They buried my name with sixteen fallen soldiers, believing the dead could keep their secrets. But I’m the ghost who walked out of the grave. For three years, I waited, I watched, and I planned. Today, a Lieutenant punched me in the face in front of a 3-Star Admiral. He just handed me the one thing I needed to burn their entire conspiracy to the ground.

Part 1

 

You don’t tell soldiers where to die.

The words hang in the room. Not like smoke, that’s too gentle. They hang like the dust that settles after a wall comes down, thick and gritty, coating every surface, getting in your throat. They’re spoken by a man whose heart is a clenched fist.

That man is Lieutenant Jack Mercer. Right now, his knuckles are bone-white against the polished mahogany of the briefing table.

The room, deep in the concrete guts of Fort Belvoir, feels like it’s shrinking. Forty-two souls breathing the same stale, recycled air. It’s a mix of burnt coffee, adrenaline, and the faint, metallic scent of fear.

Every eye in that room, from the junior enlisted aides to the two-star general at the head of the table, is locked on me.

I am the still point in this turning world of crisis. I wear no uniform, no rank that you can see. Just simple dark slacks and a plain gray button-down shirt. The only thing that marks me is a plastic contractor badge clipped to my belt. It reads, in stark, block letters: THORNE, ARYA. ANALYST, CIVILIAN.

It’s a lie. Every letter of it.

In exactly fourteen seconds, Lieutenant Jack Mercer is going to throw a punch that will shatter the delicate truce of this room. It will be the single biggest mistake of his career, and the single most necessary moment of mine.

I’ve been planning this.

It’s been seventy-two hours of this crisis. Seventy-two hours since armor started massing near the Polish border. Seventy-two hours of supply chains going dark. The whole of NATO Joint Command is running on fumes and fury.

I’ve been speaking for exactly nine minutes. My voice is the opposite of the room’s frantic energy—steady, methodical, a calm river. I’m using a tactical pointer, its red dot tracing a planned route for Alpha Team. They’re supposed to cross a bridge, the Zulu Corridor. On the maps, it looks clean. I’m here to tell them the map is a liar.

With that little red dot, I’m painting a picture of death. “Three distinct choke points here… here… and here,” I say, my voice never rising. “The terrain on either side provides elevated cover and concealment. The window of vulnerability for an ambush isn’t a possibility, it’s a statistical certainty.”

That’s when Jack Mercer’s hand comes down on the table. It’s not a tap; it’s a detonation.

“You’re a desk analyst,” he snarls, and each word is a shard of glass. He’s standing now, leaning over the table, his entire body a coiled spring of rage. “You sit in your air-conditioned room, pushing pixels around on a screen. You don’t tell men who bleed, who fight, who carry their brothers home in pieces… You don’t tell them where to die.”

The room goes dead still.

I don’t flinch. I don’t gasp. I lower the tactical pointer, slowly. I place it carefully on the console. Then, I turn my head and my eyes find his. My face is a placid lake.

When I speak, my voice is a ghost of a whisper, yet it carries to every corner of the room. No heat. No anger. Just a quiet, terrible clarity.

“I tell them where not to die, Lieutenant.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. It’s the perfect-wrong thing to say.

I know everything about Jack Mercer. I know he isn’t just angry; he’s haunted. For three years, he’s been carrying his brother’s death. His older brother, Tom, a Navy Corpsman, a Doc. A good man. The best man I ever knew.

It happened on October 17th, 2022. Barka, Syria. A mission that went so bad it almost ceased to exist. Seventeen American operators went in. Only eleven body bags came out. For six of them, there was nothing to bring home. Tom Mercer was one of those six.

The official report, the one Jack only glimpsed before it was buried, listed the cause as “intelligence failure.” Someone, somewhere, had sent them into a meat grinder.

Before that file vanished, Jack saw a name on the incident chain. Thorne, A., LT, USN. SEAL Team Echo. And next to it, the three letters that have defined his life: KIA. Killed in Action.

A Lieutenant Thorne, a SEAL, died in Barka alongside his brother. And now, three years later, a woman with that exact name, Arya Thorne, stands before him in civilian clothes, telling his men where they can and can’t go.

In his mind, ravaged by grief, there are only two possibilities. A cruel coincidence, or I’m a fraud. A ghoul, using a dead hero’s name.

He’s right. I am a ghost.

