“Sit Down, You’re A Nobody. ” My General Father Said — Until He Heard My Call Sign “Ghost 13.”

He didn’t care about politics or terror; he cared about his stock price.

“I didn’t come down here to arrest you.

I came down here to negotiate.” Croft raised a hand, signaling his men to hold their fire.

The businessman in him couldn’t resist a negotiation.

“You have nothing I want.

In exactly two minutes, the five o’clock commuter express pulls into the station above us.

The voltage spike on the third rail triggers the primary relay, or I let go of this switch and trigger the secondary.

Either way, this shell detonates, the VX gas is pulled into the intake fans, and twenty thousand civilians die.

The Department of Homeland Security will be begging Vanguard to take over domestic security by midnight.” “They won’t,” I stated flatly, stopping ten feet away from the bomb.

“Because ten minutes ago, I authorized a Level-5 cyber intrusion into the Vanguard Security Solutions corporate mainframe.

The Geneva shell accounts you used to pay the Wagner Group?

Frozen.

Your Cayman Islands offshore routing?

Liquidated and transferred to the U.S.

Treasury.

And the thirty-page intelligence dossier proving you orchestrated a chemical attack on American soil?

It’s sitting in the inbox of every member of the Senate Armed Services Committee.” Croft’s arrogant facade finally cracked.

A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes.

“You’re lying,” he hissed.

“My network architecture is impenetrable.” “I am Ghost 13,” I whispered, the alias hanging in the damp air like a curse.

“I penetrated the Syrian state telecom grid in three minutes.

Vanguard’s firewalls took me four.” I pointed at the detonator in his hand.

“If you blow that shell, Nathaniel, you don’t get a multi-billion dollar government contract.

You get hunted.

The United States government will designate Vanguard a foreign terrorist organization.

Every JSOC operator, every CIA paramilitary asset, and every drone pilot in the hemisphere will be given one order: find Nathaniel Croft and put a Hellfire missile through his bedroom window.

You won’t be a billionaire CEO.

You’ll be a dead man hiding in a cave.” The heavy, rhythmic rumble of a train began to vibrate through the soles of my shoes.

The 5:00 PM express was approaching.

“Turn the switch over to me,” I offered, lowering my hand.

“My team will disable the third-rail relay.

You walk out of here.

You take your private jet to a non-extradition country, and you spend the rest of your life as a very wealthy exile.

It’s the only deal on the table.” Croft looked at the detonator.

He looked at the massive VX shell.

He was calculating the odds, running the risk-assessment models in his sociopathic mind.

The rumble of the tracks grew louder.

Dust began to fall from the concrete ceiling.

Thirty seconds to arrival.

Croft looked back up at me, and his lips curled into a vicious, cornered smile.

“I don’t do exiles,” Croft spat.

“I’ll rebuild the company from the ashes.

Kill her!” “Execute!” I screamed, dropping violently to the concrete floor just as the Vanguard mercenaries pulled their triggers.

They never had a chance.

Before the MP7s could spit their first round, the massive metal ventilation grates near the ceiling of the chamber blew inward.

Major Thomas Caldwell and his Rangers hadn’t stayed behind the door; they had flanked through the ductwork while I kept Croft’s eyes pinned on me.

Three suppressed thwips echoed through the chamber.

The three Vanguard operatives dropped simultaneously, their cranial vaults shattered by armor-piercing 5.56mm rounds fired with surgical precision by the Rangers above.

Croft shrieked in terror as his men hit the floor.

The billionaire panicked.

The cold, calculating CEO vanished, replaced by a terrified animal.

His hand spasmed.

His thumb began to slip off the dead-man’s switch.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t calculate.

I launched myself off the concrete floor, ignoring the agonizing, blinding tear in my fractured ribs.

I tackled Croft around his waist, driving my shoulder directly into his perfectly tailored suit.

We slammed into the metal dolly holding the VX shell.

Croft grunted, losing his footing, but he held onto the detonator.

As we hit the floor, his thumb slid upward.

I slammed my left hand over his, wrapping my fingers around his fist and forcing my own thumb down directly over his, pinning the spring-loaded plunger in place.

“Get off me!” Croft roared, realizing I was keeping the bomb from going off.

He thrashed wildly, bringing his free elbow down in a vicious, panicked strike directly onto my shattered ribs.

The pain was apocalyptic.

A white-hot supernova exploded behind my eyes, robbing me of breath and sight.

I tasted fresh blood welling up in my throat.

My grip faltered for a microsecond, the spring-loaded plunger pushing upward against my thumb.

No.

You do not get to win.

I let out a guttural, blood-choked snarl.

I didn’t try to out-muscle him.

I used the lethal geometry of close-quarters combat.

I shifted my hips, wrapping my legs around his right arm, locking him into a brutal triangle choke that isolated the limb holding the detonator.

With my right hand, I drew the Karambit blade I had concealed in the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.

Croft’s eyes widened in sheer horror as the curved, hawk-bill steel flashed in the halogen light.

I didn’t stab him.

I didn’t want him to go into shock and violently spasm.

Instead, I brought the heavy, steel ring at the base of the knife’s handle down like a hammer, smashing it directly into the ulna nerve of his right forearm.

The billionaire screamed, a high-pitched wail of agony as his arm went completely numb, paralyzed by the nerve strike.

His fingers went limp, releasing the black plastic of the detonator.

Before the device could slip from his deadened grip, I slid my hand seamlessly under his, taking total control of the detonator.

I pressed my thumb down onto the plunger with crushing force, securing the switch.

Above us, the entire subterranean chamber began to shake violently.

The deafening, metallic shriek of a twelve-hundred-ton commuter train braking on the tracks directly overhead filled the room.

The work lights flickered.

The voltage spike hit the third rail, surging through the Vanguard wiring hooked to the artillery shell.

I closed my eyes, holding my breath, my thumb locked in a death grip on the button.

If my thumb slipped even a millimeter, the secondary circuit would complete.

The train roared.

The ground quaked.

The metal dolly rattled against the concrete.

And then, slowly, the deafening screech began to fade.

The vibration lessened.

The 5:00 PM express pulled into the station above, completely intact.

The thousands of passengers inside were stepping off onto the platform, complaining about the rain, entirely unaware that they had just coasted over a weapon of mass destruction.

I lay on the cold concrete floor, my chest heaving in ragged, agonizing gasps.

My left hand was locked onto the detonator, trembling with exhaustion but immovable.

Major Thomas Caldwell fast-roped down from the ventilation duct, his rifle slung over his back.

He sprinted over to me, kicking the sobbing, paralyzed Nathaniel Croft out of the way.

“Nora!” Thomas dropped to his knees beside me.

He looked at my face, pale and smeared with blood, and then down at my left hand locked onto the detonator.

“I have it,” I whispered, coughing weakly.

“I have the switch.” Thomas keyed his radio, his voice thick with raw emotion.