PART 1: THE GHOST IN THE VALLEY

The mud doesn’t lie. That’s the first thing you learn when you spend half your life tracking men who don’t want to be found, and the other half trying to forget what you did when you caught them.

The morning frost was still clinging to the wire fence, brittle and white, snapping under the weight of the dawn. My breath plumed in the air, a rhythmic fog that matched the pace of my boots crunching against the hard earth. At sixty-five, the joints ache a little more when the weather turns, a dull throb in the knees, a stiffness in the shoulder where a 7.62 round had kissed me in Mogadishu. But the eyes? The eyes work just fine. And right now, my eyes were fixed on a set of tire tracks that had no business being on the north ridge of my property.

Atlas, my German Shepherd, was already there. He wasn’t barking. Atlas knew better. He was standing rigid, the hackles on his back like a serrated blade, a low, vibrating growl rumbling in his chest that you felt more than heard.

“Easy, boy,” I whispered, kneeling down. I ran a gloved hand over the impression in the mud.

Deep treads. heavy duty. Run-flat tires on a heavy chassis. This wasn’t old man Miller’s pickup, and it sure as hell wasn’t the mail carrier. These were SUVs. Armored, probably. And they had been sitting here for a while, watching the house.

A cold prickle danced down my spine—that old, familiar sensation I hadn’t felt since I hung up the uniform. It was the feeling of being hunted.

I stood up, scanning the tree line. The Montana mountains were supposed to be my peace. Ironwood Valley was where men like me came to die quietly, to let the silence drown out the noise of thirty years of gunfire. But looking at those tracks, I knew the silence was over.

The sound of an engine pulled my attention to the main road. Dust was kicking up, a trail of brown smoke against the blue sky. It was Sarah Bennett’s beat-up Ford. She was driving too fast, the suspension groaning as she hit the potholes leading up to my gate.

I met her halfway. She didn’t even kill the engine before she jumped out, her face pale, eyes wide and rimmed with red.

“Wade,” she choked out, gripping my forearm. Her hands were shaking. “Thank God you’re out here.”

“Slow down, Sarah,” I said, my voice steady, an anchor for her panic. “What’s happened?”

“It’s the Hendersons,” she said, and the way her voice cracked told me everything. “They’re gone, Wade. Just… gone.”

I frowned. “Gone? Bill Henderson has lived in this valley since he was born. He wouldn’t leave his harvest.”

“Packed up in the middle of the night. No warning. I drove by this morning to drop off some eggs, and the house was empty. But… there were men there.”

My eyes narrowed. “What kind of men?”

“Suits,” she spat the word like a curse. “Big black SUVs. Men standing at the gate with rifles, Wade. They looked at me like I was… like I was a target.”

I looked back at the tire tracks on my ridge. It was starting to fit together. A puzzle I didn’t want to solve but knew I had to.

“Cartel,” I said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Sarah nodded, tears finally spilling over. “That’s what they’re saying in town. They’ve been moving up from the south. Buying properties, and if people don’t sell… well, Miller’s barn burned down last week, remember? We thought it was lightning. But lightning doesn’t drive black SUVs.”

“They’re seizing the distribution routes,” I muttered, my mind already shifting gears. I wasn’t Farmer Wade anymore. I was calculating logistics. Isolated properties. High altitude. Perfect cover for moving product north. “Have they approached you?”

“Not yet,” she whispered. “But they will. They’re taking the whole valley, Wade. The Sheriff is terrified. He says there’s nothing he can do. They have lawyers, money… and they have guns.”

I reached out and squeezed her shoulder, hard. “Listen to me. Go to your sister’s place in Missoula. Take the kids. Don’t tell anyone you’re going.”

“What about you?” she asked, searching my face. “You’re right in the choke point. They need your land to control the pass.”

I looked up at the granite peaks surrounding us, the land I had bought with blood money and a desire for solitude.

“Don’t worry about me, Sarah,” I said, a dark smile touching the corners of my mouth. “I’ve dealt with pests before.”

By noon, the pests arrived.