He doesn’t think. He just moves. Three long, purposeful strides.

I don’t step back. I don’t raise a hand. This is the lynchpin. This is the public act. I need the witnesses.

I see the fist coming. I see the rage, the telegraphed motion. I let it connect.

The punch lands clean. A sharp, ugly sound. My head snaps to the side. A flash of white light, the taste of copper. I stagger, catching the edge of the table to keep from falling.

A thin line of crimson wells up at the corner of my mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, I straighten up. The room is a frozen photograph of shock. Forty-two people, not one of them breathing. Admiral Cole Hawthorne is halfway out of his chair, his mouth open, no sound coming out.

I bring my hand to my lip. My fingers, long and steady, touch the blood. I wipe it away—index and middle finger, thumb pressed along the second knuckle. A pressure point control technique. A medic’s habit. Tom’s habit.

I’m breathing. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out. Combat breathing.

I look at Jack Mercer. My eyes hold no anger. No fear. Just a terrible, patient calm.

“Are you done, Lieutenant?”

My voice doesn’t shake.

“You don’t, Mercer!” Admiral Hawthorne’s voice cracks like a whip. “Stand. Down. Now.”

Jack doesn’t move. His gaze is locked on me. “She cost us soldiers in Barka,” he says, his voice rising, playing to the room. “She doesn’t belong in this building. She doesn’t belong in a uniform… Or whatever the hell she’s pretending to be.”

I calmly pick up a sterile bandage I keep in my pocket. I press it against the cut. The way I do it—one hand stabilizing, the other applying direct pressure—is textbook. Not CPR class. It’s ‘mud-and-blood’ class.

Near the back, I see old Staff Sergeant Davis lean forward. He’s watching my hands. He sees it. He sees the way I’ve shifted my weight, my shoulders angled. A bladed stance. A fighter’s stance.

“That’s not civilian training,” he murmurs, too soft for anyone but himself.

Admiral Hawthorne is on Jack now. “Lieutenant Mercer, you will remove yourself from this room immediately.”

“Sir, she—”

“Now, Lieutenant.”

Jack’s jaw works. He throws one last look at me. I’m still standing there, holding the bandage, my face a complete mystery. He turns and walks out. The door closes with a heavy, final click.

The room lets out a collective breath. Murmurs ripple. Someone offers me a chair. I shake my head.

Admiral Hawthorne approaches me. His face is a complicated mask of concern and… something else. Worry.

“Ms. Thorne,” he says, his voice low. “I apologize for—”

“It’s fine, Admiral.” My voice is steady. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point,” he says. He straightens, his command voice returning. “This meeting is over. Everyone out. Except for command staff.”

The room empties. It’s just six of us. Hawthorne, me, two colonels, a JAG officer, and Davis, who has managed to make himself part of the furniture.

“You should file an incident report,” Hawthorne says. Formal. Official.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, sir.”

“I’m afraid I do,” he counters. “Lieutenant Mercer has made some serious, public allegations. About your credentials. About Operation Barka.” He pauses. “Given the circumstances, I’m going to have to ask you to take administrative leave, pending a full investigation.”

I almost smile. It’s not surprise. It’s recognition. The chess piece is moving exactly where I wanted. “An investigation into what, exactly?”

“Your identity. Your background.” His voice drops. “Your right to be in this facility.”

One of the colonels steps forward, hand outstretched. “Your badge, please, Ms. Thorne.”

I look at the hand, then at the admiral. “Admiral, with all due respect, my credentials were fully vetted.”

“A man struck you in my war room because he believes you are using a dead operator’s identity,” Hawthorne says, his voice like steel. “Until we can verify, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that you are who you claim to be, I cannot allow you continued access. Your badge, Ms. Thorne.”

Slowly, I unclip the badge. I look at my own face. THORNE, ARYA. ANALYST, CIVILIAN. I hold it out. The colonel takes it.

“Please escort Ms. Thorne to the main exit,” he nods to the security officer.

The young officer approaches. “Ma’am, if you’ll come with me.”

I don’t move. Not yet. I look straight at Admiral Hawthorne.

“Barka,” I say, my voice quiet but sharp as a razor. “October 17th, 2022. You want to talk about that operation, Admiral?”

Hawthorne’s face becomes a blank mask. “That file is sealed.”

