Part 1

The smell of industrial-grade cleaner and stale jet fuel is my 4 AM alarm clock. It’s a harsh perfume, but it’s an honest one. It’s the smell of my new life, a life I built one methodical mop stroke at a time. For three years, I’ve been Thaddius “Tad” Merik, the 40-year-old maintenance man at Naval Base Coronado. The ghost in gray coveralls.

My hands, calloused and thick, grip the worn wooden handle. I don’t just mop; I grid. I move in perfect, overlapping strokes, turning at precise 90-degree angles. It’s not about cleaning the floor. It’s about caging the beast. It’s about remembering what happens when the lines get blurry. My world is this concrete floor, this invisible grid, and the blessed, crushing anonymity of being no one.

Today, the air is different. It’s sharp, electric. Inspection day.

The base hums with the panic of young recruits trying to buff a mirror shine onto boots they polished twice already. I see them, all barely 19, fear-sweat under their arms, trying to look like the heroes they’ve seen in movies. They don’t see me. I’m just part of the architecture, a piece of equipment, less important than the mop in my hands.

Inside Hangar 7, the massive space is a cathedral of shadows. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, a sound I’ve come to find comforting. It’s a constant, predictable noise in a life I’ve built on predictability.

The heavy side door bangs open, echoing like a gunshot. Lieutenant Rowan Collins, 28 and already wearing the ambition of a future commander, strides in. His uniform is so crisp it could cut you. He’s a good man. Smart, driven, hasn’t yet learned that the rulebook isn’t a shield.

His eyes scan the hangar, checking off a mental list, and they land on me. He gives a curt nod.

“Morning, Merrick.”

It’s more than I get from most. “Lieutenant,” I reply, my voice a low rumble, intentionally gravelly. I don’t look up from my grid.

He pauses. Most officers don’t pause. They move. He’s watching me. I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck, analyzing the way I move.

“You were military once,” he says. Not a question. A statement.

My rhythm doesn’t falter. My heart rate doesn’t change. I’ve practiced this. In my head, I’ve had this conversation a thousand times. I’ve killed it, buried it, and run away from it.

“A long time ago,” I murmur. “What branch… does it matter?”

He’s about to press, I can tell. He’s curious. But the doors bang open again, and the hangar floods with the organized chaos of enlisted personnel. The moment breaks. Collins is swallowed by his duties. I am swallowed by my invisibility. I am safe.

“Listen up!” Collins barks, his voice cutting through the noise. “Admiral Harlo will be here at 0800 sharp. I need this place inspection-ready in 45 minutes!”

The recruits scramble. I am a rock in this river of panic, adjusting my grid to accommodate them. I move my bucket seconds before a hurried sailor would have tripped over it. I anticipate their paths, shifting my weight, a ghost maneuvering through the living.

A kid, name-tape ‘WILKINS,’ shoulders me hard as he rushes past, binders stacked high. “Watch it!” he mutters, not even looking.

My body reacts before my mind can stop it. My center of gravity drops. My hand instinctively finds the perfect balancing point on his arm to stop his load from falling. My other hand… it wants to go to his throat. It wants to pin him to the bulkhead and explain, in very quiet, very precise terms, the concept of situational awareness.

Instead, I do nothing. I just absorb the impact. I let the word “watch it” hang in the air, a tiny, buzzing insult. I say nothing. I just go back to my grid. The beast stays in its cage.

Across the hangar, Commander Elias Fenway enters. 54, silver hair, career man. He’s seen things. His eyes, unlike the recruits’, are not detached. They scan. They assess. They look for things that are wrong.

His eyes land on me.

He doesn’t just see a janitor. He tilts his head, like a dog hearing a sound no one else can. A flicker of… something. Recognition? He masks it, fast. But he saw. He saw something.

Another data point. Fenway. Watch him.

I continue my work. A different recruit, younger than Wilkins, knocks my bucket over. Dirty water spreads across a section I just finished. “Sorry,” he calls over his shoulder, but he’s already gone.

I look at the spill. I look at my watch. 0730. I feel nothing. This is just a new task. I retrieve the bucket, refill it, and begin the section again. My movements are deliberate, betraying no frustration. Lieutenant Collins sees it. He frowns, starts to walk over, probably to reprimand the recruit, but he’s pulled away.

