Ghosts of the Last War

The Prague Connection

The airport smelled like cheap coffee and desperation.

Xander moved through the terminal with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years learning to be invisible. His appearance had changed since the fishing town—a fresh shave, a new jacket, a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a businessman on vacation. The limp was still there, but he'd learned to mask it, turning the uneven gait into something that looked like casual confidence.

His leg screamed with every step, but he ignored it.

Prague was cold. The kind of cold that seeped through your clothes and settled in your bones, reminding you that winter hadn't finished with this part of the world. Xander had been here once before, during a training exercise that had gone sideways and ended with three dead Russians and a cover-up that had made his skin crawl.

He'd hoped never to come back.

The satellite phone was gone, ditched in a garbage can at the airport in Frankfurt. Reyes had told him to get a secure line, and he'd done exactly that—a burner phone purchased with cash from a shop that didn't ask questions. The number was new. Untraceable. For now.

He found a corner in the terminal and pulled out the phone. No messages. No missed calls. He'd been in the air for twelve hours, and the silence was deafening.

She said she'd contact me.

The doubt was creeping in, cold and insidious. What if the second caller had been right? What if Reyes was a trap, a way for Prometheus to draw him out and eliminate him? What if he'd walked into something he couldn't walk out of?

The thought made him laugh, bitter and hollow. He'd been walking into traps his whole life. The military had taught him that. Every mission was a gamble, every deployment a roll of the dice. The only difference now was that he was the one choosing the odds.

The phone buzzed.

Xander's heart jumped. He glanced at the screen, expecting a number, a code, a message from Reyes.

Instead, he saw a name he hadn't expected.

Hound.

He answered. "You made it."

"I'm here," Hawthorn said. His voice was rough, the way it always was when he'd been traveling. "You're at the airport?"

"Terminal Two. Corner near the Burger King."

"I see you. Don't look up."

Xander kept his eyes forward, scanning the crowd without moving his head. Hawthorn was good at this—better than most. If he said he could see Xander, he was somewhere with a clear line of sight, watching for threats.

"Anything?" Xander asked.

"You're clean. For now. I've been here three hours, checking the place. No tails. No suspicious faces. But that doesn't mean they're not here."

"It means they're better than we are."

"Or they're waiting for us to make a move." Hawthorn paused. "You look like s**t, by the way."

"I haven't slept in thirty-six hours."

"Same old Cross. Never knew when to quit." A figure detached itself from the crowd and moved toward Xander's corner. Hawthorn was tall, broad-shouldered, his face a roadmap of old scars and new worries. He wore a leather jacket that had seen better days, and his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

He sat down across from Xander and set a cup of coffee on the table between them.

"Drink," he said. "You look like you need it."

Xander took the coffee. The warmth spread through his fingers, but it didn't touch the cold inside him. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. We haven't found anything. We haven't done anything. This could all be a wild goose chase."

"It's not."

"You don't know that."

"I know what I saw. I know what I heard. The men who killed my unit are out there, and they're still doing what they've always done. I'm not going to stop until I find them."

Hawthorn studied him for a long moment. "You really believe Reynolds is alive, don't you?"

"I believe the official report was a lie. I believe someone faked their deaths and used them for something terrible. I don't know if they're still alive, Hound. But I know they're not dead. Not in the way the world thinks."

"That's a dangerous line of thinking."

"Everything about this is dangerous. That's why I called you."

Hawthorn laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm not here because I believe you, Cross. I'm here because you're the only person who ever knew what I was running from. The only person who didn't judge me for the things I did."

"You saved my life in Afghanistan. I never forgot that."

"You didn't save mine. You just—"

"I know what I did. Don't pretend you don't remember."

Hawthorn's face tightened. "Fine. I remember. And I'm here because I owe you. But that doesn't mean I trust you. Not yet."

"Trust isn't something I'm asking for."

"Good. Because you're not getting it." Hawthorn leaned forward. "What's the plan? You said you had a meeting in Prague. Where and when?"

"Tonight. A place called the Golden Lion. It's a bar in the old town. Reyes said to meet her there at nine."

"That's three hours from now."

"I know."

"Then what do we do for three hours?"

Xander took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter, almost undrinkable. He'd never liked coffee. But it was hot, and it kept him awake, and that was all that mattered.

