Chapter 85 Echoes in the Wire
(Amani POV)
The dawn comes cold and soundless.
Ridgepoint’s perimeter lights flicker out one by one, leaving the base in a half-light that feels older than the war itself. The smell of ash still lingers from last night’s burn, the remains of the ambush we barely escaped.
Everyone’s asleep, or pretending to be. Zuri’s in the next room, her breathing steady through the thin metal walls. I should be in there with her. I should want peace. But peace doesn’t sit right on me anymore, not when Ghost’s name keeps crawling through the back of my skull like static.
The comm desk glows faintly in the dark. I sit there, headset half-on, the cracked receiver spitting out bursts of interference like whispers caught in wind. The signal’s old Syndicate encryption, vintage code, the kind Ghost used back when we ran recon together.
It shouldn’t exist anymore.
But it does.
Three repeating tones. A pause. Two short bursts.
I write it down, translate out of habit. The pattern forms a word.
RIDGEPOINT.
Then another sequence, deeper in the loop: HOLD. WAIT.
I lean back in the chair, heart pounding against ribs like fists on a locked door.
Ghost’s alive. Or someone wants me to think he is.
Either way, it’s working.
The laptop hums low, casting blue over my hands — hands that still shake, no matter how many men I’ve buried. I start running trace programs, cross-checking old channels. Nothing pings. Whoever sent this knew how to ghost their trail — the irony burns.
I stare at the static feed until it starts to look like smoke. Until the silence feels like it’s breathing.
“Can’t sleep?”
Zuri’s voice cuts through the hum — soft, raw, half-awake.
She stands at the doorframe, hair messy, wrapped in one of my shirts. She looks like she belongs there and like she’s ready to vanish at the same time.
I kill the monitor’s glow, too slow. She’s already seen the open comms window.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
Her brows pull together. “You’re lying.”
“Occupational habit.”
She steps closer, eyes scanning the notepad on the table — the cipher I didn’t hide fast enough. When she reads the word RIDGEPOINT, her breath stutters.
“Amani…”
I look up, meet her gaze. “You knew he might still be out there, didn’t you?”
Her silence is sharper than any answer.
“Say it,” I push.
She swallows, jaw tight. “I didn’t know. I hoped. That’s different.”
“Hope gets people killed.”
“And distrust keeps you alone.”
The words hang heavy between us. For a moment, I see what she sees — the man I’ve become: leader, weapon, ghost of himself. The kind of man who counts scars instead of people.
But then I think of the message again. The code. The timing. The way Moretti’s ambush turned too clean, too coordinated.
Someone fed him our location. Someone who knew our frequencies.
“Ghost’s signal doesn’t just reappear,” I say, voice low. “Not after two years. Not by accident.”
Her fingers tighten at her sides. “He was your brother, Amani. Don’t do this.”
“He was.”
The room goes still.
I stand, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “If he’s alive, he’s playing both sides. And if you’ve been talking to him—”
“I haven’t!” she snaps, but the flash of pain behind her eyes betrays something deeper — guilt or grief, I can’t tell.
The air between us turns brittle. The only sound is the faint crackle from the comm line, still looping the same word over and over.
HOLD. WAIT. HOLD.
It feels like a warning. Or a threat.
Zuri finally says, “Maybe he’s warning us. Maybe he’s still trying to help.”
“And maybe he’s leading us right back to Moretti.”
She shakes her head, steps forward, close enough that her breath touches my throat. “Not everything’s a trap, Amani.”
“Everything is until proven otherwise.”
Something in her breaks then — a soft sound, the kind she makes only when she’s done arguing but not done hurting.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she says. “Fighting you just to prove I’m on your side.”
“Then stop hiding things.”
That lands too hard. Her eyes gloss, but she doesn’t flinch. “You think I’m the only one keeping secrets?”
I don’t answer. Because she’s right.
I reach out, almost touch her, then stop myself. The distance between us feels earned — like punishment we both deserve.
“I’ll trace it,” I say finally, turning back to the desk. “If it’s Ghost, we’ll know soon enough.”
She hesitates at the door. “And if it is him?”
I pause. The word sits heavy on my tongue.
“Then he’s got a lot to answer for.”
Zuri watches me for a beat longer, then turns away. Her footsteps fade down the hall — one by one, like fading heartbeat echoes.
When she’s gone, I let the mask slip. My chest feels hollow, lungs full of rust. I plug back into the comm feed, stare at the waveform dancing across the screen.
I whisper to the static, like it might answer:
“What are you trying to tell me, Ghost?”
No reply. Just the hum of machines and the distant thunder rolling over Ridgepoint.
Then — a flicker.
The signal shifts. New data appears — coordinates, half-scrambled, blinking at the bottom of the screen.
I write them down fast. 43°N, 119°W. Deep inside the Ember tunnels.
Right where we swore we’d never go again.
A slow smile cuts through the exhaustion. “Son of a bitch.”
If Ghost’s alive, he’s not just sending a message. He’s calling me home.
And this time, I’m not bringing forgiveness.