CHAPTER 1 — The Humiliation

The rain came down in thin, icy needles, slicing across the training yard at Blackwater Ridge like a thousand tiny warnings. It was the kind of weather that made lesser men seek shelter, but Navy SEAL candidates weren’t “lesser men.” They were built, or broken, out here. The mud sucked at their boots, the cold clawed at their bones, and the wind tore at their wills. But no one complained. Complaining meant weakness. Weakness meant elimination.

Except the humiliation today wasn’t from the weather.

It came from him.

Chief Petty Officer Dalton Riker—six foot three, built like a slab of steel, and fueled by an ego thicker than his neck—stood with his arms crossed, watching the platoon compete in hand-to-hand drills. His voice cut through the rain like a whip.

“Again! Ward, you call that a takedown? My grandma could’ve body-slammed Vega harder!”

A few of the men laughed, not because they wanted to, but because Riker expected it. And when a man like Riker expected something, you delivered—or suffered.

Standing opposite him in the mud was Elias Ward, the quiet one, the ghost, the kind of trainee who didn’t speak unless he had to. He had the unshakable posture of someone trained by life long before the military ever got to him. No one knew much about him; he didn’t brag, didn’t shove, didn’t preen. Some thought he was soft. Others thought he was hiding something.

Riker believed the former.

“Get up,” Riker barked, stepping close enough that the rain rolled off his brim and onto Ward’s face. “You embarrassed this entire platoon. Again. You think you’re SEAL material?”

Ward wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm.

“Yes, Chief.”

Riker smirked. “Then prove it. Vega! Drop him again.”

Vega hesitated—just a flicker, but enough for the platoon to notice. Everyone respected Ward. Not because he was popular, but because he radiated a strange, quiet depth, a restraint that felt… dangerous.

But no one dared defy Riker.

Vega charged forward, catching Ward around the waist and driving him into the mud with a brutal, bone-jarring thud. The platoon winced. Ward didn’t cry out—he never did—but he lay there a moment longer than usual. The hit hadn’t just been hard; it had been personal.

Riker knelt beside him. “Eight weeks in and still fighting like a Boy Scout. What’s the matter, Ward? Afraid to hurt someone? Or just afraid?”

More laughter. Uneasy. Forced. The kind that came from men terrified of being the next target.

Ward rose slowly, mud dripping from his uniform, eyes half-shielded beneath the rain.

“I’m not afraid, Chief.”

Riker’s smile spread like oil. “Good. Then let’s raise the stakes.”

He stepped back, cracking his knuckles.

“Everyone form a circle!”

The men obeyed immediately, forming a wide ring around the two of them. Riker tossed his cap aside and rolled his shoulders.

“Hand-to-hand. No weapons. No time limit. First man on the ground loses.”

A few of the men exchanged horrified looks.

This wasn’t training.

This was punishment.

Ward’s stomach tightened—not from fear, but from calculation. He knew exactly what Riker was doing. Break the quiet one, and the rest would fall into perfect obedience. It wasn’t about the fight. It was about dominance.

Ward opened his mouth to protest—not because he feared losing, but because he feared winning. But Riker cut him off.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

The wind howled across the yard as the two men squared off. The rain intensified, turning the circle of mud into a slippery pit.

Then Riker lunged.

He moved fast—faster than a man his size should. His fist snapped forward, aiming for Ward’s jaw. Ward slipped sideways, narrowly avoiding the blow, his boots skidding in the muck. Riker came in again, this time driving his forearm toward Ward’s throat.

Ward blocked, staggered, but kept his footing.

The platoon murmured. Few had ever seen anyone block Riker cleanly.

Riker’s grin faltered.

“Oh, so you can fight. Good. I was worried they let a choir boy into my platoon.”

He threw a hook—a vicious, punishing arc meant to break teeth—but Ward ducked beneath it, mud flying as he rolled away.

Riker stopped, breathing louder now.

“You think dodging is going to save you? You pathetic—”

His boot lashed out, catching Ward in the ribs. Pain shot through Ward’s side like lightning. He stumbled, slid, and hit the mud hard.

Riker stood over him.

“One more hit like that and you’re done. Just stay down, Ward. Save me the paperwork.”

