Ghost Directive

Chapter 4: Loose Threads

Damien Voss hated politics.

He hated the way truth got reshaped into half-statements, how facts bled under pressure, how silence was often louder than any scream. But more than that, he hated knowing that if Specter was in play, someone with a title—and a budget—had ordered it.

Inside the summit’s off-site command center, he scanned the rotating schedules. Security had been “enhanced” after Rydell’s last rally. That meant more guards, more cameras, more chaos.

“Look at this,” Malik said, zooming in on a digital floor plan.

“Coatroom access. Normally restricted. Now it’s shared between two cleaning vendors—one registered just two weeks ago.”

“Fake company?”

Voss nodded. “Specter likes doors no one else sees.”

They traced the vendor to a small logistics office in Warsaw. Dead end. The records were scrubbed so clean, even the metadata had metadata.

Malik looked over. “So what now?”

“We bait him,” Voss said. “We pull the schedule forward. Make it look like Rydell’s speech is moving up by fifteen minutes.”

“You want to force his hand?”

“No,” he said. “I want to see how fast he adapts. And where he slips.”

---

Markus Klein watched the digital clock on his hotel nightstand. 7:28 p.m.

His palms were damp. His breath came short. The case lay on the bed like a coiled snake.

He didn’t open it.

He couldn’t.

At 7:31, the hotel phone rang.

He jumped.

“Hello?”

The voice was a whisper. Male. Familiar and yet distant.

“You’re early.”

“I—I didn’t—”

“You’re not ready,” the voice said. “We gave you one job.”

“I can do it! I will!”

Silence.

Then: “Leave the case at the coatroom. Say nothing. Then disappear.”

Click.

He stared at the phone like it might explode.

---

Meanwhile, across the street, Specter watched the summit building through his optic.

Something had changed.

The guards weren’t in sync. One extra on the west stairwell. A double at the press entrance. The ballroom lights were already on—early.

Voss had made a move.

Specter allowed himself a thin smile.

The game was starting.

---

Back at the command center, Voss watched a wall of surveillance feeds.

“Eyes on coatroom,” Malik said. “Motion sensor just went live.”

“Target?” he asked.

“Not Rydell. Courier. Matches Klein’s build.”

They watched as Klein entered the coatroom, placed the case on a shelf behind a rack of jackets, and left.

He didn’t look back.

“Do we grab him now?” Malik asked.

“No,” Voss said. “We shadow him. If we’re lucky, Specter contacts him again.”

And if we’re not? He didn’t say it out loud.

---

At 8:11 p.m., a man in a waiter’s uniform entered the coatroom.

Voss zoomed in. “There. That’s not on any staff list.”

The man moved quickly, calmly. He picked up the case, adjusted his lapel, and walked out.

The facial scan hit no matches.

But Voss recognized the posture.

The shoulder drop. The angle of the head. The way he scanned corners without moving his eyes.

“Specter,” he said, quietly.

They followed the figure through the hallway cameras—until he passed under a blind spot and vanished.

“Dammit,” Malik muttered.

Voss grabbed his coat.

“He’s not out yet.”

Ten blocks away, in a parked SUV, a woman watched a second monitor. Her eyes were cold, her hands steady.

A secure line buzzed.

“Status?”

“Specter has the device,” she said. “Courier was clean. Tail’s active.”

A pause. Then the voice asked, “Does Voss know?”

“Not yet.”

The voice replied, calm and final:

“Make sure he doesn’t.”

The line cut.

She opened the glovebox.

Inside was a silenced pistol—and a photo of Damien Voss.