Part 1

I’ve killed 37 people.

Not a single one ever saw my face. Not one of them ever knew I was there.

That’s the entire point of being a Guardian sniper. We exist in the shadows. We operate from distances measured in kilometers. We are the ghosts that protect the living, eliminating threats before they can even form.

The teams we save, the men who walk out of ambushes alive, they never know our names. They never see us. They just know that, somehow, they made it.

I preferred it that way. Solitude is my natural state. Isolation is my comfort zone.

And anonymity is the price I gladly pay for being the best at what I do.

The Alaskan wilderness stretched out in front of me, a vast, blinding expanse of white. Through my scope, I watched a small cabin 2,000 meters away. It looked abandoned, but the fresh tracks and the faint wisp of smoke from the chimney told me otherwise.

I had been in this snowdrift for 19 hours. My body, covered in a white ghillie suit, was just another lump of ice. The temperature had dropped to minus 25°C. For me, that’s just another variable to account for, like wind or bullet drop. I’d grown up in northern Maine. The military just weaponized the skills I already had.

My MK-13 Mod 7 lay beside me, a 300 Winchester Magnum round already chambered. It’s not a tool. It’s an extension of my own heartbeat. I’ve fired 12,839 rounds through this rifle. I know every scratch.

The cabin door opened. A man stepped out, his breath crystallizing. His movements were precise, disciplined. Military. He scanned the perimeter, just as I knew he would.

I keyed my radio.

“Overwatch to Command. Target confirmed. Four individuals visible on thermal. Awaiting instruction.”

The static crackle came back.

“Command copies. Maintain position. SEAL team deploying in 6 hours. You’ll provide overwatch.”

“Copy that.”

I settled back into the snow. The one truth I live by crystallized in my mind: The best protector is the one whose existence remains unknown.

But I’m not a machine. I’m a ghost, and every ghost has an origin story.

Sixteen years earlier, I was standing on the porch of our farmhouse in Maine. I was 16. I watched a black government car roll up the long gravel driveway. Even then, I knew what that car meant.

Two men in dress uniforms emerged. Their faces were set in that practiced, solemn expression. The taller one was Colonel William Barnes, my father’s best friend. His booming laugh usually filled every room.

There was no laughter now.

“Mrs. Reynolds… Eleanor… I’m afraid I have some difficult news.”

The words were a blur. Fallujah… ambush… sniper… fought bravely…

Later that night, long after my mother had cried herself to sleep, Colonel Barnes found me on the porch.

“He was the best SEAL I ever served with,” he said, his voice thick.

“How did it happen?” I asked. My voice was steady, but my chest felt hollow.

“The real version.”

Barnes was quiet for a long time.

“They were ambushed. A setup. Professional sniper, likely Russian-trained. Your dad… he never saw it coming.”

“A sniper,” I repeated. The word felt heavy.

“The kind that strikes from shadows,” he nodded.

“Changes the course of battles without ever being seen.” He looked at me, really looked at me.

“Your father always said you had the patience to be an exceptional shooter. Said you could out-wait a stone.”

Two years later, on my 18th birthday, I enlisted. At my graduation, Barnes was there.

“I’m going to special operations,” I told him.

“And then I’m going to become a sniper.”

His hand settled on my shoulder. “Why this path, Eleanor?”

“Because I’m going to protect soldiers like my father,” I said.

“I’m going to be the guardian they never see. No other family should get a visit from that black car if I can help it.”

“Your father died,” Barnes said, his voice rough, “because he didn’t have someone like you watching his back.”

Which brings me back to this frozen hell in Alaska, 36 hours later.

I was shadowing the SEAL team: Lieutenant Hrix, Senior Chief Davidson, and Petty Officers Rivera and Bennett. The mission was recon on an arms trafficking network. My mission was simpler: keep them alive.

As they moved through a narrow valley, I saw it.

A flash of reflection from a distant ridgeline. Too brief, too uniform. It wasn’t ice.

Someone was watching them. Someone with optics.

I keyed my radio.

“TOC, this is Overwatch. Possible observer on Northeast Ridgeline, grid 674-219. Request satellite thermal sweep.”