Ward groped for air, tasting blood. His ribs throbbed, but beneath the pain was something older, colder—a memory of another fight, another bully, another moment when silence hadn’t been enough.

He rose.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The platoon fell silent. Something shifted in the air—something almost electric.

Riker’s eyes narrowed.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Ward spoke softly. “No, Chief.”

“What’s that?”

“I said no.”

For the first time, Ward lifted his head—really lifted it—and the men around the circle saw something flicker in his eyes. Not rage.

Control.

The kind you only learned from surviving things no one talked about.

Riker swung first.

A straight punch.

Hard. Precise.

Ward stepped inside the arc, trapping Riker’s wrist, twisting sharply. The crack echoed across the yard like a gunshot. Riker gasped—stunned—but Ward wasn’t done. In one fluid motion, he swept Riker’s leg, pivoted, and drove the larger man into the mud with an impact so violent the ground seemed to shake.

The platoon froze.

Riker tried to scramble up, but Ward was already there—too fast, too composed. He seized Riker’s arm, pinned him, and locked him in a shoulder hold that could snap bone in a heartbeat.

Eight seconds.

That’s all it took.

Eight seconds for the humiliation to shift.

Eight seconds for the bully to fall.

Eight seconds for every man watching to realize the quiet one wasn’t weak.

He was terrifying.

Ward released him instantly—respectfully. Riker rolled onto his back, mud splattered across his face, disbelief and fury twisting his features.

But there was no denying what had just happened.

No denying who had won.

The circle remained silent until one voice—Parker, the youngest in the platoon—breathed the words everyone was thinking.

“Holy hell… what are you, Ward?”

Ward didn’t answer.

He simply turned away, chest heaving, rain washing the mud and blood from his face.

Because the truth—the thing no one here knew—was that this was nothing.

Nothing compared to what he had once been trained for.

Nothing compared to the life he had left behind.

And nothing compared to the storm that was coming next.

CHAPTER 2 — The Name They Weren’t Supposed to Hear

The infirmary lights buzzed faintly, a sterile, cold hum that pressed into the skull like a tiny drill. Riker sat on the metal cot, his arm wrapped in a temporary sling, his pride wrapped in something far more painful.

His jaw clenched every few seconds—not from the injury, but from the humiliation. Humiliation that had replayed itself in his mind on loop. Eight seconds. Eight damn seconds and the quiet ghost of a trainee had put him in the dirt.

Across from him, Commander Hale reviewed the report on a tablet, brow furrowed deeply.

“So let me get this straight,” Hale said finally, lowering the screen. “You challenged a trainee to an unsanctioned hand-to-hand match, and he… subdued you?”

Riker’s teeth ground so loudly the corpsman glanced over.

“He got lucky.”

Hale raised an eyebrow. “Lucky doesn’t dislocate a man your size.”

Riker said nothing.

Hale exhaled sharply and stood. “You know I should put Ward on report for this. But I’ve read the witness statements, and frankly… it sounds like you provoked him.”

Riker looked away, jaw twitching.

Hale continued, “Plus, the kid tried to avoid the fight. Half the platoon says you forced him.”

More silence.

Finally, Hale tapped the tablet and muttered, “I’ll speak to him. Dismissed.”

Riker pushed off the cot. “Commander,” he said, voice low and cold, “you ever wonder why a man like that comes in here acting like he’s nobody?”

Hale narrowed his eyes. “Careful, Chief.”

“It’s not normal,” Riker said. “Nobody fights like that unless they’ve done it before. A lot. And not in any training I’ve ever seen.”

Hale didn’t respond.

Riker smirked. “Exactly.”

The Barracks — Later That Night

The storm had passed, leaving the air heavy with that strange metallic scent that comes after lightning. Most of the men were asleep, sprawled across their bunks. But a small cluster lingered at the far end, whispering.

Ward sat on the edge of his bed, meticulously cleaning the mud from his boots. His ribs were still throbbing from Vega’s hit, but he ignored the pain. He was good at that.

Too good.

“Hey… Ward,” Parker called softly.

Ward looked up.

The young trainee stepped closer, glancing around as if checking for shadows. “Can I—uh—ask something?”

Ward waited.

Parker swallowed. “What you did today… where did you learn that?”

Ward resumed scrubbing his boot. “Here and there.”