"We wait," he said. "We watch. And we find out if anyone else is waiting for us."

---

The Golden Lion was a tourist trap.

That was the first thing Xander noticed when he walked through the door. The walls were covered in cheap reproductions of old paintings, and the patrons were mostly Americans and Brits, drinking overpriced beer and pretending to be cultured. The bar was loud, chaotic, the opposite of the kind of place a secret meeting should take place.

Which was exactly why Reyes had chosen it.

Xander found a table in the corner, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. Hawthorn was at the bar, nursing a beer and pretending to be a tourist. They'd agreed on this—one inside, one out. If something went wrong, they'd have a chance to respond.

The minutes ticked past. Eight-thirty. Eight-forty. Eight-fifty.

The door opened.

Xander's hand drifted toward the pistol at his waist. But the man who walked in was not Reyes. He was tall, thin, with a face that seemed carved from granite. He wore a suit that cost more than Xander's fishing boat, and his eyes were cold, calculating.

He walked directly to Xander's table and sat down without being invited.

"Sergeant Cross," the man said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd show."

Xander's pulse quickened. "Who are you?"

"A friend. Someone who knows what you're looking for."

"I'm looking for a woman named Maya Reyes."

"Reyes is dead."

The words hit Xander like a physical blow. "What?"

"She was killed forty-eight hours ago. She was ambushed in her apartment in Vienna. They made it look like a robbery, but we both know the truth."

Xander's hands curled into fists. "How do you know this?"

"Because I was the one who found her body." The man reached into his jacket. Xander tensed, ready to draw his weapon. But the man pulled out a photograph and slid it across the table.

It was Reyes. Her face was pale, her eyes closed. There was a wound on her temple, small and neat. Professional.

Xander stared at the photograph. His mind was racing, trying to process what he was seeing. The woman who had sent him the message. The woman who had promised to help him. Dead.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

"My name is Elias Vance. I was General Vance. Retired now. And I was the one who authorized the Karakum operation."

Xander's blood ran cold. "You?"

"I know what you're thinking. I'm the man who got your unit killed. I'm the man who covered up the truth. And you're right. I did all of those things. But I also spent the last seven years trying to undo them."

"Undo them? You killed my men!"

"I made a mistake. A terrible, unforgivable mistake. But I'm trying to fix it, Cross. The weapon that killed your unit—the Ghost Protocol—it's still out there. And the people who built it are still using it. Every day, more soldiers are being taken, more lives are being destroyed. I can't stop them on my own."

"Then why should I help you?"

"Because Reyes was the only person who knew the full truth. And now that she's gone, there's no one else. If I don't do this, if we don't do this, the weapon will be used again. And more people will die."

Xander stared at Vance. The man's eyes were earnest, pleading. But Xander had been lied to too many times. He'd trusted too many people who had let him down.

"Prove it," he said. "Prove you're not working for them."

Vance reached into his pocket again. This time, he pulled out a small data stick and slid it across the table. "Everything I have. Every file, every recording, every piece of evidence I've gathered over the last seven years. It's all there. If you read it, you'll see the truth. And you'll understand why I need your help."

Xander picked up the data stick. It was small, almost weightless. But it felt heavier than anything he'd ever carried.

"If this is a trap—"

"It's not."

"You understand why I don't trust you."

"I would be disappointed if you did." Vance stood up. "Read the files. Make your decision. I'll be in touch."

"Wait." Xander's voice was sharp. "Reyes told me the man who killed my CO was Simon Webb. The colonel's son."

Vance's face went pale. "Simon Webb is dead. He died in the Karakum Mountains, same as your men."

"She said he was alive. She said he was working for Prometheus."

"She was wrong." Vance's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Simon Webb is dead. I saw the body myself. I buried him."

"Then who killed my captain?"

"I don't know." Vance's eyes flickered with something that might have been fear. "But if Reyes told you that, she was more afraid than I realized. There are things she knew, things she never told me. And now she's gone."

Vance turned and walked toward the door.

Xander watched him go, the data stick burning in his hand. He wanted to believe the man. He wanted to trust him. But the photograph of Reyes's body was still on the table, and the image of her lifeless face was burned into his mind.