Ten minutes passed.

“Overwatch, TOC. Satellite shows no heat signatures. Possible wildlife.”

I frowned. Animals don’t carry spotting scopes. My gut screamed.

The SEALs continued, and something about Hrix’s movement was… off. He kept checking his watch, scanning the southern approach. He wasn’t just vigilant. He was expecting something.

Then my radio crackled with static. Unusual static. I tweaked the frequency and caught fragments of a transmission. It wasn’t on any of our channels.

A cold certainty settled in my gut. This mission was compromised.

The team halted in a shallow valley. A bad tactical position. Limited visibility, limited escape routes. I’d already tagged three better spots. Why stop there?

Then I saw it.

Movement. On the ridge to the east, 1,500 meters from the SEALs.

I shifted my scope and felt ice form in my stomach.

Armed fighters. At least 20 of them. And they were moving with professional discipline, setting up overlapping fields of fire.

This wasn’t a chance encounter. This was a prepared ambush.

I saw the PKM machine guns. The RPGs. They were setting up a perfect L-shaped kill zone, and the SEALs were sitting right in the middle of it.

I grabbed my radio.

“Seal 1, Overwatch! Hostile force moving to establish ambush, bearing 085! At least 20 personnel, heavy weapons! You need to move, now!”

Hrix’s voice came back, sharp, but controlled.

“Overwatch, can you confirm hostile intent? We’re in a gray area for rules of engagement.”

Confirm intent? I was watching them set up machine guns.

“Seal 1, this is a planned operation! They are setting up the kill zone! Move!”

Before he could respond, the first shot cracked across the valley.

I saw Rivera spin and drop, his leg collapsing. The ambush was initiated.

Then all hell broke loose.

Machine guns opened up. RPGs streaked through the air. The SEALs scrambled for cover in a valley that offered none.

Through my scope, I tracked the enemy commander. He was directing the fire, confident. As he turned to issue an order, I got a clear view of his face.

My blood didn’t just run cold. It stopped.

It couldn’t be.

Victor Zacharov.

“Desert Ghost.” The former Spetsnaz operator. The one implicated in dozens of operations against US forces in Iraq.

The one Colonel Barnes had named all those years ago.

The man who killed my father.

He was here. And then my world tilted. He wasn’t alone. He was conferring with another figure, a man wearing what looked like American military camouflage.

This wasn’t just an ambush. This was a betrayal.

The radio crackled.

“Overwatch, Seal 1! We’re pinned! Rivera’s immobile! TOC says QRF is 45 minutes out! We don’t have 15!”

My protocols were clear: Maintain position. Provide long-range fire.

But my father’s killer was 2,000 meters away, executing another team of American soldiers.

My hands were steady. My breathing was controlled. But inside, I was screaming.

I keyed my radio one final time.

“Seal 1, Overwatch. I’m moving to your position. Provide direct fire support. Hold on.”

There was a pause.

“Overwatch… Guardian snipers don’t close distance. You’re supposed to…”

“With respect, Lieutenant,” I cut him off, already breaking down my hide, “the rulebook just became irrelevant. I’m moving.”

---

Part 2

I wasn’t a sniper anymore. I was an infantryman.

Slinging my MK-13, I grabbed my M4. 800 meters. 800 meters of open, snow-covered ground, rocks, and frozen streams. Under normal circumstances, a 20-minute trek.

I did it in seven.

My lungs were on fire. The minus 25-degree air felt like swallowing glass, but adrenaline is a furnace. I used every draw, every rock, every dip in the terrain to stay in dead ground.

They made one mistake. A fatal one. All their security was focused on the valley. On the SEALs. They never expected a ghost to come from their rear.

I came up on their northwest flank. The first two were rear security, huddled against the cold, more focused on staying warm than their jobs. Suppressed fire. They went down before they even knew I was there.

I moved past their bodies. Next target: a PKM machine gun crew, 20 meters ahead. Three fighters, pinning the SEALs.

I didn’t hesitate. Controlled pairs. Center mass. Transition. Center mass. Transition.

The machine gun fell silent.

