PART 1:

 THE SERPENT BENEATH THE SKIN

The rain at Camp Ravenwood didn’t wash you clean; it just pressed the mud deeper into your pores. It was a freezing, miserable gray slurry that coated everything—the barracks, the obstacle course, and the fifty fresh recruits standing in formation, shivering in their boots.

I stood third from the end, staring at a fixed point on the horizon. I didn’t shiver. I didn’t fidget. I barely blinked.

“Weakness,” Staff Sergeant Thaddius Braxley roared, his voice cutting through the storm like a serrated knife. He was a bull of a man, neck thick with muscle, eyes hunting for a victim. He’d been breaking recruits for fifteen years, and today, he had decided I was his glass target.

He stopped in front of me. I could smell the stale coffee and aggressive cologne radiating off him.

“Look at this,” he sneered, gesturing to my frame. “Too quiet. Too small. Too careful.”

He circled me. I felt the eyes of the other recruits burning into my back—predatory, amused, relieved that the shark wasn’t circling them. To them, I was Recruit Novak. Five-foot-seven, wiry, unremarkable. A “logistics specialist” who had spent her career counting crates of MREs in a warehouse. A librarian trying to play soldier.

They had no idea that I could kill everyone in this line before their bodies hit the mud.

“What are you doing here, Novak?” Braxley barked, his face inches from mine. Spittle hit my cheek. I didn’t flinch.

“Training to serve, Staff Sergeant,” I replied. My voice was flat, hollowed out. It was a voice I had practiced for three weeks.

“Training to serve,” he mimicked, his tone dripping with acid. He turned to the platoon. “Did you hear that, recruits? Novak thinks she’s going to serve.”

Laughter rippled through the line. I saw Riker, a former college linebacker with a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana, smirking at the end of the formation. Next to him was Zephyr, lean and calculating, her eyes sharp like broken glass. And Laurelai, the Senator’s daughter, looking at me with pity.

“Tell me,” Braxley whispered, leaning in close again, “what makes you think you belong here with real soldiers?”

I said nothing. I just held my posture. Inside my chest, a fire was burning—a cold, blue flame that I had to suffocate every single second of every single day. Discipline, I told myself. The mission is the only thing that matters.

“Ignore me, will you?” Braxley’s face turned a shade of violent red. “Everyone! Drop! Twenty burpees! Now!”

The line groaned, but we dropped. Bodies hit the wet earth. Mud splashed into eyes and mouths.

I moved with them. Not too fast, not too slow. I was a ghost in the machine. If I moved too efficiently, they would see the training. If I moved too slowly, I’d be washed out before I found the leak. I had to be perfectly, frustratingly average.

Braxley watched me. I could feel his confusion. He wanted me to struggle. He wanted me to cry or quit. But I just kept moving, a machine running on low power.

“Novak! Front and center!”

I finished the last rep and stood up, snapping to attention.

“Your file says logistics,” he spat. “Explain to me why a pencil pusher thinks she’s qualified for Special Operations.”

“I want to serve where I’m needed most, Staff Sergeant.”

“Where you’re needed most is far away from my training field,” he snorted. He pointed a thick finger toward the Crucible—the obstacle course. It was a nightmare of walls, ropes, barbed wire, and mud pits stretching across the field like a torture rack. “Demonstrate the course. Now.”

The rain intensified, turning the ground into a swamp. I jogged to the starting line.

“Begin!”

I took off. I didn’t sprint. A rookie sprints and burns out; an operator paces. I hit the first wall, scaling it with textbook technique—just messy enough to look like I learned it from a manual, not from scaling compounds in Kandahar.

I crawled under the barbed wire, letting the mud coat my face. I could hear them muttering.

“Not bad for a pencil pusher,” a quiet recruit named Callaway murmured.

“Watch the mud pit,” Riker scoffed loud enough for me to hear. “No way she makes the ropes.”

I reached the mud pit. It was twenty feet across, a deep, vile soup of brown water. Three slick ropes dangled above it.

This was the moment.

