The Return Of the God Of War

GHOSTS IN THE SMOKE

Ares shoved Finch forward, boots slipping on the slick dock planks. Mira stayed close, her shoulder brushing his as they cut through the maze of containers stacked three high like forgotten tombs. Behind them, the safe house they’d borrowed - and bled in - flickered with muzzle flashes and the bark of Hale’s mercenaries calling out in clipped, panicked code.

They didn’t have time to savor it. Not yet.

“Keep moving,” Ares rasped. His voice cut through the slap of waves and Finch’s ragged gasps.

Finch stumbled on a stray coil of rope. Mira grabbed the back of his hoodie, yanking him upright. Her pistol swept the shadows automatically, eyes flitting between blind corners and the pale, rising dawn beyond the shipping yard’s rusted gates.

“Tell me that drive’s clean,” she hissed.

Finch clutched the small metal shard like it was the last lungful of air he’d ever get. “Wiped the tails. Triple ghosted. It’s pure.”

Ares didn’t break stride. “You swear on that?”

Finch flinched at his tone - not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. “I swear, man. It’s clean. Hale can’t trace this.”

Ares nodded once, almost to himself. His boot kicked open a gap between two containers. They ducked through into a narrow passage littered with rat droppings and the stench of stale brine. At the far end, through a chain‑link fence patched with wire and old plastic tarps, the city glittered like a promise they weren’t sure they wanted to keep.

He could feel Mira’s stare even before she spoke. “You trust him?”

“No.” Ares didn’t look at her. He shouldered the fence open with a groan of protesting metal. “But I trust what we do next if he’s lying.”

Finch swallowed hard behind them but kept moving. He knew what they’d do if he’d screwed this up. Mira had spelled it out in detail the night she’d first handed him a burner phone and a bag of untraceable cash - a promise wrapped in blood and duct tape.

They emerged into an abandoned service lot behind an old cannery. The sun was up now, weak and watery through the smog clinging to the docks. Ares tilted his head back, feeling it on his face for a heartbeat ... the warmth was almost cruel.

He looked at Finch. “Where’s the drop?”

Finch thumbed the drive into his palm like he was rolling dice. “Warehouse on Keaton Street. Old dry goods place. My contact’ll scrub it, crack the files wide open. Then it’s everywhere ... Hale can’t bury it once it’s out.”

Mira reloaded her sidearm, metal click echoing off rusted tin walls. “Then what?”

Ares flicked his eyes between them. “Then Hale bleeds in daylight.”

Finch opened his mouth to say something ... maybe a joke, maybe another plea for reassurance ... but the sudden roar of an engine cut him off. A battered sedan skidded to a stop at the mouth of the alley. Mira’s Glock came up before the door fully opened.

A young kid in a grease‑stained hoodie leaned out, eyes wide behind cheap sunglasses. “You the package?” he asked, voice cracking like it hadn’t decided if it was a man’s yet.

Finch raised a shaky hand. “This is my ride. Relax. He’s clean.”

Mira didn’t lower her gun. She looked at Ares. He gave a tiny nod - she stepped back, but her finger stayed close to the trigger.

Finch half‑jogged to the car, ducked inside. The kid revved the engine like he was showing off for ghosts. Before the door slammed, Finch stuck his head out, eyes darting to Ares.

“You’re not coming?” he called.

Ares stepped closer, boots crunching old glass underfoot. He leaned in, voice low enough Finch had to strain to hear it. “Get this out clean. If you even think about running ... if you think about selling it back ... I’ll find you. Understand?”

Finch didn’t blink. He just nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing once. “Yeah. I know.”

Ares patted the door twice. The kid hit the gas, tires squealing as the car fishtailed around the corner and vanished into the waking city. For a long moment, the only sound was the drip of water off rusted gutters and Mira’s slow, measured breathing beside him.

She holstered her gun. “You believe him?”

Ares stared at the empty street where the car had gone. “I believe his fear.”

She snorted, almost a laugh, but there was no warmth in it. “Next move?”

Ares flexed his hand - the knuckles still raw, skin split where he’d cracked the guard’s jaw hours earlier. The blood had dried like a promise under his fingernails.

“Hale knows we’re alive - and that’s good. Fear makes mistakes.”

They started walking, boots leaving wet prints on the cracked asphalt. Ares felt the old tension coil tighter in his gut, that familiar hum of war buzzing through marrow and muscle. He’d buried this man for too long, traded him for the quiet ghost who drifted from cheap hotel rooms to muddy back alleys. But the storm was awake now ... the city could feel it too, somewhere under the glass and steel.

“You think the kid’ll get it to your contact?” Mira asked.

Ares shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. Hale’s people know someone’s loose. They’ll panic, plug leaks with more bullets - makes more leaks. More bodies. People talk when they’re scared.”

They passed an old diner with its windows boarded up. Faded spray paint across the plywood read WE REMEMBER. Mira glanced at it, then at him.

“You ever wonder,” she asked softly, “what happens if you win?”

Ares didn’t stop. “I don’t.”

They reached an intersection where the city’s heartbeat was stronger ... buses groaning past, horns echoing between towers still half asleep. Ares watched the people drifting by ... workers, street vendors, kids with backpacks too big for their shoulders. They looked right through him. Good.

He turned to Mira. “We find the next hole to dig. Finch bought us time, not mercy.”

She grinned - a wolf’s grin, teeth bright in the dirty morning light. “Back to the old game.”

Ares’s mouth twitched - the closest thing to a smile she’d seen on him in days. “Back to what we do best.”

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Next target?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled his sister’s photo from his pocket - the edges soft and frayed from too many nights spent pressing it between calloused fingers. He looked at it like it could talk back.

Then he slipped it away, eyes locked on the skyline where Hale’s empire squatted behind mirrored glass and marble lobbies.

“Next target,” Ares said, voice low, almost gentle, “is the one who thinks he’s untouchable.”

Mira cracked her knuckles. “Then let’s remind him nobody is.”

They crossed the street together, two shadows melting into the waking city ... ghosts in the smoke, carrying fire in their veins.