Now they knew. Confusion ripped through their line. Several fighters started moving toward the silenced gun. I made them pay for it. From behind a cluster of rocks, my M4 was a metronome of death. Four more down.

The coordinated ambush was fragmenting into chaos.

Through the madness, I spotted Zacharov’s command position. He was screaming into a radio. And next to him… the man in American camo. He turned toward the sound of my gunfire.

My blood ran cold. It was Lieutenant Hrix.

I instinctively snapped my scope back to the valley, to the pinned SEAL team. Hrix was there, directing fire.

My mind couldn’t process it. Twins? A doppelganger?

Zacharov had seen me. He was directing fighters to flank my position. Rounds cracked past my head, sparking off the rocks. I was exposed.

“Unknown friendly, this is Seal 2!” Davidson’s voice, strained, came over the radio.

“Identify! You’re disrupting their fire, but we don’t know where you are!”

I reloaded, my hands moving on pure muscle memory.

“Seal 2, this is Overwatch. I’m 200 meters northwest of your position, engaging from their rear. I’ve eliminated their primary HMG. I’m taking fire.”

There was a half-second of stunned silence.

“…Overwatch? You’re the sniper? I thought you operated from distance.”

“Normally, I do, Senior Chief,” I grunted, rolling to a new position.

“Today, I’m improvising. Suppress bearing 3-2-0!”

The SEALs opened up, their precision fire forcing the flanking team to take cover. The pressure was off me. I saw Zacharov moving, withdrawing toward an extraction point, the Hrix-lookalike with him.

I brought my rifle up. I had him. 200 meters. A simple shot.

The man who killed my father.

My finger tightened on the trigger. One pound of pressure.

But if I killed him, I’d never know why. I’d never know who the double was, who had set this up.

I made my choice. Instead of taking the shot, I keyed my radio.

“Seal 2, enemy commander is withdrawing northeast. Request permission to pursue.”

“Negative, Overwatch!” Davidson barked back.

“We need your fire here! Rivera’s down, we’re still heavy contact!”

The mission first. Always.

I swung my rifle back and went to work. I wasn’t a daughter seeking vengeance. I was a Guardian.

For the next 20 minutes, I was a whirlwind of controlled violence. RPG gunner. Two riflemen. Another machine gun. I transitioned back to my MK-13 for the runners. They thought distance meant safety. I taught them they were wrong.

The battlefield fell silent.

“Seal 2, Overwatch. Hostiles neutralized. I’m moving to your position.”

I approached, calling out my approach. When I emerged from the rocks, they just… stared. I pulled back my white hood.

Rivera was watching me, his face pale.

“Ma’am… who exactly are you?”

“Staff Sergeant Eleanor Reynolds, Guardian Sniper Program. I’ve been your overwatch for 36 hours.”

“There was no Guardian support in our brief,” Hrix said, his eyes drilling into me.

“That’s the point, Lieutenant. You’re not supposed to know we exist.”

Davidson, the veteran, just shook his head.

“Ma’am… what you just did wasn’t overwatch. That was direct action. How many targets?”

“16 confirmed,” I said, moving to Rivera’s leg.

“Let me see that wound.”

That’s when the wind changed. It stopped being cold and became savage. The sky turned a dark, bruised purple.

“We need to find shelter. Now,” I said.

“This is a major storm.”

“Rivera can’t move,” Bennett, the young one, said.

“He can walk with assistance,” I countered.

“I know a cave system 2 klicks north. It’s our only chance.”

We made it just as the storm hit, a white monster that erased the world. The cave was deep, defensible. As the others got Rivera settled, I pulled Davidson aside.

“Senior Chief. The enemy commander was Victor Zacharov. And he was with someone who looked exactly like Lieutenant Hrix.”

Davidson’s eyes hardened.

“A twin. That would explain a lot. The Lieutenant’s been acting off… insisting on this route.”

“We need to be careful,” I said.

I decided to check the deeper recesses of the cave. Thirty meters in, the tunnel opened into a small chamber.

It wasn’t natural.

A field desk. Topographic maps. A military-grade sat-comm system. Someone had been running operations from here. The maps were marked with the SEAL team’s exact patrol routes.