I paused. A real operator would hit that rope at speed, use momentum, and swing across in three seconds. Recruit Novak couldn’t do that. Recruit Novak had to struggle.

I grabbed the middle rope. It was slick with grease and rain. I began to shimmy, moving hand over hand, slow and methodical. My muscles screamed for me to just engage my core and fly across, but I forced myself to shake, to look uncertain.

Halfway across, I looked down at the churning mud. Do it, I ordered myself.

I let my grip falter. I let my hand slip.

I plunged into the freezing filth.

The water was ice-cold, smelling of rot. I went under, tasting grit, and surfaced to the sound of laughter. Riker was howling. Even Braxley looked satisfied.

I pulled myself out of the pit, my uniform heavy and sodden, clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame. I didn’t wipe my face. I didn’t look angry. I just walked to the next obstacle and finished the course.

“Congratulations, Novak,” Braxley yelled as I crossed the finish line, dripping wet. “You’ve just volunteered everyone for night drills. We can thank your incompetence for a long night!”

The collective groan was a physical weight. The hatred directed at me was palpable.

“Shower! Chow! Equipment check at 1300!”

As the group dispersed, bumping my shoulders as they passed, I caught Callaway looking at me. He wasn’t laughing. He was squinting, his head tilted to the side. He wasn’t looking at the mud; he was looking at my eyes.

He saw something. I looked away immediately. Curiosity was dangerous. In a place like this, curiosity got people killed.

---

The barracks were a symphony of hostile silence.

“Why are you even here?” Laurelai blocked my path to my locker. She was tall, blonde, and used to getting answers. “This isn’t an equal opportunity program. You’re going to get us all washed out.”

I met her gaze but looked through her. “Excuse me.”

“You’re going to get someone hurt,” she pressed.

I stepped around her, my movements fluid, and opened my footlocker. I began organizing my gear. Everything had a place. Socks folded with exact creases. Uniform aligned to the millimeter. It was a habit I couldn’t break—disorder was death.

“Where did you say you were stationed before this?” Zephyr asked from two bunks over. She was polishing her boots, but her eyes were on my hands.

“I didn’t,” I replied, closing the locker.

The rest of the day was a blur of equipment checks and tactical introductions. When Braxley demonstrated a basic disarm technique, I had to physically restrain my body from correcting him. His footing was off. His center of gravity was too high. If an enemy combatant rushed him, he’d be on his back in two seconds.

I watched intently, memorizing his flaws. Callaway noticed. He was watching me track Braxley’s movements. He was smart. Too smart.

Night fell, bringing the darkness and the promised drills. Two hours of push-ups, bear crawls, and sprints in the mud. I stayed in the middle of the pack. Mediocrity was my armor.

By midnight, the barracks sounded like a saw mill, exhausted recruits snoring in their bunks. But I couldn’t sleep. My body was tired, but my mind was wired, replaying the perimeter patrols I had observed, the gaps in the fence, the security rotations.

I waited until 0200.

I slipped out of my bunk. Silent. Not a creak of the springs. My feet found the floor without sound. I moved to the door, opening it just enough to slide through.

Outside, the air was crisp. The rain had stopped, leaving a heavy mist over Camp Ravenwood. I moved to the blind spot behind the equipment shed—a small clearing I had identified on day one.

I needed to move. My body was stiff from the fake clumsiness I wore all day.

I closed my eyes and began the forms. Not the rigid military drills they taught us here, but the fluid, lethal strikes of the Ghost Unit. Elbow to the throat. Knee to the liver. Spin, sweep, strike. My body flowed like water, snapping with kinetic energy. I punched the air, the fabric of my t-shirt snapping with the force.

For five minutes, I wasn’t Recruit Novak. I was Major Veda Novak. I was the weapon they had forged and then forgotten.

I froze.

The sensation of being watched pricked the back of my neck.

I spun around, dropping into a defensive crouch.

In the shadows of the barracks, a figure ducked back. Callaway.

My heart hammered against my ribs—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of almost being exposed. He had seen. He had seen the speed, the precision. He knew.

