The Ghost Operative

THE EXTRACTION

Cain Mercer woke to the smell of antiseptic and blood.

His wrists were strapped to a metal gurney. His ankles too. The fluorescent lights above him buzzed like angry wasps. A needle sat in the crook of his left arm, feeding something cold into his veins.

He tried to remember where he was. Failed.

The ceiling was white. Sterile. A single camera watched from the corner. Red light blinking. Recording.

"Subject is conscious," a voice said. Male. Flat. Professional. "Vitals stable. Sedation wearing off faster than projected."

Cain turned his head. The movement sent a spike of pain through his skull. A man in tactical gear stood near the door. Black uniform. No insignia. No name. Just a weapon holstered at his hip and a face that showed nothing.

Another man stepped into view. Older. Gray temples. A tablet in his hand. He looked at Cain like he was inspecting damaged equipment.

"Agent Mercer," the older man said. "Do you know where you are?"

Cain's throat was dry. He swallowed. Tried to speak. Nothing came out.

"Answer the question," the older man said.

Cain remembered the last thing he'd seen before the darkness took him. A room with padded walls. A straitjacket. A doctor with a syringe. The static had been screaming in his ears that day. Louder than ever. They'd drugged him to make it stop.

"Psych ward," Cain rasped. "Black site. You're extracting me."

The older man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Good," he said. "Your cognitive function is intact. That's a positive sign."

"Positive for who?"

The older man ignored the question. He tapped his tablet. A holographic display flickered to life above it. Cain saw faces. Six of them. Men and women in expensive suits. Politicians. Generals. A few faces he recognized from intelligence briefings.

"These people are dead," the older man said. "All of them. Killed in the last seven days. Each death was attributed to cardiac arrest. Natural causes. But we know better."

Cain stared at the faces. He didn't recognize the pattern. Not yet.

"Who killed them?" he asked.

"That's what we need you to find out."

The gurney lurched forward. Two tactical operatives had grabbed the ends and were pushing him out the door. The older man walked beside them, tablet still in hand.

"I'm not working for you," Cain said. "I'm done. I'm crazy, remember? That's what the file says."

"Your file says a lot of things. Most of them aren't true."

The corridor stretched ahead. Gray walls. Reinforced doors. More cameras. Cain counted the footsteps. Twenty-three to the elevator. The operatives were efficient. Professional. They'd done this before.

The elevator doors opened. They pushed him inside. The older man pressed the button for sub-level three.

"I need to know one thing," Cain said. "Why me?"

The older man turned. For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Fear. Or respect. Hard to tell.

"Because you survived Siberia," he said. "And because you're the only one who can see them."

The elevator stopped. The doors opened onto a garage. Four black SUVs waited. Armed men stood guard. The extraction team moved quickly, lifting Cain's gurney toward the lead vehicle.

They never made it.

The first explosion came from the garage entrance. Fire ripped through the concrete. Two operatives vanished in the blast. Chunks of metal screamed past Cain's face. He felt the heat. Smelled burning fuel.

Then the screaming started.

Men were being torn apart. Not by bullets. Not by shrapnel. Cain watched a guard's arm simply detach from his shoulder. Blood sprayed the walls. The man's mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out.

Cain blinked.

And he saw them.

The Strays.

Five of them. Flickering shapes of gray and white. Translucent. Shifting. They moved like smoke in a hurricane. Their hands passed through flesh like it was water. Where they touched, bodies ruptured. Blood painted the concrete.

One of them turned to face him.

It was Sarah. His partner. His friend. The woman who'd died in his arms during the Siberia mission.

Her face was wrong. Her eyes were black voids. Her mouth opened wide—too wide—and a sound came out. Not words. Just static. A thousand voices screaming at once.

Cain's restraints snapped.

He didn't know how. One second he was strapped down. The next, the metal had bent like paper. He rolled off the gurney. Hit the ground. Scrambled backward.

The Strays turned away from the dying operatives. All of them. Every single one faced Cain now.

Sarah's ghost reached for him.

"The sedative is wearing off," the older man shouted from behind a burning SUV. "Mercer! You need to control it!"

Cain didn't understand. Control what? The static was screaming in his ears. His vision was bleeding white. The Strays were closing in.

Then Sarah stopped.

She tilted her head. Her black eyes seemed to examine him. Recognize him. And then—

She stepped aside.

The other Strays followed. They parted like a curtain. One of them pointed toward the garage exit.

Toward freedom.

A voice crackled through Cain's earpiece. He didn't know when it had been placed there. He didn't know who was speaking.

"Welcome back, Cain."

Marcus's voice. Calm. Familiar. The man who'd trained him. The man who'd betrayed him. The man who'd died in Siberia.

"They're coming for you," Marcus said. "The Frequency Division. The CIA. Everyone. You need to run."

Cain looked at the exit. Then at the older man, who was shouting orders into his radio. Then at Sarah's ghost.

Her hand reached toward him. Not to harm. To help.

He took it.

The world shattered into static.

When his vision cleared, Cain was standing on a rooftop. The city sprawled below him. The garage was seven blocks behind him. The night air was cold on his face.

Sarah's ghost was gone.

But her voice lingered in his head.

*Find me,* she whispered. *Before they find you first.*