Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Anchor
The silence that followed Silas’s words was heavy enough to crack the floorboards. Vance didn't flinch. He kept his eyes trained on the ceramic rim of his mug, watching the murky coffee ripple against the edges. The tavern around them had gone deathly quiet. Even the bartender, a grizzled old timer named Mack who had seen his fair share of harbor violence, had discreetly moved his hand under the counter where the sawed-off shotgun lived.
"The tide," Silas repeated, the words rolling around in his mouth like chewing tobacco before he spat them out. "That’s poetic. But poetry doesn't pay the toll in this district, Vance. Or should I call you by the name they used in the deep green? The Ghost of the San Lorenzo valley?"
Vance’s hand went completely still. The breath hitched in his chest, though his face remained a mask of carved stone. For four years, he had buried that name under layers of dockside grime, cheap alcohol, and grueling, anonymous labor. Only a ghost could know a ghost.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vance said, his voice a low, raspy whisper that barely carried over the buzzing neon light above.
Silas chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. He reached into the inner pocket of his heavy leather trench coat. The movement was slow, deliberate, letting everyone in the bar know he wasn't drawing a weapon—yet. He pulled out a small, tarnished silver object and tossed it onto the scratched wooden table. It landed with a heavy clink right next to Vance’s mug.
It was a pocket watch. The casing was dented, and the glass face was cracked in a spiderweb pattern. Vance recognized it instantly. It belonged to Elias, the old blind clockmaker who ran a dusty shop off Pier 39. Elias was the only person in this godforsaken city who had treated Vance like a human being rather than a stray dog.
"Elias is a sweet old man," Silas rumbled, leaning closer, his foul breath smelling of black licorice and stale tobacco. "But he has a terrible habit of taking in strays. The Iron Hounds have a problem, Vance. A shipping container full of high-grade military hardware went missing two nights ago. Someone ghosted our guards, bypassed the biometric locks, and drove a semi-truck right out of our compound. Our boss, the Commodore, wants it back."
"Sounds like a local problem," Vance replied, finally lifting his gaze to meet Silas’s dead, shark-like eyes.
"It is," Silas smiled, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "But we need a bloodhound to track it down. We need someone who knows how to move in the dark, someone who knows how to break bones quietly. We need the Ghost. You find our container by midnight tomorrow, and the clockmaker gets his watch back. And his fingers."
Vance’s blood turned to ice, but the old, familiar fire of the jungle—the lethal, hyper-focused calm he had tried to drown in cheap gin—began to spark in the back of his mind.
May you like
"And if I say no?" Vance asked.
Silas stood up, the iron stool scraping violently against the wood. "Then tomorrow morning, you can fish the old man out of the harbor in pieces. The clock is ticking, Ghost."