I was in the barn, pretending to fix the transmission on the tractor, when Atlas gave the signal—a sharp, single bark. I wiped the grease from my hands with a rag and stepped out into the sunlight.

Three black SUVs were rolling up my driveway. They moved with an arrogance that made my teeth grind—slow, deliberate, claiming the space. They stopped in a fan formation, blocking the exit. Tactical spacing. Sloppy, but tactical.

Five men got out. Four of them were muscle—thick necks, cheap suits that didn’t hide the bulge of sidearms, eyes scanning the perimeter. But the fifth man… he was different.

He wore a tailored suit that cost more than my truck. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, completely out of place in the dust. He walked towards me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were dead things, cold and flat like a shark’s.

“Mr. Thorne,” he said, extending a hand. “Beautiful property you have here. Truly breathtaking.”

I ignored his hand. I leaned back against the tractor, crossing my arms. “It’s private property. Which usually implies you need an invitation.”

The man dropped his hand, his smile tightening just a fraction. “I am Felix Elis. I represent an investment group. We are acquiring land in Ironwood Valley for… development.”

“I’m not selling,” I said. Short. Simple.

Felix sighed, as if he were dealing with a petulant child. “Mr. Thorne, perhaps you are unaware of the market trends. We are offering three million dollars. Cash. Today.”

Three million. Enough to live like a king in Florida. But I looked at the men behind him. One was chewing gum, looking at my house like he was already measuring it for a demolition. Another was watching Atlas with a look I didn’t like—the look of a man who enjoys hurting things.

“Money’s good,” I said, keeping my voice low. “But I promised my wife before she passed that I’d die on this land. I intend to keep that promise.”

Felix took a step closer. He invaded my personal space, a dominance tactic. He smelled of expensive cologne and fear. Not his fear—the fear of everyone he had crushed.

“Promises are romantic, Wade,” he said, using my first name. “But reality is harsh. Accidents happen in these mountains. Fires. Brakes failing on steep roads. It would be a tragedy if a war hero like you… succumbed to the elements.”

I froze. He knew.

“You’ve done your homework,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, losing the country twang.

“We know everything,” Felix whispered. “Delta Force. Commander. Thirty years. But that was a long time ago, Phantom. Now? Now you are just an old man with a bad knee and a dog.”

He pulled a business card from his pocket and tucked it into the pocket of my flannel shirt.

“You have twenty-four hours,” he said. “After that, the offer expires. And we stop being businessmen.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. The muscle glared at me, hands hovering near their waistbands. I didn’t flinch. I just watched them get back into their air-conditioned cages and roll out.

“Twenty-four hours,” I muttered to Atlas.

I waited until the dust settled, then I walked into the house, locked the door, and went straight to the basement.

Most people have a storm cellar for tornadoes. I have a storm cellar for the end of the world.

I pushed aside the heavy oak workbench and pried up the false floorboard. The hydraulic hiss of the hidden door opening was the sweetest sound I’d heard in years. I descended the concrete steps, the air growing cool and dry.

Lights flickered on automatically.

It was all there. My past. My ghosts.

The walls were lined with racks. heavy polymer cases stacked floor to ceiling. I walked over to the nearest one and popped the latches. The smell of gun oil hit me—perfume for the damned.

I lifted out my old MK12 Special Purpose Rifle. It felt heavy, substantial, an extension of my own arm. I checked the action. Smooth as glass. Next to it, the MP7, compact and nasty. Then the explosives—C4 bricks, claymores, detonators.

I wasn’t a farmer anymore. The farmer had died the moment Felix threatened my home. The Phantom was back.

I moved to the comms desk and fired up the secure satellite uplink. It was encrypted, bounced through three different continents. I typed in a sequence of numbers I hadn’t used in a decade.

Status: ACTIVE.
Threat Level: IMMINENT.
Asset Request: TEAM OMEGA.

I picked up the sat-phone. It rang twice.

“This line is dead,” a gruff voice answered. No hello. No names.

“Knox,” I said. “It’s Phantom.”

Silence. Heavy, thick silence on the line. Then, a low exhale. “I thought you were dead, Wade. Or growing corn.”

