Gary looked at the symbol on the envelope and his knees actually buckled. He didn’t just look scared; he looked like he was looking at a ghost. The man in front stepped forward and whispered… “We know where the money came from, Gary. And we know where the bodies are.”

…“We know where the money came from, Gary. And we know where the bodies are.”

Gary’s mouth works, but no sound comes out. His face drains of color as he stumbles back, bumping into a nurse’s cart. The clang of metal on tile snaps the entire ICU into silence. Even the heart monitor beside Brenda seems to pause.

The manila envelope remains suspended between Ghost’s gloved fingers. He steps forward with mechanical calm and sets it on the rolling tray beside Gary.

“I suggest you open it,” Ghost says.

Gary swallows hard. His fingers tremble as he lifts the flap and slides out the contents. He flips through the glossy photographs: night vision shots of a shipping container buried in an unmarked field, stills of surveillance video showing large payments made in cash to overseas accounts, satellite images of a makeshift graveyard in the pinewoods just north of the county line. Then—worse—receipts, wire transfers, and a list of names. At the top of that list: Brenda Collins.

Gary looks up at me, panic blooming in his eyes.

“You son of a—”

“No,” I cut in. “You did this to yourself.”

“I can make this go away,” he stammers. “We’re talking about classified information. Black ops. None of this holds in court!”

Ghost smirks. “You’re right. This isn’t going to court.”

The room seems to tilt for a second. Gary realizes what that means, and his knees buckle again. This time, he doesn’t get up.

Ghost nods once, and the team splits without a word. One disappears down the hall. Another exits through the stairwell. Two remain behind, their eyes never leaving Gary.

“You have until dawn,” I say quietly. “Resign. Publicly. Blame it on health reasons. If I so much as see your face on a campaign ad again, the next envelope goes to every major media outlet in the country.”

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Gary snarls, trying to summon his old bravado. But it’s hollow now. “I have people in D.C. I can make one call—”

Ghost leans in close, his breath icy. “Then make it. And I’ll make mine.”

Gary’s jaw trembles. He doesn’t say another word.

He walks out of that hospital under his own power, but it takes everything he has not to collapse. We watch him go. I turn back to Brenda’s room.

She’s awake now, just barely, her eyelids fluttering as her gaze meets mine. I go to her side, kneel, and take her hand.

“He won’t hurt you again,” I whisper.

A tear slips from the corner of her eye.

That night, we stay at a safehouse Ghost sets up—one of the dozens the unit still maintains, untraceable and deep in the hills. Brenda sleeps, finally free of sedatives. Her face is a mess of purple and yellow bruises, but she’s breathing steady. Peacefully.

Ghost sits across from me in the living room, cleaning a sidearm with the same care you’d give a child. “You want us to finish this?” he asks without looking up.

I hesitate. The old me would’ve said yes without blinking. But Brenda…

“No,” I murmur. “Not unless he makes us.”

Ghost nods once, like he respects the restraint but doesn’t share it.

The next morning, the news breaks. Mayor Gary Collins holds a tearful press conference outside City Hall. “Due to a recently discovered heart condition and the strain of public life, I’m stepping down effective immediately.” The press eats it up. The Chief of Police stands behind him, lips tight, eyes cold.

I know what it cost him to make that deal.

Later that afternoon, the local paper prints a bland puff piece about a beloved mayor retiring gracefully. But two pages in, buried under local sports coverage, there’s a single photo of a woman with bruises on her face being loaded into an ambulance. No names. No details. Just the image—and the headline: “Victim or Accident?”

I read it, then set the paper down. There’s still work to do.

Over the next two weeks, the unit spreads out through the town like a quiet plague. Files appear on reporters’ desks. Anonymous tips flood the local courthouse. Financial records, shell corporations, blackmail schemes involving judges, even a land deal that would’ve stolen homes from veterans’ widows—it all starts unraveling like a pulled thread on a cheap suit.

The town starts whispering. Gary’s name, once uttered with reverence, becomes a joke, then a warning.

Meanwhile, Brenda begins to heal.

Her voice returns first—hoarse, shaky, but hers. Then her smile. The real one. Not the tight, polite mask she wore for years.

One morning, I find her on the porch of the safehouse sipping coffee. Her hands are steady again. Her bruises faded into yellow shadows.

She looks at me and says, “You shouldn’t have called them.”

“I had to.”

“They’re dangerous.”

“So is love,” I reply.

She nods slowly, understanding blooming behind her tired eyes.

We leave the safehouse that afternoon. Ghost shakes my hand before we go. “You’re out,” he says. “Again. This time, don’t wait for another call.”

“I won’t.”

But I know the truth. Once you’ve called the unit, once you’ve heard that cold gravel voice on the line and watched justice dealt without handcuffs or trials—you never really go back.

Back in town, the air feels different. There’s still fear, still corruption, but the lid’s blown off now. And without Gary holding the pieces together, the whole house of cards is collapsing.

Brenda moves in with me, just for a while, she says. Until she figures things out. But I don’t push. I clean out my guest room. I stock up on her favorite tea. I fix the creaky steps she always hated as a kid.

One evening, as we’re watching the sun set over the lake, she turns to me and asks, “Do you think people like him ever really feel guilty?”

I consider the question.

“No,” I say. “But they feel fear. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

She nods again and leans her head on my shoulder.

And for the first time in what feels like years, my little sister is safe.

But that night, my phone buzzes.

An unknown number. A message.

“He’s running. South border. 36 hours.”

I stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Brenda walks in behind me, sees my face, and frowns. “What is it?”

I lock the screen. “Nothing.”

She narrows her eyes, but she doesn’t push. Not yet.

Later, when she’s asleep, I go into the garage.

The footlocker is still there. Still unlocked. Still waiting.

I reach in—not for the gun, not for the burner—but for the old patch folded in the corner. The one that reads:

“No flags. No names. Just justice.”

Gary might think he’s escaping.

But we don’t do escape.

We do closure.

And we always finish what we start.