The moment passes. As I bend to wring the mop, my sleeve rides up. Just an inch. But it’s enough. I see the dark, faded ink on my forearm and I yank the cuff down, fastening the button. Too close. My heart does kick, just once. A sharp, hard thump against my ribs. ‘Get. A. Grip.’

The clock on the wall ticks to 0745. The air is so thick with tension you could cut it. I move to the back wall, near a young enlistee named Porter. His hands are shaking so badly he can’t get his service ribbons straight. They’re skewed, a glaring flaw that Harlo will spot from fifty yards.

No one else notices. They’re all locked in their own private terror.

I stop my mop. The kid is drowning.

“Your ribbons,” I say quietly.

Porter jumps. “What?”

“Out of alignment. May cause trouble during inspection.”

He looks down, his face pale. “I… I can never get them right.”

I set my mop aside. My hands, the ones I use to scrub toilets, move with a dexterity that feels foreign, but isn’t.

“Permission to adjust?”

The formality, coming from me, confuses him. He just nods, mute.

My fingers find the pins. I adjust the rack. Click. Click. Level. Aligned. Regulation perfect. It takes less than three seconds.

“There,” I say, grabbing my mop. “Regulation perfect.”

“Thanks… uh…”

“Merrick,” I supply, already turning away.

“Thanks, Merrick. I owe you one.”

I don’t acknowledge it. I just go back to my grid. But I’m angry. Angry at myself. That was a mistake. That was Chief Merik, not Tad Merrick. I broke cover for a nervous kid’s ribbons. Stupid. Careless.

I’m in the corner, cleaning my bucket, when my wallet slips from my back pocket. I’ve had this wallet for twenty years. It hits the concrete, and a single, weathered photograph slides out, face up.

A group of men in desert camo. A helicopter in the background. A location I can still taste, all dust and copper. The faces… the faces are blacked out. Sharpie, thick and permanent, redacting my brothers from history. Redacting them from my life.

My hand darts out, snatching the photo before anyone can see. But did they? Did Fenway see? I shove it back in my pocket, my heart hammering.

The massive hangar doors begin to groan open.

A slice of bright morning sun cuts across the floor, silhouetting the man framed in the doorway.

Admiral Bridger Harlo.

The entire hangar ceases to breathe. He is not a man; he is an event. 58, looks 40. Ramrod straight. His face is a map of deserts and oceans, and his eyes… his eyes miss nothing. They are sharp, critical, and today, they look angry.

“Attention on deck!” Collins yells, but it’s pointless.

Everyone is already a statue.

Everyone except me. I am in the corner, mopping. Head down. Invisible.

Harlo begins his inspection. It’s not an inspection; it’s a dissection. He moves down the line, his voice a low, cutting blade.

“Your boots, Petty Officer Thompson. Did you polish them with mud?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why can’t I see my reflection in them? No excuse, sir.”

He’s a shark, and he smells blood. He’s looking for a flaw, for someone to tear apart. His eyes, between critiques, flick in my direction. Once. Twice. He sees the one man not at attention. The one man still working. The janitor.

He’s moving down the line, getting closer. Lieutenant Collins, in his haste to retrieve a binder, knocks a metal toolbox off a high shelf. It falls, end over end.

My hand shoots out. I don’t think. I react.

I catch the box, a heavy steel container, three inches from the floor. My hand doesn’t sting. My body doesn’t even register the weight. It’s just… caught.

Silence.

Collins is staring at my hand on the toolbox. “Good catch,” he says, his voice hushed.

I place the box on the floor. I pick up my mop. “Just lucky,” I murmur.

But Harlo saw it. His inspection of a young sailor stops. His head turns. His eyes, those piercing, analytical eyes, lock onto me. He saw the catch. He saw the speed. He saw the economy of motion.

He saw the ghost.

Commander Fenway, seeing this, discreetly types something into his secure phone. He gets an immediate reply. His face goes pale.

The admiral’s mood, already dark, turns black. He finishes with the last recruit, his criticism a venomous spray. Then, he changes direction.

He doesn’t go to the equipment. He doesn’t go to the officers.

He turns.

And he walks. Purposefully. Directly.

Toward me.

The entire hangar, hundreds of personnel, holds its collective breath. The shark has found its target.

He stops three feet in front of me. I keep mopping, head down.