“Both,” I said. “But I’ve got a pest problem. Big one. Cartel.”

“Mexican?”

“And ex-special forces. They’re moving on the valley. They threatened the farm.”

“They threatened your farm?” Knox actually laughed. It was a dry, scraping sound. “Do they have a death wish?”

“They gave me twenty-four hours. I’m thinking we don’t wait that long.”

“I’m in,” Knox said immediately. “I was getting bored shooting paper targets anyway. What about the others?”

“Make the call,” I ordered. “I need Cyrus for demo. Zane for eyes and ears. And get Nash. If this goes sideways, we’re gonna need a medic who can stitch meat in the dark.”

“They’re scattered, Wade. Cyrus is in Vegas. Nash is running a clinic in Detroit.”

“Tell them it’s the Ironwood. Tell them Phantom is calling in the debt.”

“Give us six hours,” Knox said. “Leave the light on.”

Six hours is a lifetime when you’re waiting for war.

I spent the afternoon turning my tranquil farmhouse into a fortress. It wasn’t about building walls; it was about creating kill zones.

I mapped the property in my head. The long driveway was a fatal funnel—perfect for an ambush. The barn offered high ground but was a fire trap if they used incendiaries. The tree line to the east was the weak point, offering too much cover for an approach.

I took the claymores from the basement and planted them along the eastern ridge, burying the wires under the pine needles. I set up motion sensors on the perimeter fence, linking them to a tablet I strapped to my wrist.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the peaks, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and blood orange, I was sitting on the porch. I had swapped my flannel for tactical gear—black cargo pants, a plate carrier that felt a little tighter than it used to, and a drop-leg holster.

Atlas sat next to me, wearing his own vest. He looked like a wolf in the dying light.

The sound of engines approached. Not the heavy drone of SUVs this time, but the roar of distinct, high-performance engines.

A black pickup truck crested the hill, followed by a beat-up Jeep and a Ducati motorcycle.

They pulled into the yard and killed the engines. The silence that followed was heavy with history.

Knox stepped out of the truck first. He was older, his beard grey and wild, but he still moved with that terrifying predatory grace. He was carrying a rifle case that looked like a coffin.

Cyrus hopped out of the Jeep, grinning like a maniac, chewing on a toothpick. He looked like a mechanic, but I knew the tool bags in his hands were full of things that went boom.

Zane took off his helmet, shaking out long hair. He looked too young to be part of this group, but the scar running down his neck told a different story. He was already tapping on a tablet.

And Nash… the medic. He got out of the passenger side of Knox’s truck. He looked tired, the weight of too many lost patients in his eyes, but when he saw me, he straightened up.

“You look like hell, old man,” Knox said, walking up the steps.

“You look like a homeless Santa Claus,” I shot back, gripping his hand.

“So,” Cyrus said, looking around the property. “This is the Alamo?”

“This is the kill box,” I corrected.

Zane looked up from his tablet. “Wade, I’m tapping into the local chatter. They aren’t waiting twenty-four hours. I’ve got heat signatures moving at the south pass. A convoy. Twenty vehicles. They’re coming tonight.”

“Twenty vehicles?” Nash raised an eyebrow. “Against five of us?”

I racked the charging handle on my rifle, the metallic clack-clack echoing in the twilight.

“They think they’re coming to evict an old man,” I said, looking at my team—my brothers. “They don’t know they’re walking into a grinder.”

I looked out at the darkening valley. The shadows were lengthening, stretching out like fingers grasping for the house.

“Let’s turn the lights out,” I said. “And show them what happens when you hunt a ghost.”

PART 2: THE DEVIL’S DOORSTEP

War has a smell. Before the first shot is fired, before the copper tang of blood hits the air, there is the smell of ozone and sweat. It’s the scent of adrenaline spiking in your bloodstream. Standing in my living room, watching Nash lay out tourniquets and morphine syrettes on my grandmother’s antique coffee table, the smell was so thick I could taste it.

“You kept the layout the same,” Knox said. He was positioned at the north window, his rifle resting on a tripod he’d improvised from a lamp stand. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring through his scope, measuring windage in the swaying pines. “Always liked that about you, Wade. Predictable.”