“That wasn’t ‘here and there.’” Parker sat on the bunk across from him. “You moved before Riker even finished his punch. Like you knew what he would do before he did it.”

Ward didn’t answer.

“Look, man,” Parker continued, lowering his voice, “everyone’s talking. No one buys the ‘quiet kid with basic training’ thing anymore.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Ward finally looked up.

And Parker saw it—just for a second—something in Ward’s eyes. Something old. Something sharpened over years, not months.

But before Parker could say more, the barracks door slammed open.

Chief Riker stood there.

Not in uniform.

Not on duty.

Just standing.

Staring.

The room froze.

Ward straightened slowly, every muscle subtly tensing—not in fear, but in recognition.

Riker’s eyes swept the room until they locked on Ward. “Ward. Outside. Now.”

Parker opened his mouth, “Chief, he’s still hurt—”

“Not a request,” Riker snapped.

Ward rose, exhaled once, and followed him out.

Between the Barracks and the Pit

The night air was crisp, moonlight casting long shadows across the training yard. Riker stopped near the same muddy pit where the humiliation had happened.

Ward stood opposite him, silent.

“You think I’m done with you?” Riker growled.

Ward met his gaze calmly. “You want another fight, Chief?”

Riker smiled—but it was a smile with no warmth. “Not tonight.”

He stepped forward, close enough for Ward to smell the alcohol on his breath.

“I did some digging,” Riker whispered. “The way you fight. The way you react. The way you don’t talk. You think you can hide, but you can’t.”

Ward’s pulse slowed… just slightly.

Riker continued, “You weren’t supposed to be here, were you?”

Ward said nothing.

Riker chuckled. “So I made a call. To a guy I know in intel. Told him to check deeper.”

Ward’s stomach tightened—a tiny, imperceptible shift.

Riker leaned in. “Funny thing is… your file isn’t just redacted. It’s sealed. Top-level sealed.”

Ward’s expression didn’t change, but inside him, something went still. Very still.

Riker stepped back, voice rising. “So tell me—who the hell are you?”

Ward didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Instead, he said quietly, “Ask that question again, Chief… and you won’t like what happens.”

Riker laughed. “That a threat?”

“No,” Ward said. “A fact.”

Before Riker could respond, a sudden clatter rang out behind them.

Both men turned.

Three figures stepped from the shadows. Not trainees.

Not instructors.

Men in plain clothes.

Tall, sharp, expressionless.

Government.

The tallest one spoke. “Elias Ward.”

Ward’s shoulders stiffened—not in fear, but in recognition.

Not again.

Riker looked between them, confused. “Who the hell are you?”

The tallest agent ignored him. “Elias Ward, by order of the United States Special Activities Division, you are to come with us. Now.”

Riker blinked. “Special Activities? For a trainee? That’s impossible—he’s nobody.”

The second agent spoke, tone colder. “He is not ‘nobody.’ His clearance level exceeds yours, Chief.”

Ward exhaled… slow, resigned.

Then he asked the question he already knew the answer to.

“Is it about him?”

The agents exchanged a glance.

Then one nodded.

Riker stepped forward. “Someone tell me what’s going on!”

Ward turned to him, eyes no longer calm—now sharp as broken glass.

“My name wasn’t on your roster by accident,” he said quietly. “You were never supposed to push me. Never supposed to notice me.”

Riker glared. “Notice what?”

Ward paused.

Just long enough for the weight of what he was about to say to sink deep into the night air.

“My real name… isn’t Elias Ward.”

The agents stiffened.

Riker frowned. “Then what the hell is it?”

Ward stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s the name that made entire militias run. The name you were ordered never to say. The one they buried.”

He stared straight into Riker’s eyes.

“My real name is—”

A gunshot split the night.

Ward’s head snapped toward the treeline.

Another shot.

The agents dove for cover.

Riker dropped flat on instinct.

Ward didn’t move.

He simply muttered,

“…He found me.”

CHAPTER 3 — The Ghost’s Return

The third gunshot wasn’t aimed at Ward or the agents.

It was a warning.

A message.

A promise.

It echoed across Blackwater Ridge, bouncing off the metal towers and empty training fields until the night itself seemed to hold its breath.

