Chapter 2: Ghosts of the Past

The city has a way of swallowing people whole. You could walk down these streets and never realize how many lives had been erased — quietly, without a sound. Tonight, as I walked through the rain-slick alleys, I realized I might be next on that list.

The burner phone Rick gave me buzzed against my leg, vibrating like a heartbeat I couldn’t ignore. I ducked under the awning of a closed shop and pulled it out. No number, no name — just a single message.

“Warehouse. Pier 47. Midnight. Alone.”

No signature, but I didn’t need one. This had Marcus written all over it. He was never one for pleasantries — only sharp words and sharper edges.

I pocketed the phone and looked at my watch. I had a couple of hours to burn, but waiting wasn’t my style. My mind was already working overtime, pieces of the puzzle grinding in my head like gears needing oil.

Why now? Why come back from the dead only to drag me into this mess? And what had Marcus found that was dangerous enough to make him run?

I lit a cigarette and took a long drag, watching the smoke coil up into the night sky like the ghosts of all the people I’d failed to save. Marcus wasn’t just an old friend — he was the only person who knew the real me. The part of me that I kept locked away, buried beneath the persona I showed the world.

If he was in trouble, I owed him. Even if it got me killed.

I decided to kill time at a place I knew well — an old, rundown motel I used to use as a safe house. The woman at the front desk didn’t even look up when I walked in. Probably used to guys like me. I paid in cash, took the key, and climbed the creaky stairs to room 12.

Inside, the walls were yellowed with age, and the bed sagged in the middle like it had given up on life. But it was quiet, and that’s all I needed. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out my gun, and checked the chamber. Loaded. Ready.

I kept thinking about that file Marcus sent — the names, the transactions, my own name staring back at me like a death sentence. Whoever these people were, they didn’t leave loose ends. If Marcus was a loose end, and I was connected to him, it wouldn’t be long before they came knocking on my door.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was an unknown number. I hesitated for a second before answering.

"Damien Wolfe?" a voice asked, smooth and professional. The kind of voice that sounded like it belonged to someone in a suit, sitting behind a desk in a skyscraper.

"Who's asking?" I replied, keeping my tone even.

"A concerned party," the voice said. "We know you've been in contact with Marcus Kane. We suggest you walk away from whatever game he's playing."

"And if I don’t?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

There was a pause on the other end — like they were considering how much to say.

"Then you won’t live long enough to regret it," the voice said, cold as ice. And then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long moment. So, they were watching me already. They knew Marcus had reached out. This was worse than I thought.

I stood up and looked out the window, scanning the parking lot. A black SUV sat idling at the far end, windows tinted too dark to see inside. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Or maybe they were already here.

Either way, I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for them to make the first move.

By the time I reached Pier 47, the night had settled into a heavy fog, swallowing the edges of the world and blurring the city lights in the distance. The warehouse loomed like a skeleton against the mist, its metal walls rusted and graffiti-tagged — the perfect place for a secret meeting.

I walked in slow, every sense on high alert. My footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, and somewhere in the shadows, a rat scurried across the floor. But other than that, silence.

"Damien," a voice called from the darkness.

I turned, gun raised before I even realized I had drawn it. "Marcus?" I called out, my voice sharper than I intended.

He stepped out of the shadows, looking like hell. His hair was longer than I remembered, his face hollow, like he hadn’t slept in days. But it was him — alive, breathing. For now.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said, a bitter smirk on his lips.

I lowered the gun, but I didn’t holster it. "You are a ghost. Last I heard, you were dead."

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "I should be. But I found something, Damien. Something they’ll kill for. You saw the file?"

"Yeah," I said. "And now I’ve got people threatening me over the phone. What the hell did you get yourself into?"

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around like the shadows were listening. "It’s bigger than I thought. Government contracts, private military groups, corporate money laundering — all tied together. They're using shell companies to fund black ops missions off the books. I tried to walk away when I realized what they were doing. But you don’t just walk away from these people."

"And now they want you dead," I said.

Marcus nodded. "Not just me. Anyone who knows. Which means you."

"Great," I muttered. "You always did have a way of dragging me into the fire."

"I didn’t have anyone else," he said, his voice quieter. "You’re the only person I trust."

I looked at him for a long moment, weighing my options. I could walk away, leave Marcus to deal with this on his own. But that’s not who I am. No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.

"What’s the plan?" I asked finally.

Marcus pulled out a flash drive and held it out to me. "Everything’s on here. Names, transactions, locations. But it’s encrypted. I need time to crack it — and I need you to watch my back until then."

I took the drive, slipping it into my pocket. "You got it. But if we’re doing this, we do it my way. No more running blind."

Marcus smiled for the first time that night, a hint of the man I used to know. "Deal."

As we stepped back into the fog, I knew this was only the beginning. Ghosts of the past had returned, and the only way out was through the fire.

And if anyone was going to burn, I’d make damn sure I wasn’t the only one.

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