This confirmed it. This was a setup from the inside.

Under the desk, I found a lockbox. My picks made short work of it. Inside were operational documents. And beneath them… a folder.

My breath caught.

“Operation Red Tulip. 2004.”

Fallujah. My father’s operation.

A noise from the tunnel. I spun, weapon ready. It was Davidson.

“Hrix was asking where you went. Figured I’d check.”

“Look at this,” I said, holding up the folder.

“Red Tulip,” he murmured.

“I haven’t heard that name in years. I was adjacent to that op. It went sideways. Lost some good men.”

“My father was one of them,” I said.

His eyes snapped to mine.

“Your father was John Reynolds. Hell of an operator. His death… it wasn’t right. Questions never got answered.”

Rivera appeared, leaning on the wall.

“Hrix is acting strange. Keeps checking his sat phone.”

“He insisted on this valley,” Davidson said.

“Or someone wearing his face did,” I added, briefing them on the doppelganger.

We heard footsteps. Heavy. Hrix.

I flattened myself against the wall, signaling the others.

“I know you’re in there,” Hrix’s voice echoed.

“Let’s not make this complicated.”

He appeared at the entrance.

“Reynolds. You’ve complicated things. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

I stepped out, my M4 centered on his chest.

“Drop your weapon, Lieutenant.”

He faced me, then, unexpectedly, lowered his weapon.

“You won’t shoot me. You need answers. Your father, John Reynolds. Operation Red Tulip. You want to know what really happened, don’t you?”

My blood froze.

“Explain.”

“The man you saw with Zacharov… he’s my twin brother, Michael. We were separated as children. He was raised… differently. By them. To replace me when necessary.”

“You’re admitting to treason,” Rivera spat.

“I’m admitting to being a pawn!” Hrix shot back.

“They have my family! My wife, my daughter. I cooperate, or they die. I’ve been feeding them intel, trying to gather evidence.”

“Why tell us?” Davidson asked.

“I requested Guardian sniper support,” Hrix said, looking at me.

“I pulled strings to get you assigned. Because of your father. Because you deserved the truth.”

“The truth about what?” I demanded.

“The truth,” Hrix said, his voice dropping, “is that Colonel William Barnes… your father’s best friend, your mentor… is the one who gave the order that got your father killed.”

The cave spun. Barnes. The man who sat on my porch. The man who encouraged me. The man who guided my career.

“You’re lying.” My voice trembled.

“Check the folder,” he said.

“Barnes has been working with Russian intelligence for 20 years. He’s been Zacharov’s control officer since before the fall of the Soviet Union.”

I scrambled for the file. It was all there. Barnes’s signature. Coded messages. He hadn’t just let my father die. He had ordered it. My father had discovered the network.

My entire life, my career, my vow… it had all been managed by the very man I was trying to honor.

“What’s going on?”

We all spun. Bennett. The young Petty Officer. He was standing at the entrance, his face confused… until he saw the documents.

“Step away from those documents,” he said. His sidearm was in his hand, aimed at Davidson.

“Bennett, lower your weapon,” I ordered, my own rifle snapping up.

“You don’t understand,” Bennett said, his aim steady.

“I’m not a traitor. I’m a patriot. Barnes is protecting this country.”

“By working with Zacharov?” Rivera choked out.

“It’s about balance!” Bennett screamed.

“Sometimes sacrifices are necessary!”

“Bennett,” I said, my voice calm, “you’re outnumbered. It’s over.”

“You were supposed to handle this, Lieutenant!” he snarled at Hrix.

“The arrangement changed when they decided to sacrifice my team,” Hrix said.

“Then you’ve signed your own death warrant,” Bennett said.

“And your family’s.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Hrix lunged.

Bennett shifted his aim toward me. I saw the calculation. I was the primary threat.

I hesitated. A fraction of a second. He was 26. He was brainwashed.

He fired.

The bullet felt like a white-hot poker grazing my upper arm.

I didn’t hesitate again. Two shots. Center mass.

Bennett staggered, a look of pure shock on his face. He collapsed. I kicked his weapon away and checked for a pulse. Fading.