I waited a beat, then vanished into the shadows, circling back to the barracks door.

When I slipped back inside, Callaway was in his bunk, feigning sleep. But his breathing was too controlled.

I climbed into my bunk. As I reached up to adjust my pillow, my sleeve rode up. In the moonlight, the jagged scar on my forearm caught the light. It was an ugly thing—a souvenir from a knife fight in a Kabul alleyway. It didn’t look like a crate-lifting accident.

I saw Callaway’s eyes open. He saw the scar. He looked at me, and for a second, the air between us crackled with a silent transaction. I see you, his eyes said.

I turned my back to him. I reached into the hidden compartment of my boot and pulled out the encrypted comms device. It was the size of a matchbox.

I tapped the code: Perimeter secure. No contact yet. The mole is cautious.

I hid the device and closed my eyes. The game had just become more dangerous.

---

Week two brought Colonel Ambrose Blackwood.

The Commanding Officer of Camp Ravenwood was a legend. Former Delta. Rumor had it he ran black ops across three continents. He stood on the observation platform like a gargoyle, watching us.

“Firearms qualification!” Braxley barked. He was nervous. Blackwood’s presence made him jumpy. “Failure to qualify means immediate washing out.”

This was the hardest part. Shooting badly is harder than shooting well. You have to fight your own muscle memory.

Riker went first. Eight out of ten. Solid.

Laurelai and Zephyr managed seven.

Callaway hit nine. He was good. Better than he let on.

Then it was my turn. I picked up the rifle. It felt like an extension of my arm. I settled the stock against my shoulder. Through the sight, the target looked massive. I could put ten rounds through the same hole from this distance.

I took a breath. Miss, I told myself.

I shifted my stance a millimeter to the left. Just enough to throw the trajectory.

Bang. Hit. Outer ring. Bang. Miss. Bang. Hit. Shoulder.

I fired ten rounds. Six hits. Scattered. Sloppy.

I lowered the weapon. Braxley shook his head in disgust. “Pathetic, Novak.”

But I felt a gaze burning into me. I looked up at the observation deck. Colonel Blackwood wasn’t looking at the target. He was looking at my hands. He was looking at my stance. He was looking at the way I reset the weapon.

His eyes narrowed. He knew what a deliberate miss looked like.

Later that afternoon, we were paired up for a navigation exercise.

“Novak, you’re with Riker,” Braxley grinned. “Try not to get him lost.”

Riker spat on the ground near my boot. “Great. I get the baggage.”

We were dropped in the forest with a map and a compass. Riker took the map immediately.

“Follow me, Logistics. And try to keep up.”

We moved through the dense brush. Riker was loud. He stepped on twigs, brushed against bushes. He had no noise discipline.

“You know,” he said, glancing back at me, “people like you get people like me killed. You’re just taking up a spot for someone who actually matters.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said softly.

We reached a stream crossing. The rocks were slick.

“Give me the compass,” Riker demanded. “You’re probably reading it upside down.”

I handed it to him. He stepped onto a rock, then paused. A cruel smirk played on his lips. As I stepped up behind him to cross, he checked his shoulder, driving it into my chest.

It was clumsy, but I had to take the hit to maintain cover. I stumbled back, my foot slipping. I went into the water, knee-deep.

“Oops,” Riker laughed. “Watch your step, clums-o.”

I stood up, water sloshing in my boots. My pack was soaked. The map in my side pocket was likely ruined.

“Hope nothing important got damaged,” he sneered.

I stared at him. I could have broken his kneecap with a simple kick from this angle. He would never walk without a limp again. The urge to violence was a rising tide, choking me.

“Let’s move,” I said, wringing out my sleeve.

“How are we gonna navigate?” he mocked. “Map’s wet.”

“There are other ways,” I muttered.

“Like what?”

“Sun position. Moss growth. Wind direction.”

He laughed. “They teach that in logistics school?”

“No,” I said, walking past him. “They don’t.”

I took point. I didn’t need a compass. I had the terrain memorized. I knew the declination of the sun. I knew the lay of the land.