“It is,” I agree. “Sealed by your signature, Admiral. I remember the classification code. 7-Alpha-Echo-9. You signed it at 0800 on October 18th. Less than twelve hours after the incident.” I let the silence hang. “That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen a casualty report get sealed. Makes a person wonder what needed to be hidden so quickly.”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“Ms. Thorne,” Hawthorne says, his voice tight as a drumhead. “You are dangerously out of line.”

“Am I? Lieutenant Mercer called me a fraud. He thinks I’m impersonating a Lieutenant A. Thorne, SEAL Team Echo, who was listed as KIA in Barka. And he’s not wrong to think that operator died. The file says so. Your signature says so.” I pause. “But here’s a question for your investigation, Admiral. Who wrote the casualty report that you signed? And did you personally verify the body count? Or did you just trust the numbers someone handed you?”

“That’s enough!” Hawthorne’s voice cracks. “Security, remove her. Now.”

The officer puts a hand on my elbow. I allow him to guide me to the door. As I pass Staff Sergeant Davis, I murmur, just for him.

“Staff Sergeant. You were in Syria, 2011 through 2015. Fifth Special Forces Group.”

He goes rigid. “How did you—”

“You have a specific way of standing when you’re tracking an exit route,” I continue, walking. “You put your weight on your left leg. Old hip injury. Aleppo. I recognize the stance. I learned it from the same instructor.”

I’m at the door. I look back one last time at the map.

“The bridge,” I say, my voice filling the room. “Zulu Crossing. If you send them through that route without the countermeasures I recommended, you’ll lose half that team in the first ten minutes. And then you’ll write another report about ‘intelligence failure’ and seal another file. And sixteen more families will get folded flags and condolence letters that don’t explain a damn thing.”

“Out!” Hawthorne’s voice is a quiet, terrifying command.

The door opens. I step through. The door closes.

---

 

Part 2

 

I’m in the long, sterile hallway, walking beside the young security officer. He keeps glancing at me, a mix of awe and terror on his face. He’s a kid caught in the blast radius.

We’re halfway to the main entrance when his radio crackles. He listens. His expression shifts. “Copy that,” he murmurs. He lowers it and stops walking.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to wait here for a moment.”

His hand has moved to his belt. Closer to his sidearm.

“Am I being detained now?” I ask, my tone neutral.

“Not detained, ma’am. Just… asked to wait. Someone’s coming.”

Before I can ask who, heavy footsteps echo from the main corridor. Jack Mercer. He’s not alone. Two MPs are with him. And Jack is carrying a thick manila folder, stuffed with printouts.

“She’s not leaving,” Jack says. His voice is hard. He holds up the folder. “I pulled the file. The real file. A. Thorne, SEAL Team Echo.” He thrusts a page forward. A personnel sheet. A photograph. “This is Lieutenant Thorne. Killed in Action, October 17th, 2022. Remains unrecovered.” He points a shaking finger at me. “This woman is an impostor.”

I stand perfectly still.

“Lieutenant,” I say, my voice still impossibly calm. “You should look at that photograph more carefully.”

“I have!” he snarls, shoving the folder in my face. “This is a woman, five-foot-seven, brown hair… If you were really Lieutenant Thorne, you’d be listed as active duty, not KIA!”

“I had credentials,” I point out softly. “Your admiral just took them.”

“Because they’re fake!”

“Your brother,” I say.

My voice drops, becomes intimate, pulling the world down to just the two of them.

“Tom Mercer. Navy Corpsman. His call sign was ‘Doc.’ He was twenty-nine years old.”

Jack freezes.

“He had a tattoo on his left forearm,” I continue, my eyes locked on his. “A caduceus, with the snakes wrapped around an anchor instead of a staff. He told the most terrible jokes during extractions… And the last thing he ever said, right before the secondary blast… was ‘Cover’s good. Get them out.’”

The corridor goes silent. All the color drains from Jack Mercer’s face. The thick folder slips from his numb fingers, pages scattering across the cold tile floor like dead leaves.

“How…?” he whispers, his voice breaking. “How do you know that?”

I reach into my pocket again. Different pocket. The right one. I pull out something small, something that glints.

A dog tag, worn and scratched, on a simple steel ball chain.

I hold it up. It swings gently between us.

MERCER, THOMAS J.

Jack just stares at it. His hand comes up, slow, trembling, not daring to touch it.