“Why, Bennett?” Hrix knelt beside him.

“Family… tradition,” Bennett whispered.

“My father… worked for Barnes… Balance…” His eyes went vacant.

He was gone.

The cave was silent. One American operator dead by my hand.

“We need to move,” I said, my voice hard.

“This cave is compromised. Bennett reported our location.”

“The storm…” Rivera started.

“Is preferable to being cornered here,” I finished.

“We take the evidence. We find Zacharov. And then… we are going to have a very long talk with Colonel William Barnes.”

We plunged back into the blizzard. It was a white hell, but it was cover. For hours, we moved, Davidson and Hrix making a stretcher for Rivera. We found a Forest Service cabin, a tiny speck of shelter. Rivera was fading. A ricochet from the ambush had given him a second wound I’d missed. He was bleeding internally.

“We’re not going to make it,” Davidson said, his voice flat.

“Yes, we are,” I insisted.

“There’s a private airfield 30 klicks east. A bush pilot named McKenzie. It’s our only shot.”

Just as we were forming the plan, I heard it. Rotors.

A Blackhawk. No markings.

“Barnes’s QRF,” I said.

“How?”

Davidson found it. A micro-tracker in the handle of Rivera’s combat knife. Bennett.

“We can’t outrun a helo,” Hrix said.

“We don’t,” I said.

“We divide. They’re tracking this.” I grabbed the knife.

“Davidson, you take Rivera and the evidence. Head for the airfield. Hrix, you’re with me. We’re going to lead them on a chase.”

“That’s suicide,” Davidson said.

“Barnes wants me alive,” I said.

“He needs to know what I know. That’s our advantage. 24 hours. If we’re not at the airfield, get the evidence to Admiral James Westfield. He was my father’s old CO. He’s the only one who might be clean.”

Davidson nodded grimly.

“Good hunting, Guardian.”

For the next four hours, Hrix and I played a deadly game of cat and mouse. We led the QRF north, through the worst terrain. The Blackhawk hovered, and a voice boomed from a loudspeaker.

“Guardian sniper actual. This is Reaper 1. Stand down. This is a direct order from Colonel Barnes.”

I saw him through my scope, in the open door of the helo. Barnes. He was here personally.

“We’ve led them far enough,” I told Hrix.

“Time to disappear.”

We crushed the tracker and used a ravine system to break contact. It took two hours, but we were in the clear. Then we ran. 15 kilometers, back east, pushing through exhaustion.

As dusk fell, we saw it. The airfield. And the de Havilland bush plane. Davidson and Rivera were there, arguing with the pilot, McKenzie.

Then I heard it again. Rotors. Three sets. Coming in fast.

“Company,” I hissed.

“Three birds.”

We ran onto the tarmac.

“McKenzie, get them out, now!” I yelled.

“What about you?” Davidson shouted.

“They’re here for me!” I threw him my pack.

“That’s my half of the evidence. Get it to Westfield!”

“Reynolds, you can’t!”

“We’ll buy you time! Go!”

Hrix looked at me.

“My brother is out there. My family is still in danger. This ends here.” He chambered a round.

We took positions. The de Havilland roared to life. The lead Blackhawk, with Barnes in it, tried to block the runway.

I dropped to one knee. Breathed out. Squeezed.

My shot hit the tail rotor. Not a kill shot, but enough. The Blackhawk veered off, unbalanced.

In that second, McKenzie’s plane lifted off, banking hard east into the terrain.

The battlefield was set. Me, Hrix, and 30 operators.

“REYNOLDS!” Barnes’s voice boomed.

“This has gone far enough! Surrender, and no harm will come to you!”

“I know about Red Tulip!” I shouted back.

“I know you killed my father!”

The helicopters landed. Barnes emerged, flanked by operators.

“You don’t understand, Eleanor! This is bigger than any of us!”

“Explain it to Admiral Westfield!” I yelled.

Barnes walked out, hands raised.

“John knew the risks. He wouldn’t let it go. I had no choice.”

“You’ll face a court-martial,” I said, my rifle trained on his heart.

“It won’t get that far,” he said sadly.