“Consistency saves lives,” I muttered, checking the feed from the perimeter cameras on my wrist tablet. “And if you scratch that floor, Knox, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Promise?” He cracked a grin, his eye never leaving the glass.

The mood in the house was a strange cocktail of nostalgia and lethal focus. We were five men who should have been bouncing grandkids on our knees or fishing on a quiet lake. Instead, we were prepping to slaughter a small army.

Cyrus was in the kitchen, humming a tune I recognized—Bad Moon Rising—while he rigged a pressure cooker with C4. “You know,” he said, looking up with eyes that twinkled with manic glee, “I missed this. The retirement home in Vegas? They get upset if you mix your own fertilizer.”

“Focus, Cyrus,” I said. “Are the daisy chains set on the main road?”

“Wade, please. I rigged that road so tight a squirrel couldn’t fart without setting off a seismic event. The first three vehicles are going to the moon. The rest are going to hell.”

“Zane,” I called out. He was sitting on the floor in the corner, surrounded by a nest of wires and glowing screens. The blue light washed over his face, making him look ghostly.

“I’m inside their comms,” Zane said, his voice flat, professional. “It’s worse than we thought, Wade. This isn’t just a grab crew. I’m picking up chatter in Russian and Farsi. They’ve got contractors. Mercenaries.”

I walked over, looking at the waterfall of encrypted data scrolling down his screen. “Mercenaries? For a drug route?”

“It’s not just a route,” Zane whispered, tapping a key to bring up a satellite map. “Look at the overlay. They aren’t just buying farms; they’re buying line-of-sight for the entire northern corridor. This isn’t distribution. It’s a forward operating base. They want to move heavy hardware. Missiles. drones.”

My stomach turned over. This wasn’t a cartel expansion; it was an invasion disguised as a crime wave.

“Then we aren’t just protecting my property,” I said, my voice hardening. “We’re holding the line.”

“Contact,” Knox said. One word. It stopped the room cold.

I moved to the window. Down in the valley, a river of light was flowing toward us. Headlights. Dozens of them. They were moving fast, aggressive. They weren’t sneaking anymore. They were coming to crush us.

“Kill the lights,” I ordered.

The farmhouse plunged into darkness. We were shadows now.

We let them breach the outer gate.

It goes against every instinct to let the enemy onto your land, but you can’t trap a wolf if he stays in the woods. You have to let him think the sheep are unguarded.

I watched the lead vehicle, a massive up-armored SUV with a bull bar, smash through my white picket fence. It was an insult, a desecration. My grip tightened on the MK12.

“Steady,” I whispered into the comms headset. “Wait for it.”

The convoy rumbled up the long dirt driveway. Dust choked the air. I counted twelve vehicles in the first wave. Men were hanging off the running boards, weapons raised. They were firing into the air, screaming, trying to intimidate. They wanted us to cower.

They had no idea.

The lead SUV hit the marker—an old oak tree about fifty yards from the porch.

“Cyrus,” I said. “Welcome them to the neighborhood.”

BOOM.

The explosion wasn’t a sound; it was a physical punch to the chest. The night turned white. The lead SUV didn’t just stop; it disintegrated. The engine block cartwheeled through the air, landing with a sickening crunch on the hood of the second car.

“Initiate,” I commanded.

Knox’s rifle barked. Thwack. A driver in the third car slumped over. Thwack. A gunner on a roof turret dropped. He was working the bolt with a rhythm that was almost musical.

Chaos erupted on the driveway. The cartel soldiers were spilling out of the vehicles, screaming, firing blindly at the dark house. Their tracers zipped through the air like angry hornets, smashing into the siding, shattering windows.

“Zane, lights!” I yelled.

Zane hit a key. Four high-intensity floodlights I’d mounted in the trees—blinding, stadium-grade LEDs—snapped on, aimed directly at the driveway.

The enemy was blinded, exposed, caught in the glare. We were invisible in the darkness behind the lights.