“He gave me that,” I say, my voice finally, finally thick with a sorrow I’ve kept buried for three long years. “Thirty seconds before he died. He was covering our withdrawal. He pulled three wounded men out of that building while I laid down suppression fire. When the second IED went off, he pushed me clear. He took the full force of the blast.”

I let the words land.

“I was listed as KIA because the person who signed that report needed everyone on that mission to be dead. No survivors meant no witnesses.”

He understands. His face is a ruin. “You were there,” he breathes. “You were… you were actually there.”

“I was there,” I confirm. I lower the dog tag. “And I stayed quiet for three years because I needed to know who gave the order that got your brother and fifteen other good people killed. I needed proof. I needed a chain of evidence that couldn’t be sealed.”

I look directly into his eyes. “I needed someone,” I say, “to punch me in front of forty-two witnesses. So that when the truth finally came out, there would be no way to hide it again.”

His legs give out. He stumbles back against the wall, hand over his eyes. “Oh my God,” he chokes. “What have I done?”

“You did what you thought you had to do,” I say. “You defended your brother. Now, I need you to do something else for me.”

He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed. “What?”

“I need you to stall him. Keep him in that war room. Buy me thirty minutes.”

“For what?”

“To pull the evidence,” I say, my voice hardening. “The evidence I’ve spent three years building. Every secret meeting, every falsified report, every lie. I need time to get it into a secure system where he can’t reach it.” I look at the MPs, at the young officer. “And I need all of you to decide, right now, whether you want justice for Tom Mercer… or whether you want revenge on the woman who couldn’t save him.”

Jack pushes himself off the wall. The cold, hard fire is back. “What do you need me to do?”

A grim smile touches my lips. “Go back. Tell Hawthorne you’ve detained me. Tell him the paperwork will take at least forty-five minutes. Tell him anything.”

“He’ll check,” Jack says.

“He will,” I agree, turning to the young officer. “Which is why you are going to get on your radio, and you’re going to confirm it. You’re going to lie to a three-star admiral.”

He looks terrified. But he gives a single, sharp nod.

The MP sergeant speaks. “And us?”

“You saw me hand Lieutenant Mercer a personal effect belonging to his deceased brother,” I say, crafting the story. “You are giving us five minutes for a private matter. That’s professional courtesy. Human decency.”

The two MPs exchange a look. The sergeant nods.

Jack is already moving. “I’ll keep him busy,” he says. “But if you’re lying… then Tom died for nothing.”

“And I’ve spent three years building a lie,” I finish. “But if I’m telling the truth, Lieutenant… then in thirty minutes, the man who killed your brother is going to find out that ghosts can file reports.”

He breaks into a run.

The security officer turns to me, pale but resolute. “You have thirty minutes, ma’am.”

“Twenty-five is all I need,” I say, already moving. The two MPs fall in behind me, a perfect escort.

I stop at an unmarked door. CONTRACTOR SUPPORT SERVICES. I pull a key card from a hidden pocket. Not the contractor badge. This one is black, matte, with no photo.

The light flashes green. The lock clicks.

“Contractors aren’t supposed to have access to this office,” the sergeant says.

“I’m not a contractor,” I say, and push the door open.

The office is small, windowless, humming with servers. I go to the terminal in the far back corner. I sit. My fingers fly. Username. Password. The system prompts for more. Fingerprint. Retinal scan. A sixteen-digit authorization code, typed from memory.

ACCESS GRANTED. SECURE OPERATIONS DATABASE.

I’m in.

My fingers become a blur. I’m not hacking the system; I own it. I pull up the files. Operation Barka. SEAL Team Echo. Casualty Reports. Falsified After-Action Reports. Comms Logs. UAV Footage. Every single piece of my three-year obsession.

I copy everything to a secure, encrypted partition on the JAG server. The key is two-part. I have one half. A colonel in the JAG office, a woman who has been waiting for this moment, has the other.

A new window pops up.

UPLOAD INITIATED. ESTIMATED TIME REMAINING: 22 MINUTES.

I lean back, my eyes fixed on the progress bar. And for the first time, a weariness so profound it feels like it’s in my bones settles over me.

Back in the war room, Jack is stalling. Hawthorne is pacing, dressing him down.

“You struck a civilian, Lieutenant!”

“Sir, she was…”

“I don’t care! You do not lay hands…”

“Sir, I’ve detained her. The MPs are processing… they said forty-five minutes…”

“Forty-five minutes?” Hawthorne stops. “This should take ten!”