“The network is too deep.”

That’s when the fourth helicopter appeared. Black. Russian. Zacharov’s.

“Insurance policy,” Barnes whispered, a look of regret on his face.

But the gunfire didn’t come for me. It came for him.

Rounds stitched across Barnes’s chest. He staggered, shock on his face. “Betrayal…” he gasped.

I saw the shooter in the door of the new helo. Michael Hrix. The twin.

Barnes collapsed. I crawled to him.

“Who’s above you? Give me names!”

He coughed, blood on his lips.

“Westfield… knows… Always… part of the balance…”

He died.

The firefight erupted. Barnes’s men against Zacharov’s. Hrix and I were caught in the middle.

“Hrix!” I yelled.

“We have to warn Davidson! Westfield is compromised! He’s part of it!”

“How?” he yelled, laying down suppressive fire.

I looked at the chaos. Barnes’s men were falling back to their Chinook.

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Cover me.”

I sprinted across the tarmac. Bullets pinged around me. I yanked open the cockpit door of the massive CH-47 Chinook. I’d logged hours on these.

“You’re insane!” Hrix yelled as he dove into the cargo bay.

“Go, go, go!”

I pulled collective, the massive bird lurching into the air as gunfire raked its hull. We were airborne.

“Where to?” Hrix yelled, strapping into the co-pilot seat.

“Anchorage. We’ve got to beat them there.”

We flew low and fast. 45 minutes. We saw the private terminal. McKenzie’s plane was on the tarmac. Davidson was helping Rivera out.

And three men in black suits were walking toward them, led by a silver-haired man.

“That’s him,” I said.

“Westfield. We’re too late.”

“No, we’re not,” Hrix said, moving to the door gunner’s position.

I brought the Chinook in, hovering 10 meters off the ground, the rotor wash blasting the tarmac.

Hrix fired a burst at Westfield’s feet.

“Admiral Westfield!” I boomed over the loudspeaker.

“Step away from those men! They are under my protection!”

Westfield’s face was pure shock. Davidson had his sidearm out, aimed at the Admiral.

“Reynolds!” Westfield yelled.

“You’re making a serious mistake!”

“Barnes sent his regards before he died!” I shouted back.

“He said you were ‘part of the balance’!”

Westfield’s face went pale.

That’s when Zacharov’s helicopter appeared, coming in hot.

“Admiral!” I yelled.

“Barnes is dead! Michael Hrix and Zacharov are cleaning house! You’re next on their list!”

He looked at me, then at the incoming helicopter. He knew I was right.

“What do you want?” he yelled.

“Zacharov!” I screamed.

“Help us take him down, or I release every file I have, including the ones implicating you! Your call!”

Zacharov’s helo opened fire.

“Get in!” I roared, landing the Chinook.

Westfield and his two men dove in, followed by Davidson and Rivera. McKenzie scrambled in after them.

“Hang on!” I yelled.

I yanked the Chinook into the air just as Zacharov’s tracers cut through the space we’d just been.

“Where are we going?” Hrix yelled.

“Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson,” I said.

“To the one man I know is clean. Colonel Santiago. My father’s old EXO.”

The next three years were a blur.

With Santiago’s backing and the leverage we had on Westfield, we created a joint task force. We didn’t just hunt Zacharov; we hunted the entire network.

Westfield “retired.” Hrix’s family was rescued, and he testified, dismantling his brother’s operations. Davidson and Rivera recovered, their testimony crucial.

Zacharov… I found him six months ago in Prague. He didn’t see me coming.

Which brings me here. Back to the porch in Maine. Robert Hayes, my father’s old commander, hands me a cup of coffee.

“It’s done,” I tell him.

“And you?” he asks.

“Found what you were looking for?”

“Not closure,” I say, looking out at the woods my father taught me to hunt in.

“But answers. And something like justice.”

I resigned from the Guardian program. My new mission is different. Barnes was right about one thing: the world is gray, and there are shadows everywhere.

But he was wrong about who should be hunting in them.

My name is Eleanor Reynolds. I’m not a ghost. I’m the guardian who hunts the guardians. And I’m just getting started.