The agents drew their pistols and formed a protective line around Ward. Riker scrambled behind a concrete barrier, too stunned to speak, too shocked to process the fact that this trainee—this quiet, ghostlike nobody—had just whispered a name that had chilled government men to the bone.

Ward’s eyes were trained on the treeline.

He knew that gait.

He knew that rhythm.

He knew the way shadows moved when he was near.

Parker burst out of the barracks, breathless. “What the hell is happening—?”

“Get back inside!” Riker barked.

But Parker froze when Ward stepped forward, calm as if walking into morning sunlight.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

A face carved hard by war, scar running from temple to jaw like a lightning strike frozen in time.

He wore no insignia.

No unit patch.

Because men like him didn’t belong to units.

They created them.

The agents stiffened as the man approached.

“Name yourself,” the lead agent ordered.

The man smirked. “You already know who I am.”

The agent swallowed but stood firm. “You’re not authorized to be—”

“You don’t authorize me,” the man cut in.

Ward felt the old ache surge through his ribs, through his memories. The rain from earlier still clung to the mud, and the moonlight caught on the stranger’s boots—same boots Ward once wore, years ago, in a place where morality came to die.

The man—the hunter—locked eyes with Ward and said:

“They told me you disappeared, brother.”

Parker’s mouth fell open. “Brother…?”

Ward didn’t answer.

The man tilted his head, studying him. “But you didn’t disappear. You hid. You tried to bury who you were.”

He took another step.

“And you really thought you could bury me with you?”

The agents raised their weapons. “Stop right there!”

The hunter didn’t slow. “If any of you pull that trigger, you won’t live long enough to hear the bullet casing hit the ground.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a statistical guarantee.

Ward finally spoke, voice low. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, but I should,” the hunter said softly. “You owe me a name. You owe me a life. And I’ve come to collect.”

Riker crawled closer to the agents, eyes darting between them. “Someone tell me what’s going on!”

Parker whispered, still shaking, “Sir… who is he?”

The agent closest to him murmured, “A ghost. A classified operation the military pretends never happened.”

The hunter smiled slightly. “Oh, they remember us. They just wish they didn’t.”

Ward stepped forward. “You’re not taking me back.”

“I’m not here to take you back.” The hunter’s eyes grew darker. “I’m here because he got out.”

Ward froze.

The agents stiffened.

Even Riker sensed the shift.

The hunter continued, voice almost gentle:

“The one whose name you buried deeper than your own. He broke out three days ago. Killed nine men. Left a message.”

He reached into his coat and tossed something at Ward’s feet.

A metal dog tag.

Bent.

Burned.

Ward stared at it.

A whisper escaped his lips.
“…No.”

The hunter nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Parker leaned toward Riker. “Who? Who are they talking about?”

Riker swallowed, voice quiet. “Someone worse than terrorists. Worse than deserters. Someone Ward once hunted.”

The hunter took another slow step, moonlight spilling across his face. “He wants you. He’s coming for you. That shot tonight? That wasn’t me. That was him.”

Ward clenched his fists. A tremor of pain flickered across his face—not from fear.

From memory.

From guilt.

The hunter lowered his voice. “You know what he said?”

Ward said nothing.

The hunter whispered:

“He said, ‘If Elias Ward wants to hide, I’ll burn every shadow he steps in.’”

The agents exchanged horrified looks.

The hunter continued, “He’s already killed two handlers. One of them gave up your location before dying.”

Ward’s breath hitched.

Not again.

Not this.

The hunter raised his chin. “So choose. Run and let him destroy this place… or face him.”

A long, heavy silence followed.

Then Ward spoke.

But he didn’t speak softly.

He didn’t speak like the quiet, invisible trainee he’d pretended to be.

He spoke like the man he truly was.

“No more running.”

The hunter’s eyes gleamed. “Good.”

Ward stepped closer. “But I’m not going with you.”

“No,” the hunter said. “You’ll walk to him on your own. That’s the deal.”

Ward frowned. “Deal with who?”

The hunter gave a chilling smile.
“With the people who erased your name.”

A wind swept across the field, cold and sharp.

The agents stiffened.

Riker stood frozen.

Parker whispered, “Your… real name. What is it?”

Ward turned to him.

For the first time since arriving at Blackwater Ridge, he let the mask fall.