“You,” he barks. The sound echoes. “Maintenance.”

I stop. I don’t look up. “Sir.”

“You look awfully squared away for a janitor,” he announces, his voice loud, projecting for the audience. He circles me. A predator. “Standing there with perfect posture while real sailors get dressed down.”

The silence is absolute. This is a public execution.

“What’s your name?” he demands.

“Merrick, sir.”

“Look at me when I address you, Merrick.”

Slowly, I lift my head. I meet his gaze. I let him see the 40-year-old janitor. I show him nothing. My eyes are dead. My face is a mask of subservient indifference.

He studies me. His eyes drop to my carefully buttoned cuffs.

“Those sleeves,” he says, pointing. “What are you hiding under there? Got any ink worth looking at, or just the cartoon stuff?”

Nervous chuckles ripple through the room. Humiliation.

I say nothing.

His expression hardens. In a motion so fast it’s almost a blur, he strikes. Not me. The mop. He knocks it from my hands. It clatters loudly on the concrete.

My body screams.

My stance shifts. Weight balanced. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands open, relaxed, ready. A perfect combat posture.

I hold it for a split second.

Then I let it go. I slump. I am a janitor again.

But he saw it. Oh, he saw it. His eyes narrow.

“Show us your tattoo, maintenance man,” he commands, louder now. “Let’s see if you’ve got something worth the uniform you’re pretending to wear.”

This is it. The line. He’s crossed it.

Across the room, Commander Fenway looks ill. He’s raising his hand, as if to intervene.

I look at Harlo. I look at the floor. The beast in the cage is rattling the bars. He wants this. He wants to humiliate me. He wants a reaction.

He doesn’t know what kind of reaction he’s about to get.

The silence stretches. It’s unbearable.

Slowly, deliberately, I set my mop aside. I look at my left arm.

Then, I reach for the button on my cuff.

I unfasten it.

The sound is a tiny click, but it sounds like a grenade pin being pulled.

I begin to roll up my sleeve. One fold. Then another.

The room is still. The air is gone.

The faded ink appears. The wing of an eagle.

Admiral Harlo’s face, a mask of mockery a second ago, changes. It flickers. Confusion. Recognition.

“Stop!” he orders, his voice sharp.

I don’t stop. I keep rolling. My eyes are locked on his.

The sleeve rolls higher.

The eagle’s wings stretch wide, above a gold trident. Crossed with a dagger.

The SEAL Trident.

A wave of whispers. But I’m not done.

Harlo’s face has gone white. He knows that tattoo. He knows this tattoo. He knows what’s coming next. He knows what’s under it.

The sleeve reaches its final fold, high on my bicep.

There it is. My history. My damnation.

Beneath the trident, partially obscured by a jagged, puckered scar, are the characters:

ST9 – PHANTOM

Admiral Bridger Harlo’s clipboard slips from his fingers. It clatters to the floor.

No one breathes. No one moves.

The janitor is gone.

Part 2

“Where,” Admiral Harlo asks, but the word is a gasp, a dry rattle in his throat. All the bluster, the authority, is gone. “Where did you get that?”

My gaze is steady. I am no longer Tad Merrick, the man who mops floors. I am Chief Merik, the man who buried 12 brothers.

“From you, sir,” I say. My voice is quiet, but it cuts through the hangar like a razor. “You pinned it yourself. Kandahar, 2008.”

The whispers stop. The blood drains from Commander Fenway’s face. Lieutenant Collins looks like he’s seen a ghost, and in a way, he has.

Harlo looks at the tattoo, then at my face, then back. He’s seeing me for the first time. Not the janitor, but the man he sent into the dark 17 years ago.

“That operation… is still classified,” he says, his voice a low, intense warning.

“So am I,” I reply.

He regains a fraction of his composure. He’s an Admiral, after all. “This conversation needs to move elsewhere. Now.” He glances at the hundred pairs of eyes watching us.

I roll my sleeve back down. The movement is slow, methodical. I am buttoning my cover back into place. I am burying the dead again.

I bend to pick up my mop. “I have floors to finish, sir.”

It’s a dismissal. And he knows it. His jaw tightens. “That wasn’t a request, Chief.”

The rank hangs in the air, a shockwave.

I look at him, my hand on the mop. “I’m not in your chain of command anymore, sir. I haven’t been since K-bble.”