We finished with the second-best time. Riker took the credit, loudly bragging to Braxley about how he “dragged the dead weight” across the finish line. I stood in the back, cleaning the mud off my rifle.

---

The pressure mounted. Braxley was starving me. “Infraction,” he’d say, taking my dinner tray. “Improperly laced boots.”

I didn’t argue. I ran on empty. It sharpened my senses.

Then came the medicals.

Dr. Olympia Frost was efficient and cold. I sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling underneath me.

“Blood pressure is low,” she noted. “Heart rate is… remarkably slow. Are you nervous, recruit?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Clearly.” She picked up the retinal scanner. “Look straight ahead.”

I braced myself. My biometrics were flagged in the system, but they were supposed to be masked under a level-five security clearance that a camp doctor shouldn’t have access to.

She held the scanner to my eye. A red light washed over my vision.

Beep.

She frowned. She looked at her screen. She tapped a key, then reset the device.

“Interesting,” she murmured.

My pulse spiked—just once. “Is there a problem, Doctor?”

She turned the screen away. She looked at me, really looked at me. She saw the network of faint, white scars on my knuckles. She saw the way my deltoids were developed—not like a gym rat, but like a climber. A fighter.

“No problem,” Frost said slowly. “Just… curious. Your body is healed from injuries I don’t see in your file. Several bone breaks. Shrapnel scarring on the hip.”

“Car accident,” I lied smoothly. “Years ago.”

“Must have been some accident,” she replied, her voice dropping. “It looks like you were blown up.”

We stared at each other. She knew I was lying. But she signed the paper.

“You’re cleared, Novak.”

I grabbed my shirt and headed for the door. I needed to get out of there. The walls were closing in.

As I exited the medical bay, I almost ran into Callaway. He was lingering by the window, pretending to tie his boot.

“Eavesdropping is unbecoming of a potential operator,” I whispered as I passed him.

He stood up. “So is lying about who you are.”

I stopped. The air went cold.

“Be careful, Callaway,” I said, my voice dropping to a register I rarely used—the voice of command. “Curiosity has consequences in places like this.”

I walked away fast. As I turned the corner, I reached into my pocket for my lip balm, but my fingers brushed a slip of paper I hadn’t put there.

No. I didn’t reach for it. I dropped it.

I let a small, folded piece of paper fall from my pocket. It fluttered to the ground just as I rounded the corner.

I paused, listening.

I heard footsteps. Then a pause. Then the rustle of paper being retrieved.

Callaway.

I leaned against the brick wall, my heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm. I had to know if he was just smart, or if he was a plant. If he turned that note in to Braxley, he was a boot-licker. If he kept it… he was an asset.

The note was simple. Three words that would mean nothing to a civilian but everything to someone who was paying attention.

I know Kandahar.

That night, the barracks were dark. Rain drummed against the roof, a relentless, rhythmic pounding.

I lay in my bunk, staring at the ceiling. I could feel the presence of the others. Riker, dreaming of glory. Laurelai, dreaming of approval. Zephyr… Zephyr was awake. I could hear the subtle shift of her breathing. She was calculating.

And Callaway.

I turned my head slightly. Across the aisle, Callaway was looking at me. In his hand, half-hidden under his blanket, was the piece of paper.

He met my eyes. He didn’t look away.

He knew. He didn’t know what I was, but he knew I wasn’t a logistics clerk.

I closed my eyes. Good, I thought. Now the real game begins.

PART 2: THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE

The mask slipped three days later. It was a hostage rescue simulation—”kill house” rules. Rubber bullets, flash-bangs, and a labyrinth of plywood rooms designed to confuse and disorient.

Colonel Blackwood was watching again. I could feel his gaze like a laser sight on the back of my neck.

“Team Leader Riker, you’re up,” Braxley barked. Riker picked the biggest recruits, ignoring me. When my rotation came, I was stuck with Callaway, Zephyr, and two nervous washouts.

“Novak, rear security,” Callaway assigned. He was trying to protect me, keeping me out of the line of fire.

“Copy,” I said.

