GHOST SOLDIER

THE JOURNALIST

CHAPTER 3: THE JOURNALIST

Rule 5: Never trust a civilian.

Rule 6: Especially don’t trust a journalist.

Rule 7: Break Rule 5 and 6 only when you have no other choice.

I’m breaking all three today.

Maya Reyes works out of a small office above a coffee shop.

No security. No cameras.

Either she’s brave or she’s stupid.

I’ve been watching her for 6 hours from across the street.

She came in at 8am. Left twice for coffee.

Talked to three people. All of them looked nervous.

She’s in her early 30s. Sharp eyes. Always scanning.

The kind of person who notices when someone is watching her.

Good. I need someone who notices things.

At 3pm she leaves the office alone.

No bag. Just a phone and a notebook.

Perfect.

I follow her. Three blocks. Two turns.

She stops at a park. Sits on a bench.

Pulls out her notebook and starts writing.

I sit on the other end of the bench.

Leave two feet of space between us.

She doesn’t look up.

"You’ve been following me since the coffee shop," she says.

My hand moves to my gun. Stops.

"And you noticed."

"Occupational hazard," she says. Finally looks at me.

"You’re not the police. Not military. Not one of the usual government goons."

She tilts her head. "You’re the ghost."

The word hits me.

"What?"

"The ghost soldier," she says. "There’s been rumors for years.

Assets with no records. Missions that never happened.

I’ve been chasing that story for 18 months."

I stand up. Too much. Too fast.

"How do you know about—"

"Sit down," she says, voice low. "Before you get us both killed."

I sit.

She closes her notebook.

"You called my office yesterday. Hung up.

That was you, wasn’t it?"

I don’t answer.

"Look," she says. "I don’t care who you are.

I care about the story. And if you’re here, it means you have one."

I pull the folder from my bag.

Keep the tablet hidden.

I slide one page across the bench.

The photo. Me at 22, standing next to Handler.

The circled man in the suit.

She picks it up. Her eyes widen.

"This is General Ortega. He died in 2005. Car accident."

"Wasn’t an accident," I say.

She flips the page. See the list of names.

Her hand starts shaking.

"Where did you get this?" she whispers.

"From the people who made me," I say.

She looks at me. Really looks at me.

"You’re not supposed to exist."

"Tell me something I don’t know."

She closes the folder and hands it back.

"If this is real, you need to get it out. Now.

Before they find you."

"They already did," I say. "Yesterday. Warehouse by the docks."

Her face goes pale.

"Viper?"

"You know him?"

"I know the name," she says. "He’s Handler’s best asset.

Which means Handler sent him after you."

"The handler tried to talk me down," I say. "Didn’t shoot."

"Yet," she says.

We sit in silence for a minute.

The park is empty. Too quiet.

"Why me?" she asks. "There are bigger journalists. More protected."

"Because you’re not protected," I say. "Which means they’re not watching you as close.

And because you’re the only one who’s been writing about this."

She laughs. Bitter.

"I’ve written three articles. All of them got pulled.

My editor said I was seeing conspiracies where there weren’t any."

"There are," I say.

She nods. "Okay. What do you need?"

"Your help," I say. "To decrypt this."

I pull out the tablet.

Her eyes go wide again.

"Is that—"

"File Omega," I say. "Everything. Names. Accounts. Locations.

But it’s locked."

She takes it carefully, like it’s a bomb.

"Where can we work on this? Somewhere safe."

"Nowhere is safe," I say. "But there’s a place.

An old safehouse. 25 years and they don’t know about it."

The safehouse is 40 minutes outside the city.

Abandoned farmhouse. No power. No internet.

I used it once in 2011. For three days.

We get there as the sun sets.

Maya looks around. "You live like this?"

"I lived underground for 25 years," I say. "This is a palace."

She sets up on the floor. Laptop. Tablet. Cables.

"You said it was encrypted?"

"Military grade," I say. "Biometric. Password. Probably a kill switch too."

She plugs it in. The screen lights up.

ENTER PASSWORD

She tries a few things. Nothing.

"Do you have any idea what the password could be?"

"File Omega," I say. "The coordinates. 2001."

"I already tried those," I say.

She frowns. Stares at the screen.

"Sometimes it’s not about the obvious.

Sometimes it’s about the person."

"What do you mean?"