“Complications, sir,” Jack says. “Her allegations about Barka… And sir. She had my brother’s dog tag.”

Hawthorne goes very still. “She what?”

“Tom’s dog tag. The real one. She had it. And she knew things… his last words.”

The admiral’s face does something complicated. Fear. Guilt. The three-year-old lie is coming home.

He lunges for the secure phone. “This is Admiral Hawthorne. I need a status update on the contractor detainment. Arya Thorne.” A pause. His neck flushes. “I see. And what is her current location?” Another pause. “Confirm that. I want visual confirmation.” He listens, his knuckles white. “Understood. Have a team meet me there in two minutes.”

He slams the phone down, his face a thundercloud.

“She’s not in holding,” he snarls, grabbing his cover. “She’s in Contractor Support Services. And she’s accessing the secure database.” He’s halfway out the door, a look of dawning horror on his face. “Not her contractor badge,” he says, almost to himself. “Her operational badge. The one she’s had this whole time.”

He’s gone. Jack stands alone in the silent war room.

In my small office, the upload bar hits 83%.

“Company coming,” the MP sergeant says from the door. “Heavy footsteps. Multiple. Moving fast.”

“How long?” 86%.

“Thirty seconds. Maybe less.”

The footsteps get louder. Voices. The handle rattles.

91%.

The door bursts open. Admiral Hawthorne. His face is livid. He sees me. He sees the progress bar.

“Step away from that computer. Now.”

My finger hovers over the keyboard. 94%. “Almost done, Admiral.”

“I said step away! That is a direct order!”

“You can’t give me orders,” I say, not looking at him. 97%. “I’m not under your command.”

“You are in my facility, accessing my systems!”

“Your facility,” I agree. “My systems. My clearance. My operation.” 99%. “You signed my death certificate three years ago, sir.” My eyes finally lift, meet his in the screen’s reflection. “Dead people don’t follow orders.”

100%. UPLOAD COMPLETE. FILES TRANSFERRED. ENCRYPTION ACTIVE.

I log out. The screen goes blank. I push my chair back, stand up, and finally turn to face him.

“It’s done,” I say.

His face is white. “What have you done?”

“I’ve filed a report,” I say, my voice level. “A full report. Every unauthorized communication, every falsified document, every lie you told to cover up the fact that you sent SEAL Team Echo into Barka on an operation you ran off the books. When the mission failed, you declared everyone KIA to eliminate witnesses. You buried the truth.”

I take a step toward him. He, a three-star admiral, takes an involuntary step back.

“I stayed quiet,” I continue, “because I needed you to feel safe. I needed you to think the only surviving witness was dead. I needed you to be comfortable. Comfortable enough to keep leaving a trail. And I needed one more thing.”

“What?” he whispers.

“I needed someone to punch me in front of forty-two witnesses,” I say. “Someone who would testify under oath that when confronted, I didn’t run. I stood there. I took the hit. And then I proved exactly who I am by accessing systems only an active-duty Tier One operator can reach.”

“You engineered this,” he accuses.

“All of it,” I confirm. “Including the part where you just stormed in here and tried to stop me from uploading evidence to a JAG-secured server. Which a half-dozen people just witnessed. That’s obstruction of justice, Admiral. Add it to the list.”

The MP sergeant steps forward, holding up his secure comms. A text message is lit up.

“Sir,” he says, addressing the admiral but looking at me. “JAG has just issued an order. Commander Thorne is to be released immediately and granted full and unrestricted access. That’s coming directly from Colonel Reed’s office, sir.”

Hawthorne stares at the phone. “Reed is overstepping her authority!”

“With all due respect, Admiral,” the sergeant says, his voice like granite, “when it comes to a war crimes investigation, JAG authority supersedes local command. Commander Thorne is free to go.” He looks at Hawthorne. “You, sir, have been requested to remain available for questioning.”

It’s over. He’s lost.

I walk past him. As I pass, I say, so quietly only he can hear, “Tom Mercer told me to make it count. I’ve been counting, Admiral. Every lie. Every cover-up. Every family you let grieve with half-truths. Three years of counting.”

I reach the doorway. The hall is filling with people. Davis is there, watching me with eyes that finally, fully understand.

I stop at the water fountain, rinse the blood from my mouth. Davis is at my side.

“You’re going back in there,” he says.

