects: total organ failure within 30 years.”
Lily looked up, horror in her eyes. “Grandpa… they experimented on you?”
“We were the lab rats,” Daniel said bitterly. “They told us it was a vaccine for nerve gas. It wasn’t. It was a super-soldier serum. Crude, nasty stuff. It killed most of the guys within five years. Tumors, strokes, madness. James and I… we were the anomalies. We survived. But the serum eats you from the inside out.”
“Blackwood built his career on this,” James said. “He sold the research to the highest bidder. He needs me dead because my body is the proof. If they autopsy me, they’ll find the synthetic compounds in my marrow. They’ll know.”
“So we expose him,” Lily said. “We go to the Gala.”
“No,” James shook his head. “I go. You stay here.”
“I can get you in,” Lily said.
James froze. “What?”
“The orchestra,” Lily said, her mind racing. “We’re the entertainment tonight. Mr. Finch sent the email this morning. The bus leaves from the school in an hour, but musicians with large instruments—like cellos—are allowed to take private transport to the service entrance for security screening.”
“Lily, absolutely not,” James said. “It’s a war zone.”
“It’s the only way,” she argued, stepping closer to him. “Security will be looking for a tactical team. They won’t be looking for a high school orchestra student and her ‘roadie’ grandfather carrying a cello case.”
James looked at Eleanor. She nodded slowly. “She’s right, Jim. It’s the perfect cover. The Trojan Horse.”
“I can hack the credential system,” Daniel added, typing furiously. “I can add James Monroe as a registered stagehand and chaperone. But once you’re inside, you’re on your own. I’ll have to guide you from here via comms.”
James looked at his granddaughter. She wasn’t a child anymore. The events of the day had forged her into something new. She was a Monroe.
“If we do this,” James said, his voice grave, “there is no coming back. If we fail, we die. Or worse, we disappear into a black site.”
“He killed my parents,” Lily said, her voice steady. “I’m not staying behind.”
James sighed, a sound of infinite weariness and pride. “Okay. Daniel, get us the IDs. Eleanor, I need weapons that fit in a cello case.”
THE INFILTRATION – 19:30 HOURS
The Naval Base was a fortress of light and steel. Searchlights swept the sky. Humvees patrolled the perimeter. But at the service gate, the line of catering trucks and event staff moved steadily.
Daniel’s beat-up van had been traded for Eleanor’s nondescript station wagon. James drove, wearing a generic black suit and a lanyard that identified him as “Staff.” Lily sat in the passenger seat, clutching her cello case.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” James reminded her as they pulled up to the guard booth. “You’re nervous about the performance. That’s your cover. Stick to it.”
The Marine at the gate took their IDs. He scanned them.
Beep.
James held his breath.
“You’re clear,” the Marine said, handing the cards back. “Park in Lot C. Entrance 4 is for musicians.”
They drove through. James parked the car in the darkest corner of the lot. He turned to Lily.
“Okay. Here’s the plan. You go to the green room. Stay there until the performance. Do not wander.”
“And you?”
“I have to get to the server room in the basement,” James said. “Daniel can’t upload the Chimera files to the main presentation screen remotely; the firewall is air-gapped. I have to physically plug the drive into the localized network.”
“Grandpa, you can barely walk,” Lily worried.
“I’ll manage,” James said. He opened the trunk. He took out his cane. Then, he opened the bottom compartment of the cello case. He pulled out a stun baton and a small EMP jammer Eleanor had provided. He slipped them into his jacket.
“Go,” James said. “Make them cry.”
Lily hugged him fiercely. “Be careful, Iron Ghost.”
She walked toward the building with her cello. James waited a minute, then followed, limping heavily, carrying a toolbox that contained nothing but wire cutters and the USB drive.
Inside, the base was bustling. Waiters rushed by with trays of champagne. James blended in, just another old man fixing something in the background. He navigated the hallways, following Daniel’s voice in his hidden earpiece.
“Take the next left, Jim. There’s a freight elevator. It goes down to the sub-levels.”
James reached the elevator. A keypad locked it.