The name hits him. I see it. A physical flinch. K-bble was the mission that broke us. The one that ended Phantom Squad. The one that put 16 flags on 16 coffins.

“Sixteen men went into those mountains,” Harlo says, his voice dangerously low. “Pentagon records state that 16 men died there.”

“Pentagon records,” I say, “say a lot of things, sir. Not all of them are true.”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Collins steps forward, desperate to regain control of his hangar. “Should I dismiss the company?”

Harlo doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Yes, Lieutenant. Dismiss them. Inspection complete.”

The hangar slowly empties, but no one is really leaving. They’re just moving, forming small, buzzing clusters, staring. The drama is over, but the story is just beginning.

When we are mostly alone, Harlo speaks. “My office. Ten minutes.”

“With respect, sir, I’m civilian staff. My shift ends at 1600.”

He steps closer, his control slipping. “Do you have any idea what your presence here could trigger? The investigations it would reopen?”

“I’m just maintaining the floor, sir. That’s all I’ve done for three years.”

“Why here, Merik?” he demands, the question raw. “Of all the bases in all the world, why choose mine?”

Before I can answer, before I can tell him I didn’t choose anything, that I was placed here, a junior officer runs in, skidding to a halt.

“Admiral Harlo, sir! Urgent call from Washington. From SecDef himself.”

Harlo’s eyes bore into me. “We’re not finished.”

“I never said we were,” I reply.

He turns, his authority settling back on him like a shroud, and strides out.

I am left alone in the vast, empty hangar, with my mop. But nothing is the same. The grid is shattered. The cage is broken. The beast is out.

I start cleaning again. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From rage. For three years, I’ve had peace.

“Chief?”

I turn. Lieutenant Collins. He looks at me with new eyes. Respect. Fear. Confusion.

“Just Merrick is fine, Lieutenant.”

“That tattoo… ST9. I’ve never…”

“That’s the point of classified units, Lieutenant. You’re not supposed to see them.”

“The Admiral… he seemed…”

“The Admiral has a lot on his mind.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks. It’s sincere.

I pause my mopping. I look at this young, ambitious man. “Yes. You can forget what you saw here today. For your sake, not mine.”

He understands. He nods, his face grim, and walks away.

I’m not alone for long. Commander Fenway crosses the hangar. No caution. He steps right in my path.

“I knew it,” he says, his voice low. “I couldn’t place it. Your file… it was too clean. Maintenance transfer. Standard checks. Nothing.”

“The point of a good cover, Commander.”

“I ran op support for Fifth Group in ’09. I saw the after-action from K-bble. Everything redacted. But the body count was clear. 16 operators in. 16 flags home.”

“Sometimes the math doesn’t add up,” I say.

“Why maintenance? A man with your training… private sector… you could have written your own ticket.”

“I like the quiet,” I say, pushing the mop.

“And the access,” he counters, moving with me. “Base maintenance. You get into every secure facility, every classified area, without raising an eyebrow.”

I stop. I meet his gaze. “If I wanted access to classified areas, Commander, I wouldn’t need a mop to get it.”

He recognizes the truth in that. Before he can reply, the main doors groan open again.

A nondescript black SUV with government plates rolls into the hangar. It stops.

The driver’s door opens. A man in a plain black suit emerges. He is tall, gray-haired, and moves with the unmistakable economy of federal law enforcement. His eyes scan the hangar and land on me.

“Mr. Merik,” he calls out. “Would you come with me, please?”

Fenway tenses. “Who the hell is this?”

“Above your clearance,” I say quietly.

The suited man stops ten feet away. He nods at Fenway, then turns his full attention to me. “We need to talk, Chief.”

I know him. Vickers. “Not a chief anymore, Vickers.”

“Once a chief, always a chief,” he says, a ghost of a smile. “Vehicle’s waiting. Time-sensitive.”

“I’m off the books, Vickers. Been for years. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

He glances around. “This isn’t the venue for this conversation, Chief. Please.”

That word. Please. It carries weight. I study his face. Then I set my mop against the wall.

“My shift ends at 1600,” I say to Fenway. “Floor still needs finishing.”

“I’ll… I’ll have someone cover it,” Fenway stammers.

I walk to the SUV. Vickers leans in as I approach. “When was the last time you had contact with Blackwood?”