Hawthorn appeared at his side. "Who was that?"

"Elias Vance. Former general. He says he's trying to help."

"And you believe him?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore." Xander stood up, pocketing the data stick. "We need to get out of here. If someone's watching, they know we're here."

The door of the Golden Lion swung open.

Xander's hand went to his pistol.

Two men stood in the doorway. They were dressed in dark suits, their faces cold, professional. They didn't look like tourists. They looked like hunters.

One of them raised a hand and pointed directly at Xander.

"Down!" Xander shouted.

He dove for cover as the first shots rang out. The sound of gunfire echoed through the bar, drowning out the screams of the tourists. Hawthorn was already moving, his pistol out, returning fire.

The two men ducked behind a table, exchanging shots with Xander and Hawthorn. The bar was chaos, people scrambling for cover, glass shattering, bullets tearing through the walls.

Xander popped up from behind his table, fired twice, and ducked back down. One of the men went down, clutching his chest.

The other man kept firing.

"I'm out!" Hawthorn shouted.

Xander reached into his pocket and pulled out the data stick. He had a choice. He could try to escape, to preserve the evidence Vance had given him. Or he could fight, risk losing everything, and maybe, just maybe, survive.

The gunfire stopped.

Xander looked up. The second man was standing in the middle of the bar, his pistol trained on Xander's head.

"Drop the weapon," the man said. "And the data stick. Slowly."

Xander's mind raced. He had seconds to decide. Seconds to act.

He looked at the data stick in his hand. The evidence. The truth. Everything he'd been searching for.

And he knew what he had to do.

He threw the data stick as hard as he could, straight at the man's face.

The man reacted, flinching, and the pistol shot went wide.

Xander was already moving, closing the distance, his shoulder driving into the man's chest. They crashed into a table, shattering it, and Xander's fist connected with the man's jaw, once, twice, three times.

The man went limp.

Xander stood up, breathing hard. His leg was screaming, the old wound on fire. But he was alive. They were alive.

"Let's go," he said, grabbing Hawthorn by the arm. "Now."

They ran out the back door, into the cold Prague night.

The data stick was gone, lost in the chaos of the bar. The evidence that Vance had given him was lost, maybe forever.

But Xander still had the photograph. The designation. The number that Captain Reynolds had carved into a wall.

HZ-78821.

He still had the truth. He just didn't know how to find it.

---

They ran for two blocks, then ducked into an alley.

Hawthorn was breathing hard, his face pale. "That was close. Too close."

"They were waiting for us. They knew we'd be there."

"How did they know?"

Xander thought about it. The second caller, the warning about Reyes. The ambush at his home. The attack at the bar. Someone was always one step ahead, always waiting for him to make a move.

"I don't know," he said. "But I'm going to find out."

He pulled out the burner phone. No messages. No calls. But there was one number he knew he could trust. One number that might give him answers.

He dialed.

The phone rang twice. Then a voice answered.

"You're still alive," Maya Reyes said. "I was beginning to worry."

Xander's blood ran cold. "You're dead. Vance said you were dead."

"Vance is a liar. I've been hiding in Prague, waiting for you. The man who attacked you at the bar was one of Vance's men. He's trying to kill you, Cross. He's trying to stop you from finding the truth."

"The truth about what?"

"The truth about the Ghost Protocol. The truth about Karakum. The truth about who really killed your men." Reyes's voice was urgent, desperate. "Meet me at the Charles Bridge. One hour. Come alone."

The line went dead.

Xander stared at the phone. Vance said Reyes was dead. Reyes said Vance was trying to kill him.

One of them was lying.

But which one?

He looked at Hawthorn, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

"What now?" Hawthorn asked.

Xander pocketed the phone. "We go to the Charles Bridge. And we find out who's telling the truth."

"You said she wanted you to come alone."

"I know."

"Then why am I coming?"

"Because I'm not stupid." Xander's voice was cold, determined. "And because I'm done trusting people who want me to trust them."

He started walking, his leg screaming, his heart pounding.

The night was cold, and the only light came from the distant glow of the city.

Somewhere out there, Reyes was waiting.

And somewhere out there, the man who wanted him dead was watching.

Xander didn't care who it was.

He was going to find them.

And he was going to make them pay.