“Code is 7-7-4-1,” Daniel whispered.
James punched it in. The doors slid open. He stepped inside, pressing the button for B1.
The elevator descended. The air grew colder.
When the doors opened, James wasn’t alone.
Standing in the hallway, smoking a cigarette, was a man in a tuxedo. He turned. It was the head of Blackwood’s security—the man who had led the team in the hall earlier.
He stared at James. James stared at him.
Recognition dawned.
“You,” the man growled, reaching for his radio.
James didn’t hesitate. He hit the ‘Close Door’ button, but the man lunged, jamming his arm between the doors. They bounced back open.
The man tackled James.
They hit the metal floor of the elevator hard. James’s head slammed against the railing. Stars exploded in his vision. The man was on top of him, hands around his throat, squeezing.
“Got you, you old relic,” the man spat.
James couldn’t breathe. His heart stuttered, a chaotic rhythm of panic. He clawed at the man’s face, but his strength was failing. The edges of his vision went black.
This is it, he thought. I failed.
No.
James remembered Baghdad. He remembered the heat, the sand, the smell of cordite. He remembered Taylor dying in his arms.
He reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed the EMP jammer.
He pulled it out and jammed it directly into the man’s earpiece.
He triggered it.
A high-frequency squeal, amplified by the device, blasted directly into the man’s ear canal. It was enough to disorient a rhino. The man screamed, clutching his head, rolling off James.
James gasped, sucking in air. He grabbed his cane. He didn’t stand up. He swung it from the floor, a vicious, lateral strike that connected with the man’s temple.
The man went limp.
James lay there for a moment, chest heaving.
“Jim? Jim! Status!” Daniel’s voice crackled in his ear.
“I’m… still… here,” James wheezed. He dragged himself up using the railing. He looked at the unconscious man. He took the man’s radio and smashed it.
He dragged the body into the corner of the elevator and hit the stop switch, locking the car between floors. He pried the doors open. He was halfway between B1 and B2.
“I’m climbing out,” James said.
“You’re crazy,” Daniel said.
James pulled himself up to the floor of B1. He dusted off his suit. He checked the USB drive in his pocket. It was safe.
He moved down the hallway. The server room was ahead.
THE CLIMAX – 20:45 HOURS
The Gala was in full swing. The auditorium was packed. Victor Blackwood stood at the podium, basking in the applause.
“And so,” Blackwood said, smiling for the cameras, “we honor the past by securing the future. Project Chimera was the beginning, but tonight, I am proud to announce the next phase.”
Backstage, Lily sat with her cello. Her hands were shaking.
“You’re on in two minutes,” the stage manager whispered.
Lily nodded. She walked out onto the stage. The lights blinded her. She sat down, adjusting the endpin of her cello. She looked out at the audience. She saw the Secretary of Defense in the front row. She saw Blackwood, smug and victorious.
She closed her eyes. For Mom. For Dad.
She began to play.
It wasn’t the piece she was supposed to play. It was Barber’s Adagio for Strings. The saddest, most powerful music she knew.
The mournful notes floated over the audience. The chatter stopped. The room fell silent.
Down in the server room, James stood before the main terminal.
“I’m bypassing the firewall,” Daniel said. “But I need manual authorization. Plug it in now!”
James’s hand shook violently. His vision was blurring. His heart felt like it was ripping in half. He jammed the USB drive into the port.
“Access granted,” Daniel said. “Uploading now. Get out of there, Jim!”
James turned to leave, but the door to the server room burst open.
Victor Blackwood stood there. He wasn’t alone. Two Marines were with him. But Blackwood held a pistol.
“I knew you’d come here,” Blackwood said, his voice quiet. “You’re predictable, Ghost.”
“It’s over, Victor,” James said, leaning against a server rack to stay upright. “The files are uploading. They’re going to the screen upstairs.”
“Not if I stop the feed,” Blackwood said. He stepped forward and ripped the USB drive out of the port. He smashed it under his heel. “See? No upload.”
James smiled. A bloody, broken smile.
“You think I didn’t plan for that?”
