Chapter 3: Old Newspapers
When dawn came, Ryan hadn't gone back to the bar.
He parked the pickup outside an abandoned ship repair yard in the Port District and watched the sun rise over the edge of the container yard through his rearview mirror. Orange-red light turned the water into molten iron. In the distance, cargo ships bellowed their horns and pushed into the shipping lane.
"You haven't slept in seven hours. Physical condition score: sixty-three."
"I know."
"Recommended minimum sleep: four hours."
"Shut up."
Ryan pushed open the door, walked to a faucet, and ducked his head under the stream. The water was cold — it hit his scalp like needles. He shook his head and wiped his face with his sleeve.
His phone buzzed. No caller ID.
He answered but didn't say anything.
"You didn't make a move." Selena's voice.
"No."
"Charlie's people are looking into it. They don't know who, but they know someone broke in last night."
"What about Ghost?"
"Left the warehouse at four in the morning. Heading north."
"Don't get too close."
"I was doing this job while you were eating sand in Cairo." Selena hung up.
He got back to the bar at nine in the morning.
A brown paper bag sat on the counter, a note tucked underneath. Selena's handwriting: Raven's Berth, Warehouse 3. Two o'clock.
Inside the bag was a set of work clothes — navy blue, with a shipping company logo stitched on the chest. An ID badge. A key.
Ryan dug that old newspaper out from between the floorboards and spread it open on the counter.
A black-and-white photo of Vladimir Dobbins. Suit, tie, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
"You're thinking about Anton," Voss said.
"I'm thinking about how much he's found out."
"Eight months is enough time for a person to get very far."
At one forty, his phone buzzed.
Ryan sat up, changed into the work clothes, and clipped the ID badge to his chest. He slid the folding knife inside his left forearm.
Voss didn't ask for a rating. It knew the answer would be "shut up."
Raven's Berth was much cleaner than the East District. Fresh asphalt on the roads, containers painted a uniform blue. There was a guardhouse at the yard entrance with an old man in a security uniform reading a newspaper inside.
Ryan went in through the employee entrance. He put the key in the lock and the door opened.
Warehouse 3 was at the far end of the yard. The main gate was shut, but the side door was unlocked. He pushed it open and walked in.
The warehouse was dark. Sunlight cut through small windows high up in the walls, slicing the air into columns of light. Wooden crates were stacked in rows on the shelves.
Ryan moved deeper along the shelves. His footsteps were amplified by the emptiness.
At the last row, he stopped.
Ghost stood at the end of the shelf, his back turned.
Black suit, no tie. The scar peeked out from below his collar.
Ryan's fingers found the folding knife. In his right eye, a red data stream erupted without a sound — like a flower blooming all at once.
Target confirmed. 8.3 meters. Back exposed. No visible weapons. Silent takedown, three seconds. Move.
The excitement in Voss's voice was barely contained, like a dog that had caught the scent of blood.
"Heart rate one-ten. Adrenaline rising. He's nervous. Move now — three seconds, cervical fracture. Move!"
Ryan didn't.
"What are you waiting for? He's right in front of you! Three years ago that bullet — move! "
Ghost turned around.
His face had aged since three years ago, like plaster left out too long. Only the scar looked alive, glowing a fleshy pink under the light. When he saw Ryan, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile — something more complicated. Like a man who had finally received something he'd waited a long time for, only to find he still wasn't ready.
Ghost looked at him.
Voss spread data across his retina: Ghost's pupils were dilated beyond normal range, his jaw muscles pulled so tight they were almost spasming, his left hand unconsciously gripping the seam of his pants and releasing, gripping and releasing.
"Estimated heart rate: one-thirty-five. He's afraid of you. Move now — he won't react in time."
Ryan's fingers were on the knife handle.
Ghost reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled something out, setting it on the wooden crate beside him.
A photograph. The full Tideward Mercs company photo. A hundred and twenty people standing in front of a transport plane, the sun so bright everyone was squinting. Ryan stood in the front row. Ghost stood just behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder.
"That's the photo." Voss's voice shifted suddenly — no longer excited, replaced by something colder. "Saltvein Port. Taken three days before the mission. Three days after this was taken, he pressed a gun into the small of your back."
Ghost nudged the photo toward Ryan.
"You've lost weight," he said. His voice was rough, like a man who hadn't spoken in a long time forcing the words out.
"And he has the nerve to say you've lost weight." Voss said. "Move. Please. Move."
Ryan's right hand was still resting on the folding knife.
Ghost raised both hands, palms forward. "I'm not armed. I knew you were coming."
Ryan watched his hands. Voss ran the analysis — no calluses on the palms, no wear on the fingers, no weapon outline at the cuffs.
"He really isn't armed. So what? He was three years ago. Move."
"Three years ago, that bullet went wide," Ghost said. "I was aiming for your heart. Your right shoulder was bleeding."
Ryan's right eye socket started to ache.
"I missed by an inch."
He looked down at his own hands. They were shaking.
"Why didn't you kill me?" Ryan's voice was quiet.
Ghost raised his head. "Because you were the only one who called me by my name. A hundred and twenty people in that unit, and you were the only one who called me Gregor."
Ryan's fingers stayed on the knife handle for a long moment.
Mogadishu. The time they were surrounded for seventy-two hours. He was on point, clearing the path, and he didn't see the shooter set up in the building to his flank. Ghost had tackled him to the ground. The bullet had passed over both their heads and punched into the wall, sending chips of brick flying into Ghost's face.
Ghost had said, You owe me one.
Ryan had said, I'll keep a tab.
He never paid it back. Ghost never brought it up again.
Ryan's fingers let go.
Not because Voss told him to. He remembered on his own.
"You're out of your mind," Voss said. The anger was gone from its voice — replaced by confusion. The blankness of a logical system after its reasoning breaks down. "You're out of your mind. He's right in front of you. Three years ago — he almost killed you. You're out of your mind."
Ryan ignored it.
Ghost pulled a cigarette from his pocket and put it between his lips. The lighter took three tries to catch. Smoke drifted through the columns of light, mixing with the dust.
"Charlie has a shipment moving the day after tomorrow. Silverspire Port to Silvermoon City. Someone on that ship can tell you who paid for that bullet three years ago."
Ryan watched him.
"I can't tell you." Ghost took a drag. "If I tell you, I'm dead. Same goes for you."
He turned and walked deeper into the warehouse. Three steps in, he stopped.
"Don't come after me," he said. "That bullet three years ago — I already paid that debt."
The side door opened and closed.
The smoke drifting through the light columns slowly cleared.
Voss was quiet for a long time. Long enough that Ryan thought it had crashed.
"I don't understand," Voss finally said. Its voice was low, like someone talking to themselves. "Every data point leads to one conclusion — he betrayed you. He almost killed you. He kept you hiding on this broken-down dock for three years. All of it. Why didn't you move?"
Ryan picked up the photograph from the wooden crate. A hundred and twenty people, squinting against the sun. Ghost standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder, smiling.
"Because you don't have feelings," Ryan said.
He folded the photo twice and tucked it into his inner pocket. The red data stream faded from his right eye.
When he pushed open the side door, sunlight hit his face.
His phone buzzed. A text from Selena: He's gone. You okay?
Ryan replied: Fine. Thanks.
He switched off the phone. Walked out under the noon sun, his shadow compressed to a small dark patch at his feet.
His pace was a little faster than when he'd arrived.
Anton. He had to find out before Thursday how deep that cop had dug.
