Ashes from the West

The Running Dark

The plasma bolt missed the VTOL's tail by inches.

Ronan felt the heat through the hull, smelled the ozone that sizzled in the air. Ghost threw the ship into a violent roll, dropping them below the roofline of a collapsed mall. The hunter drone screamed overhead, its targeting array painting the ruins with red light.

"Zip!" Ghost yelled. "That jamming better be doing something!"

"It's doing plenty!" Zip shouted back from her station. "They can't lock onto us. But they can still see us. And they've got friends coming!"

Ronan looked at the radar. Three blips had become five. The hunter drones were calling for backup.

"We need to lose them," he said. "There's a tunnel system under the old freeway. It leads to the coast. If we can get low enough—"

"Too low and we scrape the belly," Ghost cut in. "This bird isn't built for tunnel running."

"She is now. Fly lower."

Ghost cursed but didn't argue. He dropped the VTOL until the landing skids were almost touching the cracked asphalt. The tunnel entrance loomed ahead—a dark maw that swallowed the morning light.

"Here we go," Ghost muttered.

He punched the throttle. The VTOL screamed into the tunnel, its wings barely clearing the walls. Sparks flew as metal scraped concrete. The hunter drones tried to follow, but the tunnel was too narrow. They banked away, their targeting arrays useless in the confined space.

"One problem down," Zip said. "Now we've got another. The tunnel is a straight shot. When we come out the other side, they'll be waiting."

"Then we don't come out the other side."

Ronan pulled up a map on his tablet. The tunnel system was a labyrinth, branching off in a dozen different directions. Most of the branches were collapsed or flooded. But one—a maintenance shaft that led to an old subway line—was still open.

"There," he said, pointing. "Take that turn. It'll take us under the city. We can come up on the other side of the drones."

Ghost followed the directions without hesitation. The VTOL banked hard, nearly clipping the tunnel wall, and dove into the maintenance shaft. The darkness was absolute. The only light came from the cockpit instruments and the faint glow of Zip's screens.

"This is insane," Ghost said. "We're flying blind."

"Not blind. I've got the tunnel mapped. Just follow the coordinates."

The maintenance shaft opened into a wider space—an abandoned subway station. The VTOL's landing lights illuminated old advertisements and rusted turnstiles. A train car sat on the tracks, its windows shattered, its interior hollowed out by scavengers.

Ghost hovered the VTOL in the middle of the station. "We need to stop. The engines are overheating."

"How long?"

"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."

Ronan checked the radar. The hunter drones were still above ground, circling the tunnel entrance. They hadn't followed them into the labyrinth.

"We've got time," he said. "Rest the engines. Zip, keep scanning. Let me know if they find us."

---

The silence was oppressive.

Ronan leaned back in his seat, his eyes closed. The wound in his side was throbbing again, but it was bearable. He'd endured worse.

He thought about Lyra. About the last time he'd seen her.

It was three years ago. She'd been eleven, standing in the doorway of his lab, her arms crossed. She was angry—angry that he'd missed her school play, angry that he'd promised to come and then forgotten.

"You always do this," she'd said. "You always choose work over me."

"Lyra, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"You always say that too."

She'd walked away. And he'd let her.

He hadn't seen her since.

The divorce had been messy. Evania had used Lyra as a weapon, threatening to take her away if he didn't sign the papers. He'd signed. He'd signed because he knew he was poison—knew that his work, his obsession, his refusal to let go of the past—would destroy anyone who got close to him.

He'd let her go. And now she was in Boston, surrounded by drones, and he was three thousand miles away.

"Ronan."

Zip's voice pulled him back. He opened his eyes.

"I've got something," she said. "A transmission. It's weak, but it's coming from Boston."

"Lyra?"

"Maybe. But it's heavily encrypted. It's going to take me a few minutes to crack."

"Work faster."

She glared at him. "I'm not a miracle worker. I'm a hacker. There's a difference."