My step falters. “Blackwood’s dead. Afghanistan, 2008.”

“That’s the official record,” Vickers says, opening the rear door for me.

I hesitate. “Where’s this conversation heading, Vickers?”

“Kandahar. Then K-bble. Then New York.”

My blood runs cold. “That book is closed.”

“It was,” Vickers says, his face grim. “Someone’s reopening it. Page by bloody page.”

I get in the SUV.

The drive is silent for three minutes. We navigate the base, Vickers’s hands steady on the wheel.

“How’s your daughter?” he asks, his voice casual.

My head snaps around. “You don’t talk about her. Ever.”

“Fair enough,” he nods. “But you should know, we’ve had eyes on you both. Protective detail. Not surveillance.”

“Since when?”

“Since Noshack resurfaced in Bahrain last month.”

The name hits me like a physical blow. A ghost. A monster. The man we were hunting in K-bble. The man who set the trap.

“Noshack died in those mountains,” I say, my voice a flat line. “I put two rounds in his chest myself.”

“And yet,” Vickers replies, reaching for a briefcase on the passenger seat, “he’s very much alive.”

He flips it open. Surveillance photos. A man in his 50s, lean, weathered, with a distinctive scar running from his temple to his jaw. The scar I gave him.

“Facial recognition flagged him at a private airfield. 97% match.”

I take the photos. It’s him.

“Two days after this,” Vickers continues, “former Major General Witson was found dead in his home. Heart attack, official report.”

“And unofficially?”

“Toxicology found a compound we’ve never seen before. Mimics cardiac arrest. Metabolizes in hours. Very advanced.”

I put the photos down. “Witson was oversight for Phantom Squad.”

“Yes. As was Colonel Dela Cruz, who drowned in his pool three weeks ago. And Commander Hirs, carbon monoxide ‘accident’ in his garage last Thursday.”

The pattern. It’s not a pattern; it’s a kill list.

“Who else knows?”

“Full picture? Just me, the Director, and now you. Harlo knows pieces, but he’s been kept dark for his own protection. That ends today.”

“Why now? Why expose me?”

Vickers pulls the SUV into a secluded spot behind the admin building. He cuts the engine and turns to face me.

“Because you’re next on the list, Chief. Along with anyone else who knows what really happened in K-bble.”

I say nothing. I am calculating.

“There were 16 of us,” I say finally. “Official record, 16 dead. Unofficial record, 12 dead, four survived but were too compromised to reintegrate.”

“And the truth?” Vickers presses.

“The truth stays buried, Vickers. Where it belongs.”

“Not anymore. Not with Noshack hunting down everyone connected. We need to know what he’s after. And we need to know who’s still alive from your team.”

I reach for the door handle. “I’m maintenance staff.”

Vickers’s hand shoots out, gripping my forearm. “Your daughter. Ren. 12 years old. Seventh grade, Lincoln Middle School. Science club on Tuesdays. Soccer practice on Thursdays. Walks home on Malberry Street every day at 3:15.”

My reaction is instant. My free hand moves, a blur. I don’t go for a strike; I go for the nerve cluster in his wrist. A simple, precise application of pressure.

Vickers gasps, his grip releasing.

“That was your one mistake,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. “You never threaten my daughter.”

“Not a threat,” he chokes out, massaging his wrist. “A warning. Noshack knows, too. We intercepted comms. He has her schedule. Her route. Everything. He knows you’re alive, Merrick. He knows where to find you. And he knows exactly how to hurt you.”

The world stops. The carefully constructed walls of my life, the ones I’ve been hiding behind for 12 years… they don’t just crack. They vaporize.

This isn’t about my past anymore. It’s not about Harlo or ST9 or K-bble.

It’s about Ren.

“When?” I demand.

“We don’t know. But he’s in the country. Entered through Canada three days ago. He’s moving pieces.”

I check my watch. 13:45. “School lets out in two hours.”

“We have agents in place,” Vickers says. “She’s covered. But that’s a Band-Aid. Noshack won’t stop.”

I know he won’t. I’m the one who taught him how to be relentless.

“I need to move her,” I say. “Secure location. New identity.”

“Already in motion. Facility in Montana. Off-grid. Full security.”

“For how long?”

