BLACK LEDGER

The scent of rusty iron filled Kellan Draik’s nostrils. It came from his own blood, seeping through the cracks of his fingers.

"Damn it," he hissed. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping over wood.

Kellan leaned his back against the damp concrete wall. His trembling hand reached into his tactical pants pocket, pulling out a lighter and a small, nearly empty bottle of alcohol. In front of him, a shattered mirror reflected the image of a man he hardly recognized. His face was masked in black soot, dirt, and dried blood.

He tore the remains of his black t-shirt, revealing a long gash on his left abdomen—the result of a grenade shrapnel that should have killed him along with the rest of Raptor Unit.

"Miller... Henderson... you’re really gone," he muttered softly. He closed his eyes for a moment. The vision of the explosion in the valley still danced behind his eyelids. Screams over the radio, the unending gunfire, and then... silence.

Kellan poured the alcohol onto his wound.

"ARGH!"

He bit the edge of an old wooden table to stifle the scream. The muscles in his neck tightened; veins bulged on his forehead. Cold sweat poured down his face. His entire world felt like it was spinning, but he couldn't pass out. If he fainted now, he would die as "Kellan Draik" in this junk warehouse.

Click.

The sound of a weapon cocking from the back door made him freeze. His deep-seated combat instincts took over in a split second. Kellan rolled behind a stack of used tires, ignoring the searing pain tearing through his stomach, and aimed his SIG Sauer pistol at the dark spot in the corner of the room.

"Don't shoot, Major. You've lost too much blood to waste a bullet," a woman’s voice echoed in the silent room.

Kellan didn't lower his weapon. The muzzle of his pistol remained steady despite his shaking hands. "Who are you? Show your hands or I’ll put a hole in your head."

A woman stepped out of the shadows. Her hair was jet black and cut short, and she wore a beige trench coat that looked far too clean for a slum like this. She raised both hands, but her eyes held an intimidating calm.

"My name is Sydney Var," she said. She looked at Kellan’s wound with a clinical gaze. "And if you don't apply pressure to that wound within three minutes, you'll die of hypovolemic shock."

"How did you find me?" Kellan asked, his voice remaining low and threatening.

"I wasn't looking for you, Kellan. I was looking for a 'ghost.' And as it turns out, that ghost is hiding in a harbor warehouse trying to stitch his own stomach," Sydney took a step forward. "Lower the gun. If I wanted you dead, I could have just let Paulo’s cleanup unit find you ten minutes ago."

At the mention of Paulo’s name, Kellan’s jaw tightened. "He sent people?"

"Two cars. Full spec. They’re combing the western block," Sydney pulled a small tube of clear liquid and a syringe from her pocket. "I have a way out. But you have to stop acting like a dying stray dog."

Kellan stared into Sydney’s eyes for several seconds, searching for a lie. There was none. Only cold ambition. Slowly, Kellan lowered his weapon, though his finger remained near the trigger.

"Why are you helping me? Nothing is free in this world," Kellan said as he leaned back against the tires, his breath growing shorter.

Sydney knelt in front of him, showing no disgust at the blood staining her expensive coat. She injected the liquid into Kellan's arm. "Correct. I’m not helping Kellan Draik. Kellan Draik died in that valley with his unit. His obituary will be on national television in an hour."

Kellan felt a cold sensation crawling through his veins. The pain dulled slightly. "Then what do you want?"

Sydney looked at him intensely, very close. "I want Sebastian Crowe. A cold-blooded investor, a man who has everything except a past. I need someone who can enter rooms that soldiers can't."

"I’m not an actor," Kellan cut in sharply.

"You’re the best soldier this country ever produced. Survival is your best acting job right now," Sydney stood up, extending her hand to him. "Come with me, or stay here and let Paulo piss on your corpse."

Kellan looked at that hand. Outside, the roar of car engines approached. Searchlights swept across the dusty warehouse windows. His enemies were close.

Kellan thought of Gina. His wife, who might be crying at home right now, or perhaps being comforted by Dwayne. That thought cut deeper than the grenade shrapnel.

"Gina..." he whispered almost inaudibly.

"You can't protect her if you're dead," Sydney pressed. "Choose now. Die as a failed hero, or live as a monster that will destroy them from the inside."

The sound of car doors slamming shut echoed outside. The heavy thud of combat boots hit the asphalt.

Kellan reached for Sydney’s hand. He forced himself to stand, stifling a groan as his abdominal muscles pulled. "Get me out of here."

Sydney gave a thin smile—the kind usually worn by a predator that had just secured the perfect prey. "Welcome back from the dead, Sebastian."

They moved quickly toward a secret passage at the back of the warehouse just as the front door was kicked open. Kellan didn't look back. He left his military badge on the bloody floor, buried under dust and disgrace.

Kellan Draik was indeed dead. And the man who walked out of that warehouse had a purpose greater than mere military duty: Vengeance.