Ronan stood, ignoring the pain in his side. He walked over to her station and looked at the screen. The transmission was a burst of data—short, intense, like a cry for help.

"Can you trace it?" he asked.

"Already trying. It's bouncing off three relay towers. Someone's trying to hide their location."

"Storm?"

"No. This is sloppy. Amateur hour. Whoever sent this doesn't know what they're doing."

Ronan's heart raced. Amateur. That meant Lyra. She'd always been clever, but she wasn't a trained operative. She was just a girl trying to survive.

"Get me a location," he said. "Even a general one."

Zip's fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm trying. But the signal is degrading. It's like it's being interfered with."

"Storm's drones. They're scrambling the transmission."

"Probably. But I can still get a general fix. Boston, refugee sector nine. That's the same location from the first transmission."

Ronan closed his eyes. She was still there. Still alive. But for how long?

"Ghost," he said. "How are the engines?"

"Cooling down. Another five minutes and we can move."

"We don't have five minutes. We need to go now."

Ghost turned in his seat. "Ronan, if we push the engines too hard—"

"We'll crash. I know. But if we don't move, we're dead anyway. Those drones are going to find us eventually. And when they do, they'll call in reinforcements."

Ghost stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. But you're buying me a new VTOL after this."

"It's a deal."

Ghost fired up the engines. The VTOL lifted off, hovering above the subway tracks. He guided it through the station and back into the tunnel system, following Ronan's map.

"Where are we heading?" Ghost asked.

"The coast. There's a supply depot near San Francisco. Storm's ships resupply there. We can infiltrate one of them."

"And then?"

"Then we find the Titan. We find Elira Ashford. We find the kill switch."

"And your daughter?"

Ronan was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "We find her too. No matter what."

---

The tunnel opened onto the coast.

The sun was rising over the Pacific, painting the water gold and orange. The city of San Francisco was a ghost town—its skyline broken, its streets empty. The Golden Gate Bridge was still standing, but it was covered in scaffolding, the result of a failed evacuation attempt.

Ronan spotted the supply depot in the distance. It was a collection of warehouses and docks, surrounded by a high fence. A single ship was docked there—a cargo vessel that looked civilian from the outside.

"Storm's resupply ship," he said. "We need to get on board."

"How?" Ghost asked. "It's guarded."

"We don't fight. We sneak."

Zip snorted. "Sneak? In a VTOL that screams like a dying cat?"

"We don't use the VTOL. We go on foot."

Ghost set the VTOL down in a parking garage, hidden from view. Ronan grabbed his vest and checked his weapons. He had a pistol, a knife, and a small bag of tools.

"Zip, you stay with the ship," he said. "Ghost, you're with me."

"Wait." Zip stepped forward. "I'm not staying behind. I can help."

"You can help by keeping the engines warm. If something goes wrong, we need a way out."

"But—"

"No arguments. Stay here. We'll be back."

He saw the look in her eyes. Disappointment. Fear. She didn't want to be left alone.

But she nodded.

---

Ronan and Ghost moved through the ruins like ghosts themselves. They stayed in the shadows, avoiding open spaces, moving from cover to cover. The supply depot was heavily guarded—armed men patrolled the perimeter, their eyes scanning the darkness.

"Security is tight," Ghost whispered. "How do we get past them?"

Ronan pulled out a small device—a frequency jammer he'd built in his shop. "I've got a trick. It's a short-range jammer. It'll disrupt their comms for about thirty seconds. That's our window."

"Thirty seconds. That's not much."

"It's enough."

Ronan activated the jammer. The guards' radios crackled, their voices fading to static. He saw them glance at their receivers, confused.

"Now."

They moved fast. Across the open space, past the guard shack, into the shadow of the cargo ship. The ramp was down, a dark tunnel that led into the belly of the ship.

Ronan paused at the bottom of the ramp, listening. He heard voices from inside—the low murmur of conversation. A patrol.

"Two guards," he whispered. "One on the left, one on the right."

