"Was killed by someone wearing my reputation like a mask," he interrupts, and now his expression has gone hard again. Dangerous. "Someone who wants both of us to take the blame for his death."
"That's impossible." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. There have been inconsistencies in the Ghost cases. Little things that didn't quite fit. Details that seemed off. I explained them away as evolution in his methods, but what if...?
"Is it? When did you last see solid evidence that connected the Ghost to any specific crime? I’m talking about real evidence, not just similar methods or convenient coincidences?"
I open my mouth to argue, to recite chapter and verse of my case files, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's right. Every case has been circumstantial. Every connection has been speculation based on pattern recognition and probability.
I've been really just chasing shadows this whole time?
"Think, Agent Castillo," he says, and his voice is urgent now. Professional. "Who benefits if the FBI believes Ghost killed a federal witness, the one you were supposed to protect? Who gains from your career being destroyed alongside my reputation?"
The sirens are getting closer. Red and blue lights flash through the smoke and debris, painting everything in emergency colors. I can hear Rodriguez shouting orders, coordinating the response.
"I have to go," he says, and something in his tone makes my chest tight. Like he doesn't want to leave. "But this isn't over between us. Trust no one and stay safe."
"Wait—" I reach out without thinking, but he's already moving.
He melts back into the shadows like he's part of the darkness itself, moving with inhuman silence. Only his voice remains, floating through the smoky air like a promise or a threat.
"?? ???????, ????????? ????."
The Russian words roll off his tongue like honey, and even though I don't understand them, I feel them in my bones. In places I shouldn't be feeling anything from a wanted criminal.
Until next time, little wolf.
When Rodriguez and the other agents find me three minutes later, I'm standing alone beside the burning wreckage, staring at the spot where the most dangerous man I've ever met just saved my life.
And then walked away without taking it.
"Castillo!" Rodriguez rushes over, his face tight with worry and something else I don't want to examine too closely. "Jesus Christ, we thought you were dead! Are you hurt?"
I should tell him about Ghost. Should report the encounter, describe his appearance, put out a BOLO immediately while the trail is still warm.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "I'm fine. Just smoke inhalation."
"What happened in there? We lost contact with you for twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes. Was that all? It felt like hours. Like a lifetime of everything I thought I knew being turned upside down and shaken until all the pieces fell out.
"Building came down," I say, which isn't exactly a lie. "I was trapped in the southeast corner. Barely made it out."
Rodriguez studies my face, and I can see the doubt in his eyes, his intuition telling him that's not the whole story. We've been partners for three years. He knows when I'm holding something back. More importantly, I can see the personal concern in his dark eyes, the way his gaze lingers on my face like he's cataloging every smudge and scrape.
Don't. Don't go there, Rodriguez.
He's a good partner and a good man, but there's been a tension between us lately that I pretend not to notice. The way he stands a little too close during briefings. The way he brings me coffee exactly how I like it without being asked. The way he looks at me sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
"Mariana," he says quietly, using my first name in that way he does when he's worried about me. When he's forgetting we're supposed to be just professional partners. "Are you sure you're okay? You look off, like you've seen a ghost."
I did see a ghost. And he was nothing like I expected.
My radio crackles. "Castillo, report. Are you secure?"
"Secure," I say automatically, but it's a lie.
Nothing about this is secure. Not the investigation, not my understanding of the case, and definitely not the way my body is still humming from thirty seconds in Ghost's arms.
I touch my cheek where his thumb traced across my skin, and I know with absolute certainty that everything just changed.
