Fuck.
They're military-grade zip ties. The kind that doesn't break no matter how much you struggle.
I test them anyway, rotating my wrists carefully.
No give.
Just sharp edges that promise to cut skin before they snap. My ankles are bound too, crossed and secured with the same black ties.
Professional work. The kind of restraints that sayI've done this before.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
The room is sparse but strategic—a command center stripped to bare function. Tactical gear lines one wall: radio equipment, surveillance monitors, weapon cases secured with biometric locks. The setup speaks of preparation. Planning.
This wasn't impulse.
This wasorchestrated.
My chest tightens as implications slot into place. The scopes. The signals. The way he knew exactly where to find me. Granger hasn't just been watching—he's beenwaiting.
And I walked right into it.
Just like Dad.
The thought burns like acid in my throat. All this time I've been chasing his ghost, trying to finish what he started, convinced that truth would set us free. But maybe he knew something I didn't.
Maybe sometimes the truth just gives the monsters a road map to everyone you love.
Metal groans overhead—footsteps on the tower stairs. My pulse kicks up but I force myself still.
Stay calm. Once you panic, everything's over.
The door swings open with a screech of rusted hinges.
Granger fills the frame like a shadow given form.
Combat boots. Tactical vest. The easy, lethal grace of a predator in his natural habitat. But it's his eyes that make my blood run cold—flat and empty as spent shell casings.
"Good morning, Miss Carter." His voice carries the same emptiness. "Sleep well?"
I don't answer. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
But my mind is already racing, cataloging details through the fog of whatever he used to knock me out.
He moves with precise efficiency, checking equipment, adjusting dials. A professional going through his pre-mission checklist. Every motion calculated. Controlled.
"You know," he continues, not looking at me, "I expected more of a challenge." He tests a connection, nods once. "The way Bishop talked about you... I thought you'd be smarter than this."
The mention of Logan's name hits like a physical blow. Images flash through my mind—his face when he wakes to find me gone, the way his hands felt against my skin last night, how carefully he changed my bandages. All the moments I'm going to have to live without.
If I live at all.
Granger turns, something dark glinting in his hand.
A camera. High-end. The kind used for remote surveillance. He positions it on a tripod, adjusting the angle until the lens points directly at me.
"Hard to believe you're the one who brought Ghost One to his knees," he says, fine-tuning the focus. "The mighty Logan Bishop... undone by a civilian with a death wish."
