GHOST SOLDIER

FILE OMEGA

CHAPTER 2: FILE OMEGA

The first 48 hours off the grid are the most dangerous.

That’s what they taught us in training.

After that, you’re either dead, captured, or you’ve gone so deep they’ll never find you.

I’ve been underground for 25 years.

Now I’m learning how to live above it.

I’m in a city that doesn’t exist on any map I’m allowed to know.

Southeast Asia. Humid. Crowded. Perfect for disappearing.

I haven’t slept. Not really.

Every noise is a drone. Every shadow is Viper.

Every person looking at me too long is Handler.

My hands still smell like blood and metal from the basement.

The dying asset’s blood.

File Omega.

I keep saying it in my head like a prayer. Like a curse.

Coordinates. That’s all I have.

Coordinates and two words that got a man killed.

I found an internet café. One of those places with flickering lights and fans that don’t work.

The owner doesn’t ask questions if you pay in cash.

I type the coordinates into a public mapping site.

The location pops up: An abandoned warehouse.

Industrial district. 20 minutes from here.

I should wait. I should plan.

Rule 3: The mission comes first. Always.

But the mission is over.

I’m the mission now.

The warehouse is exactly what I expected.

Concrete. Broken windows. Chain link fence with a hole cut in it.

Someone’s been here recently. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt.

I go in through the roof. Old habit.

Inside it’s dark and it smells like rust and seawater.

Shipping containers stacked three high.

And in the middle of the floor, under a single hanging light bulb...

A metal case.

Government issue. Unmarked.

The kind we used to move things that didn’t exist.

My heart is pounding. 25 years of training and I still feel like that 22-year-old kid on his first mission.

I approach it slow. Clear the room first.

Corners. Shadows. Exits.

Clear.

I kneel in front of the case. My hands are steady.

They’re always steady when it matters.

The lock is biometric.

Of course it is.

The dead asset’s hand.

I cut it off in the basement.

Wrapped it in plastic. Brought it with me.

I hate myself a little for it.

Then I press the fingers to the scanner.

Click.

The case opens.

Inside: A tablet. Military grade. Encrypted.

And a folder. Paper. Old school.

On top of the folder, written in black marker:

FILE OMEGA - EYES ONLY - DIRECTOR

My hands aren’t steady anymore.

I open the folder first. Paper can’t be tracked.

The first page is a list.

Names. Dates. Locations.

Missions I was on. Missions I wasn’t on.

Missions that never happened.

Next page: A photo.

Me. 22 years old. Fresh out of training.

Standing next to Handler.

Behind us, a group of people in suits.

One of them is circled in red.

The caption underneath:

PROJECT GHOST SOLDIER - ASSET 7 - INITIATION DATE: 2001

Project.

Not unit. Not division.

Project.

My stomach drops.

I flip the page.

OBJECTIVE:

Create deniable assets capable of operating outside international law.

Assets with no ties, no records, no existence.

Assets that can be deployed, and if compromised, erased.

DURATION:

Indefinite. Minimum 20 years service required.

DECOMMISSION PROTOCOL:

Upon completion of service, assets will be terminated to prevent information leakage.

Terminated.

That’s what they called it.

Not retired. Not discharged.

Terminated.

I’ve been working for people who planned to kill me from day one.

The next pages are worse.

Photos of facilities. Underground bases in 12 different countries.

All of them unofficial. All of them funded through shell corporations.

And then... the targets.

Politicians. Journalists. Activists.

People who asked too many questions.

People who got in the way.

We didn’t protect the world.

We controlled it.

Page after page. 25 years of lies.

The last page is handwritten.

Different handwriting. Shaky.

7,

If you’re reading this, I’m dead.

I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.

The Director isn’t a person. It’s a committee.

12 people. Governments, corporations, private military.

They’ve been running this since the 80s.

They’re going to activate Protocol Nightfall soon.

Global destabilization. So they can rebuild it their way.

You have to stop them.

The tablet has everything. Names. Bank accounts. Locations.

Don’t trust Handler.

Don’t trust anyone.

Burn this after you read it.

I fold the paper and put it back.

I don’t burn it.

I need proof.

My hands are shaking now.

25 years.