“My name was classified because men died hearing it,” he said softly. “Because I wasn’t meant to exist. Because I was trained for things SEALs never speak about.”

The hunter added, “Because he was the only man we ever found who could kill him.”

Ward closed his eyes for one breath.

Then opened them.

And said the name they weren’t supposed to hear.

“My name is Aiden Cross.”

The wind seemed to stop.

Riker’s face went pale.

The agents stared in silence.

Parker stepped back, voice trembling. “The Aiden Cross? The one who—”

Ward cut him off. “That part of my life is dead.”

The hunter smirked. “Not dead. Buried. And someone’s digging.”

The distant sound of a single twig snapping echoed through the woods.

Not loud.

Not threatening.

But to Aiden Cross… unmistakable.

The hunter whispered, “He’s here.”

The agents raised their weapons.

Riker reached for a radio.

Parker’s knees buckled.

And Aiden Cross—no longer Ward, no longer hiding—stepped forward into the dark, his voice low and steady.

“Tell command to lock down the base. No one leaves. No one enters.”

The lead agent asked, “Why? What’s his objective?”

Aiden didn’t look away from the treeline.

“He’s not here to escape.”

Another twig cracked.

“He’s here to finish what he started.”

A shadow moved between the trees.

Slow.

Deliberate.

A silhouette tall enough to block the moonlight.

The hunter whispered, “Aiden…”

Aiden’s jaw tightened.

“I know,” he said.

The shadow stepped into the open, revealing a face twisted with scars—and a smile carved from pure vengeance.

Aiden Cross took one step forward.

And the man in the darkness grinned back.

“Hello, brother.”

CHAPTER 4 — The Night the Ghosts Went to War

The night swallowed the base whole.

No wind.
No birds.
No movement beyond the three silhouettes now standing at the edge of the training field:

Aiden Cross.
The Hunter.
And the man who once shared their blood oath… and broke it.

The Hellhound.

Even the agents lowered their guns, sensing a line they were not meant to cross. This was no longer their operation. This was history resurfacing—violent, intimate, and inevitable.

The Hellhound stepped forward, boots crushing the wet gravel. Moonlight licked across his scars, each one earned from missions whispered about only in rooms without windows.

He grinned, eyes locked on Aiden.

“You survived,” he said softly. “I’m impressed.”

Aiden didn’t blink. “Nine dead men. That’s what you call surviving?”

The Hellhound tilted his head. “Collateral.”

The Hunter snarled, stepping forward. “You murdered your own team!”

The Hellhound didn’t look at him. “They were weak.”

Aiden’s fists clenched.

“Then why did you come here?” Aiden asked.

The Hellhound’s smile widened, revealing a row of jagged teeth. “To free you.”

Aiden froze.

Parker whispered to Riker, “Free him from what?”

Riker shook his head, unable to speak.

The Hellhound lifted his arms slightly. “We were made for one purpose,” he said, voice calm, almost soothing. “To kill what others can’t. To go where others won’t. And you—”

He pointed at Aiden.

“—you were the best of us.”

Aiden didn’t move.

The Hellhound continued, “But then you grew a conscience. And the moment a weapon grows a conscience… it becomes a liability.”

The Hunter hissed, “He’s not a weapon.”

The Hellhound finally looked at him.

“Oh? Then why is he the only one who can kill me?”

The yard went dead silent.

Aiden took a slow step forward. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“But I did.” The Hellhound spread his arms. “And now you and I finish what they started.”

Aiden exhaled once.

And charged.

The Collision

They met in the center of the field like two storms slamming into each other.

Aiden’s first strike went straight for the throat—a killing blow.

The Hellhound caught it mid-air, twisted, and slammed Aiden into the mud with enough force to shake the earth.

Parker yelped.
The Hunter tensed.
Riker whispered, “Dear God…”

But Aiden rolled, swept the Hellhound’s leg, and sent him crashing sideways.

Not a clean hit.
Not decisive.
But enough.

The Hellhound sprang up instantly, laughing.

“Aiden! I MISSED THIS!”

He lunged.

Aiden dodged left—too slow.

The Hellhound’s elbow connected with his ribs—a sickening crack. Aiden gasped, but instead of retreating, he closed distance, jamming his shoulder into the Hellhound’s gut, driving him backward.

They slammed into the obstacle tower, shaking it.

