The words send ice water through my veins. If he's right, if someone has been watching me, listening to my conversations, tracking my movements... then everything I thought was private investigation has been compromised from the very beginning.
I grab my laptop and start running security scans I should have done months ago. Checking for surveillance software, listening devices, any signs that my private space has been violated. It takes twenty minutes to find them.
Son of a bitch.
Three separate pieces of spyware on my laptop. A listening device in my kitchen light fixture. A micro-camera in my bedroom smoke detector that's been watching me sleep, dress, live my private life for God knows how long.
Professional installation. Government-grade equipment. The kind of surveillance that requires federal authorization and substantial resources.
Someone with serious backing has been watching me for months. Recording my conversations, monitoring my investigation, probably laughing at my obsessive pursuit of a phantom they knew was fake.
"Who benefits if the FBI believes Ghost killed a federal witness? Who gains from your career being destroyed alongside my reputation?"
Harrison. The man who assigned me to the Ghost case in the first place. The man who has access to all my reports, all my theories, my entire investigation timeline.
But that's just speculation. Suspicion based on access and opportunity, not proof. Harrison could be incompetent rather than corrupt. He could be another victim of this frame job rather than its architect.
Except... the surveillance equipment in my apartment is government-grade. The kind that requires federal authorization. The kind that Deputy Director Harrison could order without raising questions.
Harrison who now wants to interview me about a witness leak when he's the one person who could have provided the location to begin with.
The frame job isn't just elegant - it's fucking diabolical. Use my own obsession against me. Let me build a case against a phantom while feeding real information to real killers. Then, when they need a scapegoat for the witness murder, I'm perfectly positioned to take the fall.
I look at my Ghost wall one more time, at all the evidence I've collected and theories I've constructed. Twenty-three months of my life.
But the real Ghost does exist. And he's been watching me build this case, probably protecting me from threats I never even knew existed.
Pack light, leave now, trust no one from the Bureau.
My service weapon goes in its shoulder holster. My backup gun in the ankle holster. Phone, wallet, keys, and the small thumb drive where I keep copies of all my Ghost files - the real ones, not the corrupted versions probably sitting on Bureau servers.
I grab a small duffel bag and pack like I'm going to be away for a while. Clean clothes, toiletries, cash I keep in my bedroom safe for emergencies. If Mikhail is right about the surveillance, if my apartment is compromised, I can't come back here until this is resolved.
I'm dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, practical clothes for a meeting that might end in violence or revelation or both. As I grab my leather jacket from the closet, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look like hell. Soot-stained, exhausted, with wild eyes that have seen too much in a single night. But underneath the mess, there's something else.
Determination.
For the first time in two years, I'm about to get real answers about Ghost. Not speculation, not theory.
The truth. From the source himself.
God, help me.
I disable the surveillance devices with the kind of systematic thoroughness that would make my instructors at Quantico proud. Can't have them tracking my movements or knowing I've discovered their little spy network.
Then I turn off all the lights, lock the apartment, and walk away from everything I've built my professional life on.
Because sometimes the only way to solve a mystery is to step into it completely, consequences be damned.
Chapter four
Protective Instincts
Mikhail
The Next Morning - 8:47 AM