Upstairs, the screen behind the orchestra didn’t go dark. Instead, it flickered.
Daniel hadn’t just been uploading files. He had hijacked the live feed from the server room’s security camera.
On the massive screen in the auditorium, looming over the orchestra, the audience saw a live video: Victor Blackwood, gun in hand, standing over a battered old man in the server room.
The music swelled. Lily played harder, tears streaming down her face, knowing what was happening on the screen behind her.
“Whatever you think you’ve done,” Blackwood sneered, unaware he was being broadcast to the world, “nobody will believe you. I am a hero! You are a traitor!”
“You’re a murderer,” James said, his voice amplified by the server room microphone Daniel had activated. “Admit it, Victor. You killed my team. You poisoned us.”
“I did what I had to do!” Blackwood shouted. “Soldiers are expendable! You were equipment! I sacrificed six men to save thousands! And I’d do it again!”
The gasp in the auditorium was loud enough to be heard over the music.
The Secretary of Defense stood up, his face pale. He signaled to the MPs standing at the doors.
In the server room, Blackwood raised the gun. “Goodbye, Ghost.”
James closed his eyes. He had done it. He had exposed the truth. He was ready.
BANG.
The shot rang out.
But James didn’t feel the bullet.
Blackwood screamed, dropping the gun. His hand was a ruin of blood.
James opened his eyes.
Eleanor Mitchell stood in the doorway of the server room, a smoking revolver in her hand. She had slipped past security during the distraction.
“Nobody kills my friends,” she said, her voice shaking but her aim true.
Blackwood fell to his knees, clutching his hand.
“Secure the room!” voices shouted.
Marines—real Marines, not Blackwood’s mercenaries—flooded the room. They didn’t aim at James. They aimed at Blackwood.
“Victor Blackwood,” a Captain announced, “you are under arrest by order of the Secretary of Defense.”
James slid down the server rack, hitting the floor. The adrenaline was gone. The pain was absolute.
“James!” Eleanor rushed to him, dropping her gun. She pressed her hands to his chest. “Stay with me!”
“Lily…” James whispered.
“She’s playing,” Eleanor said, tears falling on his face. “She’s playing for you, James. Listen.”
James listened. Faintly, through the floorboards, he could feel the vibration of the cello. The sad, beautiful song of the Iron Ghost.
His heart gave one last, mighty thump.
And then, silence.
EPILOGUE – THE HOSPITAL BED
The beeping was annoying. Constant. Rhythmic.
James frowned. Beeping meant machines. Machines meant hospitals. Hospitals meant he wasn’t dead.
He opened his eyes.
The light was soft. He was in a private room. Standing by the window, looking out at the D.C. skyline, was a tall man in a suit. The Secretary of Defense.
Sitting in a chair by the bed, asleep, was Lily. She was holding his hand.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” the Secretary said, turning around.
James tried to speak. His throat was dry. “Water.”
Lily woke up instantly. “Grandpa!” She poured him a cup, helping him drink. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling.
“You were out for three days,” she said. “Dr. Foster… she flew in. She performed the surgery. She installed a new kind of pacemaker. One designed to filter the toxins from your blood.”
“I’m alive?” James asked, genuinely surprised.
“Too stubborn to die,” Daniel rolled his wheelchair into the room. He was wearing a fresh suit. “And guess what? Blackwood is singing like a canary. He’s giving up everyone. The network is dismantling.”
“And the other victims?” James asked. “The other soldiers?”
The Secretary stepped forward. “We found the list on the server. 2,000 names. We’re contacting them now. They’re getting treatment. Full compensation. It doesn’t undo the past, James, but it’s a start.”
James looked at Lily. She squeezed his hand.
“We’re safe,” she whispered. “Really safe.”
James looked out the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. For thirty years, he had lived in the dark. He had been a ghost, haunting his own life, waiting for the end.
But the ghost was gone now.
James Monroe took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt.
“So,” James said, a small smile playing on his lips. “When do we go home? I have a boat engine that still needs fixing.”
Lily laughed. It was the best sound he had ever heard.
“Soon, Grandpa,” she said. “Soon.”