"I'll take left," Ghost said.

"Wait. Let me—"

But Ghost was already moving. He was silent, his steps light. He reached the first guard and put him in a chokehold, dragging him into the shadows. The second guard turned, too late—Ronan was already there, his knife pressed against the man's throat.

"One sound," Ronan said. "Just one sound, and you're dead."

The guard nodded, his eyes wide.

Ronan dragged him into the shadows and bound his hands. Then he and Ghost moved deeper into the ship.

---

The cargo hold was a maze of crates and containers. Ronan scanned them quickly, looking for something useful. Weapons. Supplies. Anything.

"This is a weapons shipment," he said, pointing to a crate stamped with military markings. "Storm is arming himself for something big."

"Bigger than burning the East Coast?"

"Much bigger."

Ghost whistled. "So this is just the beginning."

"Storm wants to remake the world. He's not going to stop with America. He'll go global."

"And you want to stop him."

"I want to save my daughter. If stopping him comes with that, then good."

They moved through the cargo hold, deeper into the ship. The voices grew louder—a group of guards in the mess hall. Ronan peeked through the door.

"Six guards," he said. "They're eating. Not paying attention."

"We could take them."

"No. We don't want to leave a trail. We just need to find the bridge."

They backtracked, finding a stairwell that led to the upper decks. The bridge was at the front of the ship, a glass-walled room that overlooked the dock.

Ronan opened the door carefully. The bridge was empty.

"Jackpot," Ghost said.

Ronan moved to the navigation console. He pulled a cable from his bag and connected it to the ship's computer. Zip's program began to run, downloading navigation data.

"How long?" Ghost asked.

"Two minutes."

They heard shouting from below. The guards had found their bound comrades.

"Two minutes," Ronan repeated. "Hurry."

Ghost moved to the door, his pistol drawn. "I'll hold them off."

"No. We do this together."

Ronan's fingers flew across the console. The data was downloading, but it was slow. Too slow.

"One minute," he said.

The shouting grew louder. Footsteps on the stairs.

"Thirty seconds."

Ghost raised his pistol. The door burst open.

"Don't move!"

A guard stood in the doorway, his rifle aimed at Ghost. Behind him, more guards were arriving.

"Drop your weapons!" the guard shouted.

Ronan looked at the console. The download was at ninety-nine percent.

"Now!" Ronan shouted.

He grabbed the data stick and dove for cover. Ghost fired, hitting the first guard. The others returned fire, and the bridge erupted in chaos.

Ronan crawled behind a console, his pistol drawn. He fired blindly, trying to keep the guards' heads down.

"Ghost!" he shouted. "The window!"

Ghost understood. He aimed at the glass and fired three shots. It shattered, and the wind howled into the bridge.

"Go!" Ronan yelled.

He ran for the broken window, Ghost behind him. They jumped, falling toward the dock below. The impact was brutal—Ronan's side screamed with pain, but he forced himself to move.

"Run!" Ghost shouted.

They ran through the depot, the guards shouting behind them. The VTOL was still in the parking garage, its engines humming.

Zip saw them coming and opened the door. "What happened?!"

"Get us out of here!" Ronan shouted.

Ghost threw himself into the pilot's seat. The VTOL lifted off, rising into the morning sky. The guards fired at them, but their bullets bounced off the hull.

Ronan collapsed into his seat, gasping. His side was bleeding again. His head was spinning.

"Did we get the data?" he asked.

Zip held up the stick. "We got it. But we've got a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

She showed him the screen. The navigation data had been encrypted. It would take hours to crack.

"Hours," Ronan repeated. "We don't have hours."

"We don't have a choice."

Ronan looked out the window. The coast was behind them. The East Coast was ahead.

And somewhere in Boston, his daughter was waiting.

"Get us to the coast," he said. "And find me a way to crack that encryption. Fast."

"I'll do what I can."

"Good. Because we're not going to have a second chance."