The general steps forward. Rain streaks down his jacket like tears that refuse to fall. The bar is dead quiet. The jukebox stops mid-song without anyone touching it.

“Clear the room,” the general says. No one hesitates. Boots shuffle. Chairs scrape. The young Marine who made the joke doesn’t speak—just stares at the floor like it’s about to open up and swallow him.

Only three people remain: the general, the bartender, and the man everyone thought was a ghost. The general puts one hand on the back of a chair—like it’s the only thing holding him upright—and says: “We need to talk…”

The old man motions for the general to sit. The chair creaks under the weight of years neither of them speak of. Rain taps against the windows like impatient fingers. Rick sets down a fresh glass of bourbon in front of Reaper One, then another for the general, though the man hasn’t asked.

The general doesn’t touch his drink. He leans forward, elbows on the scarred wooden table, and says in a low voice, “You were supposed to be dead.”

The old man raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I was. In every way that counts.”

The general studies him like he’s looking through layers of history—war zones, black ops, silent kills, lost brothers.

“We got word two months ago that someone was digging,” the general continues. “Intel said a journalist found pieces of Operation Black Echo. Names. Photos. Even coordinates. Yours was at the top of the list.”

The bartender whistles softly but keeps his eyes down. Reaper One lifts his glass, drinks. His hand doesn’t shake.

“Tell me you didn’t come back just to be a ghost in plain sight,” the general says, voice tight. “Because if your name goes public—if even a whisper of what happened that night gets out—it won’t just be you they come for.”

Reaper One looks him dead in the eye. “I came back to finish it.”

The general blinks. “Finish what?”

“Whoever’s digging,” the old man says, voice like gravel and regret, “they’re not looking to write a book. They’re looking to resurrect something.”

A silence swells in the room, heavy and sour. Rick looks up now, his face pale.

“The file was locked under Omega clearance,” the general says, almost to himself. “It was burned, sealed, buried.”

Reaper One leans in. “So was I.”

He opens a small black pouch from the side of his wheelchair and tosses something on the table. It lands with a dull metal thud—a bullet casing, polished to a mirror sheen. Carved into the base are two numbers: 11 and 23.

The general stiffens. “That’s not possible.”

“Code dates,” the old man says. “Eleven targets. Twenty-three days. And someone’s bringing them back.”

The general exhales slowly. “You think someone’s rebuilding the project?”

“I know they are,” Reaper One says. “And they’re not being quiet about it.”

The general finally drinks. One slow sip.

“You can’t run anymore,” he says. “You’re in the open.”

“I’m not running,” Reaper One says, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m hunting.”

The bartender backs away now, sensing the air shift. These aren’t old men swapping war stories. This is mission brief energy. And it’s alive again.

The general leans in. “Then you need your team.”

“Most are gone,” Reaper One says. “A few are ghosts. One’s locked up in Leavenworth pretending to be insane.”

“Ghost 6,” the general mutters.

The old man nods. “I need him.”

The general hesitates. “That’s a big ask.”

“He’s the only one who remembers the kill switch protocols. If they activate the node again, we’re looking at sleeper agents in every agency from Langley to Langford.”

“You sure you’re not paranoid?”

Reaper One taps the casing again. “Paranoia is what kept me breathing.”

The door opens suddenly—just a crack. A woman steps through, soaked to the bone, a duffel bag slung across her shoulder, eyes sharp as razors.

“Didn’t think you’d get started without me,” she says.

Reaper One doesn’t blink. “Hello, Viper.”

She walks over and throws the duffel onto the table, unzipping it just enough to show a tangled web of gear, files, and weapons.

Rick mutters, “This ain’t that kinda bar anymore.”

Viper grins. “It is tonight.”

The general rises slowly. “You two together again means this is worse than I thought.”

Reaper One looks up at him. “It’s already started.”

He nods toward the bar’s lone TV, which flickers back to life, unprompted. Static clears, and a breaking news report cuts in.

“…another blackout today affected multiple defense networks across the eastern seaboard. Officials deny cyberterrorism, but sources tell us the intrusion bore striking similarities to the 2006 Langley breach—an event previously thought to be internal…”

The general curses under his breath. “That breach had your signature wiped from the servers.”

“They’re using my prints,” Reaper One says.

“No,” Viper adds, pulling out a thumb drive and slamming it on the table. “They’re using all of ours.”

Silence again.

Then Reaper One moves, fast and fluid, for a man in a wheelchair. He slides the drive into the old bar laptop Rick still uses for the jukebox. The screen loads with old ops files, encrypted logs, names marked “KIA” now showing status as “ACTIVE.”

“Oh my God…” Rick whispers.

The general grabs a chair and lowers himself again, this time not as a superior, but as a man staring down a storm.

“This isn’t a dig,” he says. “It’s a resurrection.”

Reaper One scrolls through the names. “And someone’s playing God.”

A beat passes.

The general clears his throat. “Then it’s time we play Devil.”

No one argues.

Viper begins coordinating quietly with someone through an earpiece. Rick locks the doors without being asked. The bar, once buzzing with music and bravado, turns into a command center. Outdated, dusty, but crackling with something that hasn’t been felt since the war ended—purpose.

“Where do we start?” the general asks.

Reaper One zooms in on one of the blinking dots on the map.

“Start with the closest name marked active: Bravo Seven.”

“He’s dead,” the general says.

Reaper One stares at the screen. “Tell that to his heart rate monitor.”

They all lean in. The pulse is real. Live feed. A facility in Utah. Underground.

“They’re using medical labs as holding pens,” Viper says. “Testing response latency, reactivation thresholds.”

The general swears again. “They’re building soldiers who don’t sleep. Don’t ask questions. Don’t remember what they’re doing until it’s done.”

“And worse,” Reaper One mutters, “they’re using our memories.”

Everyone looks at him.

“They cloned the protocols,” he continues. “That means they have our old debriefs. Our movements. Our instincts. Bravo Seven won’t hesitate to kill me, because he’ll think he is me.”

“Jesus Christ,” the general breathes.

Rick finally speaks up. “Then what happens if he finds you first?”

Reaper One smiles for the first time.

“Then I remind him who wrote the book.”

The general rises, picks up the casing, and closes his fist around it.

“You’ll need clearance, extraction routes, gear.”

“I’ve got Viper,” Reaper One says.

“You’ll need more.”

The door swings open again. Another silhouette. A mountain of a man with a limp and a tattoo that wraps from neck to knuckle: Semper Fidelis.

“I heard the old ghost was thirsty,” he says, walking in.

“Grizzly,” Viper grins. “Thought you were dead.”

“I was,” he says, gripping Reaper One’s shoulder. “But someone started poking graves.”

Reaper One nods once. “Welcome back.”

The general grabs his phone and makes a call. No code names now, just direct authority.

“This is General Monroe. Reactivate Protocol Echo Sierra. Effective immediately. And get me access to Leavenworth. Ghost 6 is going home.”

Then he hangs up and looks at Reaper One.

“What do we call this?”

Reaper One turns back to the laptop, watching the map light up like a war drum.

“We call it the reckoning.”

And just like that, the room isn’t a bar anymore.

It’s a battlefield.

And the ghosts?

They’re awake.