The Hunter shouted, “Aiden! Don’t let him—”

Too late.

The Hellhound grabbed a metal rung and swung upward, kicking Aiden across the jaw. Aiden stumbled, vision flashing.

The Hellhound dropped down, landing like a predator.

“You’re slower,” he taunted. “Softer.”

Aiden spat blood. “You’re predictable.”

Then he vanished.

To normal eyes, he disappeared.
To the Hunter, he blurred.
To the Hellhound, he grinned.

Aiden reappeared behind him and drove his knee into the back of the Hellhound’s spine, followed by a rapid strike to the neck.

The Hellhound staggered.

But only for a second.

He turned with a roar and grabbed Aiden by the collar, hurling him so hard Aiden’s body cracked against the ground, rolling twice before stopping.

Parker screamed, “WARD!”

Aiden pushed himself up—slow but steady.

He looked at the Hellhound.

Then at the Hunter.

“Clear the field,” Aiden ordered.

The Hunter hesitated. “Aiden, he’ll kill you—”

“CLEAR. THE. FIELD.”

The authority in Aiden’s voice wasn’t human.

It was the voice of a man who’d earned the title that terrified militias across three continents.

The Hunter backed away, pulling Parker and Riker with him.

Leaving only Aiden and the Hellhound as the night closed in around them.

The Past Comes For Them

The Hellhound walked in slow circles, eyes never leaving Aiden.

“You remember the cabin?” he asked casually. “The night they told us we weren’t people anymore?”

Aiden’s jaw tightened.

“We were weapons,” the Hellhound said. “And weapons don’t retire.”

Aiden whispered, “Then let me put one down.”

He rushed forward.

This time—he didn’t hold back.

Three strikes—chest, throat, jaw.
Two blocks—wrist, elbow.
One takedown—clean, brutal, precise.

The Hellhound hit the ground.

Aiden mounted him, pounding fist after fist into his face. Blood sprayed the dirt.

The Hellhound laughed through broken teeth.

“THAT’S the Aiden I remember!”

He twisted violently, reversing the position. Now he was on top, crushing Aiden’s throat with both hands.

Aiden clawed at his wrists, vision darkening.

The Hellhound leaned in, voice a whisper soaked in venom.

“We were supposed to rule, brother. Not run.”

Aiden’s vision flickered—

—then sharpened.

His hand found the Hellhound’s shoulder.

Not pushing.

Not resisting.

Gripping.

Aiden whispered, “I’m not your brother.”

And he drove his thumb straight into the Hellhound’s eye.

The Hellhound shrieked, falling backward, clutching his face.

Aiden sucked in air, coughed, then rose.

Slow.

Painfully.

But unstoppable.

The Hellhound staggered up, blood pouring from his ruined eye.

“You think you can end me?” he rasped.

Aiden looked at him without emotion.

“I already did.”

And then—

He moved.

A blur.
A shadow.
A strike that looked almost inhuman.

Aiden’s hand wrapped around the Hellhound’s neck.

A twist.

A crack.

Silence.

The Hellhound collapsed into the mud, eyes—one ruined, one wide—staring at nothing.

Aiden stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his jaw, knuckles raw and split open.

It was finished.

But it didn’t feel like victory.

Only necessity.

Aftermath

The Hunter rushed to Aiden’s side. “Aiden—Aiden, look at me. You good?”

Aiden didn’t answer.

He stared at the body.

At the mud.

At the scars he thought he’d left behind.

Riker and Parker approached slowly, the younger man trembling.

Parker whispered, “Did we… just watch two monsters fight?”

Aiden finally breathed—shaky and low.

“No,” he said. “You watched one monster kill another.”

No one spoke.

The night was still again.

The danger was gone.

But something else lingered in the air—unsettling, heavy, true.

The Hunter placed a hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “They’ll come for you now.”

“I know.”

“They’ll want you back.”

“I’ll say no.”

“And if they don’t accept that?”

Aiden’s eyes narrowed at the horizon.

“Then I’ll make them.”

The agents stepped forward cautiously. “Aiden Cross… what do we tell Command?”

Aiden wiped the blood from his mouth.

“Tell them,” he said quietly, “that the Hellhound is dead.”

He turned away.

“But the Ghost they created still walks.”

END