He braked, kicking up a fountain of snow, and immediately raised his weapon, scanning the windows. Mike didn’t wait. He pulled the trigger.
The roar of the 12-gauge blast tore through the night. The buckshot hit the rider, knocking him clean off the seat. The machine, losing control, flipped over.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Mike whispered, racking the slide. The fight was on. And this time, he wasn’t facing street punks; he was facing the elite.
Shadows of the past coming for his soul. But they forgot that a Ghost has no soul. He only has a mission and a target.
And his mission tonight was to survive and eliminate anyone who dared disturb the peace of the mountain. The roar of the shotgun was the signal for a real war, the kind the ancient trees hadn’t seen since the days of the moonshiners. The rider’s body hadn’t even hit the ground before the other machines veered sharply, scattering.
This wasn’t the reaction of scared kids; it was a practiced maneuver. Engines roared at redline, kicking up snow screens that instantly hid the attackers. Mike, not waiting for return fire, rolled away from the doorway and into the dark interior of the cabin—just in time.
A split second later, the doorframe where he’d been standing was chewed into splinters. Bursts of automatic fire raked the logs with such density that the air filled with the whine of ricochets. They were firing in tight, disciplined bursts, likely using suppressors, as the shots were muffled by the engine noise.
Mike, pressed against the thick logs inside, gauged the caliber by the sound of the impacts. Heavy-duty rounds, punching through light cover. Below, under the floor, panicked shouts erupted.
The prisoners in the cellar realized hell had broken loose and were terrified a stray bullet would come through the floorboards. “Shut it!” Mike hissed, though he knew they couldn’t hear him. His focus was entirely on the tactical picture.
He pulled down his night vision. The world turned a toxic green. Through the shattered windows, he saw the heat signatures of the snowmobile engines circling the house, box-cutting the perimeter.
There were four left, not counting the one he’d dropped. Four trained operators against one old man in a wooden box. It was a stalemate if he played by their rules, but Mike didn’t plan on playing fair.
“Sector one—clear. Sector two—movement,” he muttered, tracking a figure. A shooter in a white ghillie suit hopped off a snowmobile and, staying low, moved toward the woodpile.
His movements were fluid, professional. He wasn’t afraid; he was working. Mike recognized the style.
This was JSOC or CIA Ground Branch level work. It confirmed his worst fears. They hadn’t just sent mercenaries; they’d sent people from the same school he’d attended.
This was a duel of masters, where the price of a mistake was instant death. Mike knew he couldn’t stay in the house. The logs were sturdy, but automatic fire would eventually turn the walls into a sieve.
Plus, they definitely had grenades. One flashbang or frag through the window and he’d be easy pickings. The house was becoming a coffin.
He needed space. He needed the woods. He crawled across the floor, keeping his head below the sills.
Glass shattered above him, showering him in icy shards. Bullets bit into the stove, throwing sparks from the brick. Mike reached the back wall, where there was a small, narrow window facing the ravine.
Usually, he used it for a breeze, but now it was his only exit. Before leaving his position, he needed to buy time. Mike pulled a grenade from his pocket.
Old, reliable. He straightened the pins but didn’t pull the ring. This was a surprise for whoever decided to breach the front door.
He carefully set the grenade in an empty tin can, pinning the spoon against the side of the can, and tied a thin fishing line to the ring, stretching it across the entrance at ankle height. A primitive tripwire, but in the heat of a breach, in the dark and smoke, it was easy to miss. “Compliments of the host,” he smirked.
At that moment, the firing stopped. It wasn’t a truce; it was a tactical shift. They were reloading and prepping for the breach…
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