She looks at me. "What’s the one thing you remember from the day you ‘died’?"

I close my eyes.

Heat. Noise. The voice on the radio.

"Target eliminated."

And before that.

My sister’s voice. On the phone.

The last call I made.

"Come home safe, kuya."

My eyes snap open.

I type: `Kuya`

ACCESS GRANTED

The tablet unlocks.

We both stare at it.

"Your sister," Maya says softly.

I nod. Can’t speak.

The screen fills with files.

Hundreds of them.

Videos. Documents. Bank transfers.

Audio recordings.

Maya starts opening them.

Her face gets paler with each one.

"Oh my god," she whispers. "It’s all here.

Every dirty op for the last 25 years.

They’ve been assassinating people. Rigging elections.

Starting wars."

She clicks on a video.

It’s the Director.

I’ve never seen his face before.

He’s in a room with 11 other people. All of them in shadow.

"We’re ready to initiate Protocol Nightfall," he says.

"Global markets will crash in 72 hours.

By the time they recover, we’ll own them.

Project Ghost Soldier will handle any resistance."

The video ends.

72 hours.

Maya looks at me. "When was this recorded?"

I check the date stamp.

"4 days ago."

"We have less than 3 days," she says.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I answer.

"7." Handler’s voice.

I don’t say anything.

"You have something that doesn’t belong to you," he says.

"Give it back. And I can still get you out of this."

"Out?" I laugh. "There is no out. You told me that yourself."

There’s a pause.

"Then you need to run. Far. And fast.

Because in 10 minutes, this location will be a crater."

The line goes dead.

Maya heard everything.

"How did he find us?"

"The tablet," I say. "It’s tracking us."

I grab the tablet. Throw it out the window.

It lands in the dirt.

"Now we run," I say.

We get to my car. Old. No GPS.

I drive. Fast.

Behind us, two SUVs pull onto the road.

Viper.

"They found us," Maya says.

"Hold on."

I take a turn too fast. The car slides.

Another turn. Into the trees.

The SUVs follow.

Gunfire. They’re shooting at the tires.

I swerve. Hit the brakes.

The car spins.

We’re facing them now.

Four men get out. Guns up.

Viper is in front.

Mask on. Just like Handler that first day.

"Last chance, 7," he calls out. "Come quietly."

I got out of the car. Hands up.

Maya stays inside.

"You know I can’t do that," I say.

Viper shrugs. "Didn’t think so."

He raises his gun.

I move.

It’s over in 12 seconds.

I’ve done this a thousand times.

When it’s done, four men are down.

Viper is on the ground, bleeding from his shoulder.

I kneel next to him.

"Why?" I ask.

"Orders," he gasps. "Same as you."

"Whose orders?"

He smiles. Blood on his teeth.

"Director’s."

He passes out.

I dragged him to the car.

We can’t leave him here.

Maya is shaking.

"You killed them."

"No," I say. "I didn’t. They’ll live.

I need them to."

We drive.

Away from the safehouse.

Away from the city.

Maya is quiet for a long time.

Then she says, "What now?"

"Now," I say, "we finish this.

We get the files to someone who can publish them.

Someone the Director can’t touch."

"Who?" she asks.

"International court," I say. "UN. Anyone.

But first, we need to survive the next 48 hours."

My phone buzzes again.

Unknown number.

I answer.

"7," Handler says. "You made a mistake."

"What?"

"You should have killed Viper," he says.

"Now he’s going to tell them everything.

And they’re going to come for you harder."

"Then let them come," I say.

There’s another pause.

Longer this time.

"Meet me," he says. "Alone.

Tonight. Midnight.

The bridge outside the city.

Come alone, and I’ll tell you how to stop Nightfall."

"Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn’t," he says. "But you will.

Because you don’t have a choice."

He hangs up.

Maya looks at me.

"You can’t go."

"I have to," I say.

"Then I’m coming with you."

"No," I say. "This is my fight."

She grabs my arm.

"You don’t have to do this alone anymore.

That’s what the last 25 years were, right?

Alone."

I look at her.

At the files on her laptop.

At the woman who’s risking her life for a story.

"Fine," I say. "But you follow my lead.

And if I say run, you run."

She nods.

Midnight. The bridge.

Handler.

It’s a trap.

It has to be a trap.

But it’s the only lead we have.

And we’re out of time.

- END OF CHAPTER 3 -