We stacked up at the door. The scenario was simple: four hostiles, two hostages, ten-minute timer. But then Braxley threw a curveball.

“Incoming! Intelligence update! Explosives detected! Two-minute countdown! Move, move, move!”

Panic hit the team. Two minutes wasn’t enough for a standard clear. Riker’s team had taken eight. The recruits started arguing.

“Breach the front!” Zephyr yelled. “Gas the vents!” someone else shouted.

They were freezing. Analysis paralysis. In combat, hesitation is the sibling of death.

I couldn’t help it. My body reacted before my brain could check the cover story. I stepped into the huddle.

“Split entry,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “Team A creates a distraction at the main breach. Team B hits the northwest corner—there’s a blind spot in the camera coverage and the hinges are exposed. We bypass the main kill zone.”

Callaway stared at me. “How do you know about the camera coverage?”

“I pay attention,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Do you want to win, or do you want to explode?”

“Do it,” Callaway ordered. “Novak, take point on the flank.”

I moved. I didn’t jog; I flowed. I hit the northwest door, kicked the hinge pin, and breached. I swept the room—one, two, clear. I moved through the fatal funnel, my weapon snapping to targets with a speed that defied physics.

Pop-pop. Hostile down. Pop-pop. Hostile down.

I secured the hostage, checked for wires, and signaled clear. Total time: 58 seconds.

When we exited, Braxley was staring at me, his mouth slightly open. Colonel Blackwood was suppressing a smile.

“Who came up with that entry?” Braxley demanded.

“Novak,” Callaway said instantly.

Braxley got in my face. “That was a Tier-One entry tactic, recruit. Where did a logistics clerk learn to slice the pie like that?”

“I read a lot of manuals, Staff Sergeant.”

“Manuals?” Braxley laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “That’s not in the manual. That’s instinctive.”

“Perhaps I’m a quick learner,” I said flatly.

That night, the camp was a pressure cooker. The suspicion was heavy in the air. Riker was telling everyone I was a “plant” sent to spy on them. Zephyr was watching me with renewed intensity.

Then came the survival exercise. Overnight. Full field conditions.

I was paired with Callaway. Coincidence? Unlikely. Blackwood was moving pieces on the board.

We were dropped five miles out in the dense treeline. As soon as the transport truck drove off, the silence of the woods wrapped around us.

“We need to talk,” Callaway said, adjusting his pack.

“We need to move,” I countered. “Extraction is at 0600.”

“The note,” he said, stopping dead. “Kandahar. You dropped it on purpose.”

I stopped. I didn’t turn around. “Did I?”

“You’re hunting someone,” Callaway said, stepping closer. “You’re not here to be a soldier; you already are one. The way you move, the way you scan the perimeter… you’re waiting for something to happen.”

I turned to face him. The moon cast shadows across his face. He was earnest, smart, and dangerous.

“What if I told you that the most dangerous thing in this camp isn’t the training?” I whispered. “What if I told you that there is a cancer eating this command from the inside out?”

“I’d believe you,” he said. “Because I see it too. The inconsistencies. The recruits who vanish. Zephyr.”

My eyes snapped to his. “What about Zephyr?”

“She has clearance she shouldn’t have,” Callaway said. “I saw her near the comms tower two nights ago. She was bypassing the lock.”

I felt a surge of validation. My instincts were right.

“Listen to me, Callaway,” I said, my voice steel. “Tonight isn’t a training exercise. Tonight is the trap.”

BOOM.

The ground shook. A massive fireball erupted in the distance, back toward the main camp. The sky turned orange.

“That wasn’t a simulator,” Callaway said, eyes wide.

“Ammo depot,” I assessed instantly. “High explosive. That’s a diversion.”

“We have to go back,” he started to run.

“No!” I grabbed his arm. My grip was iron. “That explosion is meant to draw security away from the administration building. While everyone fights the fire, someone is going to steal the keys to the kingdom.”

“Who?”

“Zephyr,” I said. “And we’re going to catch her.”

We didn’t run back to camp; we hunted. We moved off-trail, silent and fast. I led Callaway through the perimeter gaps I had mapped, bypassing the motion sensors.

