Chapter 7 - Unmasking the GhostSilent shadows moved through the dark hallways of the mansion.
Flynn moved like a ghost, guiding Margot behind him with one hand while keeping his weapon raised with the other. He didn't rush. Every step was calculated, silent, and lethal.
A masked intruder in tactical gear rounded the corner of the grand staircase, holding an submachine gun.
Flynn didn't give the man a chance to raise his weapon. He stepped forward, caught the rifle barrel, deflected it upward, and struck the intruder twice in the throat and temple. The man collapsed silently to the floor without firing a single shot.
Margot covered her mouth to suppress a scream.
Flynn pulled the tactical earpiece from the fallen intruder and placed it in his own ear, listening to the enemy chatter.
“Target is in the primary study,” a voice crackled through the earpiece. “Secure the drive and eliminate the single father.”
Flynn smiled a cold, terrifying smile in the darkness.
He leaned close to Margot. “Go into the panic room behind the library bookshelf. Code is 4-4-9-1. Lock it from the inside and do not open it for anyone except me.”
“Flynn, no!” Margot whispered frantically, grabbing his forearm. “There are three more of them! You can't fight them alone!”
Flynn looked down at her in the dim moonlight streaming through the high windows. For the first time, his thumb gently brushed across her cheek, wiping away a stray tear.
“Margot,” he said softly, “I spent eight years commanding the U.S. Army’s most elite black-ops unit—Ghost Squad. These mercenaries aren't an threat to me. They’re a mistake.”
Before Margot could process his words, Flynn slipped into the darkness and vanished.
Ten minutes passed inside the silent panic room. Margot sat on the floor, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer. Ghost Squad. The legendary classified counter-terrorism unit that technically didn't exist in government records.
Her husband wasn't a broke carpenter. He was a black-ops commander.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door of the panic room hummed and slid open.
Flynn stood in the doorway. His face was smudged with soot, his shirt slightly torn, but he was completely unharmed. Behind him, the mansion lights flickered back on.
In the hallway, four heavily armed mercenaries lay bound and unconscious on the marble floor, surrounded by three men in black tactical gear who bowed respectfully as Flynn passed.
“The estate is secure, Captain,” one of the tactical men reported crisply. “Local authorities and federal agents are en route. Crestwood’s mansion in Nashville has already been surrounded by FBI teams.”
Flynn nodded once. “Good work, Team Alpha. Clear the premises.”
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Flynn walked into the panic room and extended a hand to Margot.
Margot looked at his hand, then up into the eyes of the man she had forced into a pre-nuptial contract. Slowly, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet.
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