My father’s jaw hit the floor. The arrogance vanished from his face, replaced by pure shock. “You… you outrank me?” he stammered. I didn’t answer. I opened the mission folder the Colonel handed me. I expected to see coordinates for a strike. Instead, I saw a single photograph clipped to the top. My blood ran cold. I looked up at my father, who was now trembling. “Dad,” I whispered, holding up the photo. “You need to explain this.” He looked at the picture, turned pale, and said… “I thought I burned that years ago I thought I burned that years ago…”
The room seems to tilt, the air sucked out like a vacuum. No one moves. Even the Colonel stands still, his expression unreadable. My fingers tighten on the photograph. It’s a blurry surveillance image—low resolution, infrared—but unmistakable. A younger version of my father is standing in the jungle, not in uniform but in civilian gear, shaking hands with a man every intelligence agency on Earth has marked for death.
Rafiq Al-Hassani.
Ex-CIA asset turned war criminal. The man responsible for three embassy bombings, the deaths of dozens of Americans, and the collapse of Operation Widow’s Net. Officially declared killed in a drone strike fifteen years ago. Unofficially… he’s still active. And now, I have a photo of my father meeting him.
“Tell me this is a fake,” I say. My voice doesn’t tremble, but my insides are shaking.
My father’s lips part, but no words come. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. The man who once dismissed me as a logistics clerk now seems afraid of me.
The Colonel clears his throat. “Ghost, this is bigger than your father. We need to move. Now.”
“No,” I say sharply. “Not until he talks.”
My father closes his eyes. His voice comes out like a creak in an old floorboard. “It was black ops. Denied from the start. I was tasked to turn Al-Hassani into an ally—contain him. But the agency pulled the plug. They ordered the hit… and I was the only one who knew he got away.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I buried it,” he whispers. “I had to. If it got out… it would’ve triggered a purge across half the Pentagon.”
I step closer. “You knew he was still alive, and you let it go?”
“It wasn’t my mission anymore.”
“Then it’s mine now,” I say.
The Colonel places a hand on my shoulder. “He’s resurfaced. We believe he’s in Caracas under the alias Diego Marón. Ghost, this has to be surgical. No satellite coverage, no comms, no backup. You’ll be completely black.”
“I need a team,” I reply.
“You already have one.”
The door opens again, and in walks a woman with ice-white hair and an eye patch—Nyx, the most elusive wet-ops agent in existence. Behind her is Torque, a demolition expert with a prosthetic arm made from classified alloys, and Kestrel, an ex-Mossad sniper with a resting heart rate of 40 bpm.
I nod once. “We leave in 30.”
—
By nightfall, we’re wheels down in Venezuela.
The humidity slaps us the moment we hit the tarmac. No words are exchanged. We know the mission: infiltrate the cartel-run hotel in El Rosal district, ID the target, extract alive if possible. Kill shot if not.
We move like shadows through the neon-lit chaos of Caracas. Torque blends in with the street punks. Kestrel disappears to high ground. Nyx and I enter the hotel posing as a wealthy couple. I hate the tux, but it hides the ceramic blade pressed to my thigh.
The elevator ride is slow and silent. At the top floor, the doors open directly into the suite.
He’s there.
Older now. Gray at the temples. But unmistakably him.
Rafiq Al-Hassani—aka Diego Marón—is seated at a glass table, swirling brandy in a crystal tumbler. He looks up and smiles.
“I was wondering when they’d send you,” he says calmly.
Nyx’s fingers twitch toward her hidden Glock.
“No weapons,” he says, raising one hand. “Not yet.”
I step forward. “You met my father.”
A small chuckle. “Your father was smart. Ruthless. But conflicted. I liked him.”
“You killed Americans.”
“And your country sold me out after I served them for a decade. Blood for favors—that’s how the game works.”
I glance at Nyx. A silent signal. She begins recording.
“I want the files,” I say. “All of them. Widow’s Net, the blackmail ledger, the safe house logs.”
He leans back. “And what do I get in return?”
“Your life.”
He smiles again. “You won’t shoot me. You’re not your father.”
I pull out the photo. Drop it on the table.
His face darkens.
“This… this is leverage,” I say. “You think you’re still playing chess. But I flipped the board.”
Outside, three suppressed shots crack in the distance. Kestrel’s signal.
Trouble.
“Extraction now!” I bark into my comms.
Nyx grabs Rafiq, yanks him from his chair. Torque bursts through the fire escape, panting. “Cartel’s coming up the stairs. Full battalion.”
We head for the roof. Helicopter inbound. The building shakes from an RPG strike two floors down.
“Move!” I shout, pushing Rafiq ahead.
Bullets slice through the night. Torque lays down cover with a micro-drone rig that spits fire from the stairwell. Nyx takes one in the side but doesn’t slow down.
We hit the roof as the chopper appears, blades chopping the night open.
I shove Rafiq in first. Kestrel already onboard.
Then a voice behind me.
My father.
Fully geared, weapon drawn.
He steps from the shadows. “He can’t live,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t let this fall apart. You don’t know what he’s holding.”
“He’s going to testify. Full debrief. Then the world will know what really happened.”
“You don’t understand!” my father shouts. “If that information gets out, it won’t just destroy me. It’ll start a war. Russia, Israel, Iran—we fed them lies through him for years. If those lies become truth…”
“Then we clean it up,” I say. “The right way.”
He raises his gun. “You’re not leaving this roof.”
But before he can pull the trigger, a shot rings out.
Nyx.
Straight through the shoulder.
My father crumples, not dead, just bleeding.
She looks at me. “You hesitated.”
“Still learning,” I say grimly, hauling my father onto the bird.
—
Back in the States, it’s chaos. Congressional hearings. Leaks. Names redacted from files that were never supposed to exist. But the truth spreads like fire.
My father resigns in disgrace, but avoids prison thanks to his testimony. His reputation? Gone.
Rafiq disappears into protective custody. His information brings down four covert networks and exposes three high-level traitors in the Pentagon.
And me?
I stay Ghost Thirteen.
No more shadows.
No more hiding in the back of briefing rooms.
They call me when it gets ugly.
When they need the truth brought to light.
And even though my name isn’t in the papers…
My father watches every time a mission hits the headlines.
Because now he knows—
I wasn’t the disappointment.
I was the solution.