The camp was chaotic. Sirens wailed. Smoke billowed into the night sky. But the administration block was dark and quiet.

“Stay here,” I signaled. “Watch my six.”

I ghosted toward the side entrance. The electronic lock had been disabled. I slipped inside.

The hallway was bathed in emergency red light. I moved toward the server room. The door was ajar.

I peeked around the frame.

Zephyr was there. She had a ruggedized laptop hooked into the mainframe. She wasn’t just downloading files; she was uploading a virus. A worm designed to erase personnel records—specifically, the records of sleepers embedded in units across the globe.

I pulled my training weapon—a rubber bullet pistol. Useless against a real threat, but it was all I had.

I was about to breach when I felt cold steel press against the back of my neck.

“Don’t move, Major,” a voice whispered.

I froze. Major. They knew.

I slowly raised my hands. Braxley stepped out of the shadows, his service pistol drawn. But he wasn’t aiming at me. He was aiming past me, at the figure behind me.

I turned my head. It wasn’t an enemy. It was Riker. He looked terrified, holding a crowbar he’d grabbed from a tool shed.

“What is going on?” Riker hissed. “I saw you sneak in. I thought you were the saboteur!”

“Quiet!” I ordered.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Zephyr yanked the drive and turned. She saw us.

She didn’t panic. She smiled.

“Too late,” she mouthed.

She shattered the window and vaulted out into the night.

“Get her!” Braxley yelled, finally realizing the situation.

We sprinted to the window, but she was gone, vanished into the smoke and chaos.

“She has the list,” I said, my blood running cold. “She has the names of every undercover operative in the sector. If that gets out, it’s a massacre.”

Braxley looked at me, sweat beading on his forehead. “You’re not a recruit, are you?”

“No, Staff Sergeant,” I said, checking the chamber of my useless weapon. “And tonight, training is over.”

PART 3: THE EAGLE AND THE SERPENT
The sun rose on a broken camp. The fire at the depot was out, leaving a crater of blackened earth. The air smelled of wet ash and treachery.

At 0400 hours, Colonel Blackwood ordered a full assembly.

The recruits stood in formation on the parade deck. They were exhausted, confused, and scared. Rumors were flying. Riker was pale. Callaway stood next to me, his jaw set. Zephyr was there, standing at perfect attention, acting as if she hadn’t just committed treason hours before.

She thought she was safe. She thought she had gotten away with it because she hadn’t been physically caught. She didn’t know that the “virus” she uploaded was a tracker I had planted in the system weeks ago, just waiting for someone to bite.

Braxley paced the line. He looked wrecked, but his eyes were clear. He stopped in front of me.

This was it. The theater.

“Uniform inspection,” Braxley announced, his voice trembling slightly. “T-shirts only. Remove jackets.”

The recruits complied.

“Recruit Novak,” Braxley shouted, playing his part perfectly. “You are out of uniform. Your undershirt is unauthorized.”

I was wearing a black tank top under my fatigues.

“Remove the shirt, Novak!”

The platoon gasped. This was harassment. This was the final humiliation.

“Are you sure, Staff Sergeant?” I asked, my voice carrying across the silent field.

“That is a direct order!”

I looked at Zephyr. She was smirking. She wanted to see me broken.

I reached down, grabbed the hem of my shirt, and pulled it over my head.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bones.

I stood there, bare-backed in the freezing morning air. But no one was looking at my skin. They were looking at the ink.

Covering my entire back, from shoulder blades to waist, was a masterpiece of violence and beauty. A massive King Cobra, scales detailed in emerald and black, wrapping its body around a Golden Eagle. The eagle was fighting, talons deep in the snake, but it was dying.

Beneath the image were seven names. And a date: Kandahar. 11-05-22.

And above it all, the insignia of the Ghost Unit—a unit that officially did not exist.

Braxley took a step back, his face pale. “My God.”

Colonel Blackwood stepped off the podium. His boots crunched on the gravel. He walked straight to me.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold.