“I’m going back in there,” I confirm. “Forty-two people saw me get punched for questioning an order. They deserve to see why.”

The war room doors are guarded.

“Ma’am, the admiral ordered—”

“I’m not a ‘ma’am,’” I say, my voice ringing down the hall. “And I’m not asking permission.” I pull out the black card. “Joint Special Operations Command, Level One clearance. This door does not stay closed when I want it open.”

The guard opens the door.

I walk in. Hawthorne, his colonels, Jack, and a new arrival—a woman in an Army uniform. Colonel Reed. The JAG.

“Commander Thorne,” Hawthorne begins.

“I was instructed by MPs acting on your illegal orders,” I cut him off. “Orders that have since been countermanded. Colonel Reed, I assume you’ve reviewed the files?”

Reed nods. “Preliminary review confirms your credentials and raises substantial questions about Operation Barka.”

“Based on stolen data!” Hawthorne protests.

“She accessed systems using valid credentials you yourself approved three years ago,” Reed counters. “Credentials you never revoked because you reported her killed in action. Dead people don’t need their clearance revoked, do they, Admiral?”

I walk to the table. “For the record. My name is Commander Arya Thorne, United States Navy. On October 17th, 2022, I was part of a team sent into Barka on an operation you ran off the books. An operation you erased when it went sideways.”

I turn to the main display. “Computer. Display authorization: Thorne, A., Commander. Access code Echo-7-7-9-Alpha.”

The screen flickers. I place my palm on the scanner. My official service photo appears. Uniformed. SEAL Trident on my chest. Status: ACTIVE DUTY, CLASSIFIED ASSIGNMENT.

A gasp ripples from the doorway. Davis, standing there, snaps to attention and renders a sharp salute. Jack Mercer, his hand trembling, does the same.

I return the salute. “At ease.”

“The database shows your status was changed from KIA to classified assignment seventeen days after Barka,” Colonel Reed says. “The approval has your signature on it, Admiral. You knew she was alive this whole time.”

He’s trapped.

I bring up the UAV footage. Black-and-white. “This is Barka,” I narrate. “The extraction point you designated was empty. No support. No backup.” An explosion. Then another, bigger one. “Seventeen operators went in. One walked out. Me. By the time I made it back, you’d already filed the casualty reports. You’d already started erasing us.”

I turn off the footage.

“I wore civilian clothes so you’d forget I was watching. I played the part of an analyst so you’d get comfortable. I needed you to underestimate me. And this morning, you did.”

Colonel Reed stands. “Admiral Cole Hawthorne, you are hereby relieved of command and placed under investigation for dereliction of duty, falsifying official records, and multiple other violations of the UCMJ. The MPs will escort you.”

As they lead him away, Jack steps forward, tears streaming down his face. “You didn’t make hard calls, sir,” he chokes out. “You made convenient ones. You made men like my brother pay the price. That’s not command. That’s cowardice.”

Hawthorne pauses beside me, his face a ruin. “You destroyed my career.”

“No, sir,” I say. “You destroyed sixteen lives. I just made sure everyone knew their names.”

In the weeks that follow, the truth unravels. Sixteen families are given the truth. At a quiet ceremony, a memorial plaque for the men of Barka is unveiled. Tom Mercer’s dog tag rests in a glass case beside it. I place his challenge coin next to it. “He told me to make it count,” I tell the gathering. “I hope I did.”

Later, Jack and his parents find me. The words are quiet, choked with tears. It’s not an end to their grief, but it’s a beginning of peace.

Three weeks after that, my phone buzzes. Encrypted.

“Commander Thorne. Tower Four sends regards. Barka wasn’t the only site.”

I sit up straight.

“GPS coordinates incoming. Three additional locations. Same time frame. Similar erasures. Someone wants you to know you weren’t an isolated incident.”

A text arrives. Three sets of coordinates. Below them, a single question: How many ghosts are left?

The line goes dead.

My phone buzzes again. An official email from JSOC. A desk job. A reward. A golden cage.

I close the email without replying.

I look at the new coordinates. How many more? How many other Barkas? I look at the faint scar near my temple from the blast that was supposed to kill me.

Tom Mercer’s last words. Make it count.

I open a new, secure file. The work is familiar. The weight is familiar.

“I’m still counting,” I whisper to the empty room, to the ghosts on my wall. “And I’ve been very, very patient.”