Chapter 8 - The Ghost Operative
The man sitting inside the luxury jet was supposed to be buried in Arlington Cemetery.
It was Commander Elias Thorne, my former commanding officer from SEAL Team Six.
He had officially died in a fiery helicopter crash during a classified black-ops mission five years ago.
Now, he was sitting on a remote Montana airstrip, buying stolen military drones from a corrupt sheriff.
The profound betrayal cut deeper than anything Amelia or Dominic could have ever done.
Thorne knew every single one of my tactics, my physical weaknesses, and my combat patterns.
I slowly lowered my rifle, realizing a direct frontal assault against Thorne's mercenaries would be total suicide.
I had to dismantle their secure perimeter silently.
I slipped through the tall grass bordering the runway, moving completely undetected like a phantom.
The first mercenary walked past a stack of wooden shipping crates, isolating himself from the main group.
I emerged from the shadows, clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, and drove the hilt of my knife into his temple.
He collapsed to the tarmac without making a single sound.
I dragged his unconscious body behind the crates and moved efficiently to the next target.
Within ten minutes, I had systematically neutralized five perimeter guards using pure stealth.
I silently approached the rear of the black transport truck holding the stolen payloads.
I rapidly picked the heavy padlock, opened the metal doors, and slipped inside the cargo hold.
The four experimental drone payloads were securely locked in reinforced titanium cases.
I pulled a small block of C4 explosive from my tactical rig and planted it directly onto the primary payload case.
I set the digital detonator for exactly five minutes.
If I could not extract the weapons safely, I was going to turn them into worthless scrap metal.
Suddenly, the heavy metal doors of the truck violently slammed shut, plunging me into absolute, suffocating darkness.
The exterior deadbolt locked from the outside with a heavy, definitive clang.
"I taught you everything you know about stealth, Logan," Commander Thorne's voice echoed from a loudspeaker outside the truck.
"Did you really think I would not place thermal motion sensors on my own cargo?"
The heavy diesel engine of the transport truck suddenly roared to life.
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"Enjoy the ride, old friend," Thorne mocked as the truck violently lurched forward down the runway.
The glowing red digital timer on my C4 explosive was quietly ticking down from four minutes.