I pick up the tablet. It asks for a password.

Of course it does.

Footsteps.

Concrete on concrete. Heavy. Tactical.

I’m not alone.

I drop the folder and the tablet into my bag and move.

Fast. Silent.

Up the container, into the rafters.

Two men enter below.

Black gear. No patches.

Guns drawn.

Viper’s team.

"Clear the room," one of them says. "He was here. The scanner shows the case was opened 3 minutes ago."

They start searching.

I count them. Two.

There’s probably four more outside.

I could take them.

I’ve taken ten before.

But the tablet. The folder.

If I die here, File Omega dies with me.

I move along the rafter toward the skylight I came in through.

Slow. One foot at a time.

A floorboard creaks below me.

Both men stop. Look up.

"Got something," one says.

I don’t wait.

I kick out the skylight and drop through.

I hit the roof and roll. Pain shoots through my shoulder.

Old injury. From 2014.

Gunfire erupts behind me.

They’re shooting through the roof.

I run.

The warehouse is on the edge of the city.

Docks. Containers. Cranes.

Perfect for a chase.

I hear engines. Two vehicles pulling up.

I jump down to the ground level and take off between the containers.

"7!" A voice calls out.

I freeze.

Handler.

He’s standing 20 feet away. No gun. Hands at his sides.

Just like the day he pulled me from the rubble.

"You need to come back," he says. "Before this gets worse."

I pull my own gun. Aim at his chest.

"Did you know? About the termination protocol?"

He doesn’t flinch.

"Yes."

The word hits harder than any bullet.

"Why?" I ask. My voice is barely a whisper.

"Because 25 years ago you volunteered," he says. "Because the world is a mess and someone has to do the dirty work. Because if people knew what we did, there would be chaos."

"That’s not your decision to make," I say.

"Maybe not," he says. "But it’s done. Come back with me. We can talk to the Director. Get you a new assignment. Get you out of this."

I laugh. It sounds broken even to me.

"A new assignment? You mean a bullet?"

His eyes flick to my bag.

"Give me the tablet, 7. You don’t know what’s on it. It’s dangerous."

"It’s the truth," I say.

"It’s a war," he says. "And you don’t want to start it."

I think about the folder. The names. The plan called Nightfall.

"I already did," I say.

I run.

He doesn’t shoot.

But Viper’s team does.

Bullets chew up the containers around me.

I zigzag. Use the cover.

I’ve done this a hundred times.

I make it to the fence. Cut through.

Into the alley. Into the city.

I don’t stop running for 2 hours.

I’m in a cheap motel now.

Door locked. Chair under the handle.

Gun on the table next to me.

The tablet is on the bed.

It’s asking for a password.

The dead asset said something before he died.

File Omega.

I type it in.

Incorrect password.

Of course.

They wouldn’t make it that easy.

I try the coordinates.

Incorrect.

I try 2001. The year I "died."

Incorrect.

I throw the tablet across the room.

It skids across the floor.

I sit on the floor with my back against the wall.

The folder is in my lap.

I read it again. And again.

Project Ghost Soldier.

Terminated after service.

Protocol Nightfall.

25 years.

I think about the girl from my first mission.

She’d be 41 now. If she’s alive.

I think about the handler who saved my life and lied to me for 25 years.

I think about the men in suits in the photo.

And I think about what comes next.

I can’t go back.

I can’t hide.

And I can’t do this alone.

I need help.

Someone who isn’t part of the Underground.

Someone who can take this public.

Someone like...

I pull out my phone. Burner. Bought it an hour ago.

I search: Investigative journalist Southeast Asia

One name comes up.

Maya Reyes.

Pulitzer nominee. Known for exposing government corruption.

Current location: This city.

I stare at the name for a long time.

Trusting a civilian is Rule 1 to break.

But I’m already breaking all the rules.

I dial the number listed on her website.

It rings twice.

"Hello?" A woman’s voice. Sharp. Alert.

I hang up.

Too soon. Too risky.

But tomorrow... tomorrow I’ll find her.

Because File Omega isn’t just about me anymore.

It’s about everyone.

And if the Director and his committee want a war...

They’re going to get one.

- END OF CHAPTER 2 -