“As long as necessary,” Vickers says. “But you know the only real solution is permanent. Noshack has to be eliminated.”

“You have assets for that.”

“None who know him like you do. None who tracked him for nine days through the Kyber. None who got close enough to put two rounds in his chest.”

“And clearly missed the heart,” I add, grimly.

“An oversight we intend to correct. With your help.”

I am silent. I weigh the life I built against the life I left. I weigh my peace against my daughter’s safety. There is no choice.

“I get Ren to safety first,” I say. “Then we talk parameters. My terms.”

“Fair enough. Admiral Harlo’s been briefed. He’s expecting us both. Reactivation protocols.”

“I’m not being reactivated, Vickers. I’ll help eliminate the threat. After that, I’m done. Permanently.”

“That’s between you and the Admiral,” he says, starting the engine. “My job was just to bring you in from the cold.”

“Consider me defrosted,” I say.

As we pull up to the admin building, my pocket buzzes. A text.

From Ren.

Early dismissal today. On my way home. Love you, Dad.

I stare at the screen. My blood turns to ice.

“What is it?” Vickers asks.

I show him the phone. “School doesn’t do early dismissals without notice.”

Vickers is already on his phone. “Surveillance team isn’t responding.”

I’m out of the SUV before it stops. “They’re compromised. He’s making his move. Now.”

“Merrick, wait!” Vickers calls. “We need protocols!”

I don’t look back. I’m running toward my own car, a 15-year-old sedan. “Your protocols won’t save my daughter!”

As I reach my car, Admiral Harlo bursts from the building, flanked by security.

“Chief Merik!” he roars, his voice pure command. “Stand down! That is an ORDER!”

I pause, my hand on the car door. I lock eyes with him across the parking lot. Seventeen years of betrayal, loyalty, and lies pass between us.

“My daughter’s in danger,” I say, my voice flat. “No order supersedes that.”

Harlo’s face shifts. The Admiral is gone. The man is there. He nods. Once. Sharply.

“Take Vickers. Full tactical support will follow your lead.”

It’s an apology. An acknowledgement. An alliance.

“I’ll drive,” Vickers says, catching up.

We peel out of the naval base. The sedan’s engine roars as Vickers pushes it to its limit.

“They’re not responding,” Vickers says, phone to his ear. “Surveillance is dark.”

“They’re gone, Vickers. Noshack doesn’t leave loose ends.”

“ETA four minutes. Tactical is 15 out.”

“Too long.” I check the glove compartment. Empty. “You’re unarmed.”

Vickers passes me a 9mm from under his seat. “Full mag, one in the chamber.”

It feels too light in my hand. “This won’t stop Noshack.”

“It’ll slow him down,” Vickers says, wrenching the car around a corner.

We turn onto Malberry Street. Quiet. Suburban. My home.

And a black SUV is parked in my driveway.

“That’s not one of ours,” Vickers says.

I’m out of the car before it stops, rolling onto the pavement, the 9mm up. Vickers is right behind me.

The front door is open. Just a crack.

She would never leave the door open.

I signal to Vickers. Front and back. He nods, veering off.

I approach the door. I listen.

Silence. The wrong kind of silence.

I push the door open.

Living room. Empty. Ren’s backpack is on the couch. A glass of water on the coffee table, condensation still beading.

She’s home.

A scuff. From the kitchen.

I move. No sound. A ghost in my own house.

I round the corner into the kitchen.

And I freeze.

Ren is at the table. Her face is pale, confused.

Across from her sits a man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. He’s holding a glass of my orange juice.

He smiles. It’s a terrible, cold thing.

“Hello, Phantom,” Noshack says softly. “Your daughter has been telling me about her science project. Very bright girl. You must be proud.”

My gun is level. My hands are steady. But my world is ending.

“Get away from her,” I say.

“I would reconsider that,” he says, nodding to the backyard.

Vickers appears in the doorway, hands up, a thin trail of blood on his forehead. Behind him, a younger man with a submachine gun.

“Sorry, Chief,” Vickers grunts.

“Please,” Noshack says, gesturing to an empty chair. “Join us. It’s a family reunion.”

I am trapped. The man I thought I killed 17 years ago is in my kitchen, holding my daughter’s life in his hands. The janitor is gone. The Chief is back. And the Phantom… the Phantom is about to do whatever it takes to save his little girl.