He stopped three feet away, snapped his heels together, and rendered a slow, crisp salute.

“Major Novak,” Blackwood said, his voice thundering in the quiet. “Permission to speak freely.”

“Granted, Colonel,” I replied, my voice shifting. The recruit was gone. The operator was back.

“Major?” Riker whispered, his eyes bulging. “She’s a Major?”

I turned to the platoon. I didn’t cover up. I let them see the names of my dead friends.

“Three years ago,” I began, walking down the line, “my team was deployed to Kandahar. Operation Kingmaker. We were betrayed. Sold out by someone inside our own wire.”

I stopped in front of Zephyr. She wasn’t smirking anymore. Her face was a mask of stone.

“Seven good men died in that valley,” I continued. “I was the only one who crawled out. I spent six months in a burn unit. And when I got out, I didn’t go home. I went underground.”

I leaned in close to Zephyr.

“I became a ghost. Because the only way to catch a traitor… is to let them think they’ve won.”

“You have nothing,” Zephyr hissed, barely moving her lips. “I wiped the logs.”

“You didn’t wipe them,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “You broadcast them. The drive you stole? It didn’t contain the list. It contained a beacon. And you just led NSA cyber-warfare straight to your handlers.”

Zephyr’s eyes widened. She bolted.

She didn’t get two steps.

Callaway and Riker moved as one. Riker tackled her low, Callaway secured her arms. It was messy, unprofessional, and beautiful.

“Secure the prisoner!” Braxley roared, finally finding his voice.

MPs swarmed the field. Zephyr was dragged away, screaming curses, her perfect composure shattered.

I watched her go. I felt… nothing. No joy. Just the quiet click of a mission latching into place.

An hour later, I was in Blackwood’s office. My uniform was back on—my real uniform. The oak leaf of a Major on my collar.

Braxley, Callaway, Riker, and Laurelai stood before me.

“I owe you an apology, Major,” Braxley said, looking at his boots. “I treated you like dirt.”

“You treated me exactly how I needed to be treated, Sergeant,” I said. “Your brutality made me invisible. It made Zephyr underestimate me. You did your job.”

I turned to the recruits.

“Riker,” I said. He straightened up. “You have anger issues and an ego problem. But when the fire started, you grabbed a crowbar and ran toward the danger. That’s courage.”

“Laurelai,” I nodded to her. “You saw the discrepancies. You have the political instinct. Use it.”

“And Callaway.”

I looked at him. The librarian. The quiet observer.

“You saw through a Level 5 cover story in two weeks,” I said. “You have the eyes of a hawk.”

“What happens now?” Callaway asked.

“I leave,” I said. “My work here is done. The Lazarus cell is exposed. But the network is deep. The snake has many heads.”

I picked up my bag. I walked to the door, then paused.

“They’re going to offer you spots in a new program,” I told them. “Counter-intelligence. It’s not glorious. You won’t get medals. You’ll be hated, feared, and misunderstood. You’ll be ghosts.”

I looked back at them one last time.

“Interested?”

Riker grinned, a savage, predatory grin. “Where do I sign?”

The helicopter rotor wash whipped my hair across my face. I stood on the tarmac, watching the sun climb over the mountains of Ravenwood.

Callaway walked me to the bird.

“You never told me,” he shouted over the engine noise. “The tattoo. The eagle and the snake. Who wins?”

I looked at him, my hand resting on the door frame. I thought of the seven names on my back. I thought of the fire in Kandahar. I thought of the long, lonely road ahead.

“The eagle fights,” I yelled back. “It always fights. Even when the snake has its fangs in deep. It fights until the end.”

“And if it dies?” Callaway asked.

I smiled, and for the first time in three years, it reached my eyes.

“Then it rises again.”

I climbed in. The bird lifted off, banking hard toward the east. I looked down at the camp, shrinking below me. I saw the recruits running the obstacle course. I saw Braxley screaming. I saw Callaway standing still, watching me go, his hand raised in a salute.

I touched the scar on my arm. The mission wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

My name is Major Veda Novak. I am a Ghost. And I am hunting.