“Fish in a barrel,” Cyrus laughed, triggering a second detonation. A claymore on the east flank shredded a group trying to find cover in the ditch.

I raised my rifle, finding my rhythm. Breathe. Squeeze. Target down. Breathe. Squeeze. Target down. It wasn’t killing; it was solving a geometry problem. Remove the threats. Protect the asset.

But these men were professionals. After the initial shock, they started to rally.

“RPG!” Nash screamed from the hallway.

I saw the smoke trail a split second before the impact. The rocket slammed into the second floor, right above us. The house shook to its foundation. Dust and plaster rained down. My ears rang.

“Check in!” I shouted, coughing.

“Good!” Knox yelled.
“Still here!” Cyrus.
“Zane’s good!”
“I’m good, but the roof is on fire!” Nash reported.

“They’re flanking left!” Zane called out, his voice tight. “Thermal shows eight tangos moving through the cornfield. They’re trying to circle behind the barn.”

“I’ve got the barn,” I said, moving toward the back door. “Knox, hold the front. Cyrus, keep them pinned on the driveway. Nash, watch the stairs.”

“Go get ’em, Phantom,” Knox grunted, dropping another target.

I slipped out the back door, Atlas at my heel. The night air was cool against my sweating face. The cornfield was a sea of rustling shadows. I moved low, a ghost in my own garden.

I didn’t need night vision. I knew every stalk of corn, every dip in the earth.

I stopped, listening. The heavy breathing of men running in gear. The click of a safety. They were close.

“Atlas,” I whispered, pointing into the dark. “Sic.”

Atlas launched himself. He was a silent missile. A scream tore through the night as he hit the point man.

I moved in behind the distraction. I didn’t fire. A gunshot gives away your position. I used the knife.

The first man turned, hearing the scream. I stepped out of the stalks, grabbed his vest, and drove the blade into the gap between his collarbone and neck. He went down without a sound.

The second man saw me. He raised his rifle. I grabbed the barrel, twisted it aside, and shattered his knee with a kick. As he fell, I silenced him with a strike to the temple.

Six left.

They were firing wildly now, spooked by the dog and the shadow taking them apart. I moved, flanked, struck, and vanished. It was a dance I had perfected in the jungles of Colombia and the deserts of Iraq.

Within two minutes, the cornfield was quiet again.

I wiped my blade on the pants of a unconscious mercenary and tapped my headset. “Flank clear. How we looking?”

“They’re pulling back!” Knox said, sounding surprised. “They’re retreating to the gate.”

“Don’t let them regroup,” I ordered. “Cyrus, cut the retreat.”

“With pleasure.”

A massive explosion rocked the front gate. Cyrus had blown a tree across the exit. They were trapped.

The firefight died down to sporadic potshots. The surviving cartel members were huddled behind their wrecked vehicles, pinned down, cut off, and terrified.

I walked back into the house. The living room was a mess of broken glass and drywall, but the team was intact.

“We need a prisoner,” I said, reloading a fresh magazine. “We need to know who is running this show.”

“I think I can help with that,” Zane said. He turned his monitor toward me.

The screen showed a live feed from a drone Zane had put up. It was hovering over the convoy. In the center of the wreckage, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards, was a man in a white suit. He was screaming into a satellite phone.

“Recognize him?” Zane asked.

I squinted. “That’s not Felix.”

“No,” Zane said grimly. “That’s El Fantasma’s lieutenant. Marco ‘The Butcher’ Perez. Wanted by Interpol for three hundred murders.”

“He looks upset,” Knox deadpanned.

“He’s terrified,” Zane corrected. “Listen to the intercept.”

He turned up the volume. Marco’s voice crackled through the speakers, speaking rapid-fire Spanish.

“…it’s a trap! It’s not a farmer! It’s… it’s demons! They are everywhere! We are cut off! Send the heavy unit! Send the Bird!”

My blood ran cold. “The Bird?”

“Helicopter,” Knox said, looking at me. “Gunship.”

“If they have air support, we’re sitting ducks in this house,” I said. “We need to move. Get to the barn. The cellar connects to the old mine shaft. We can flank them from the high ground.”

“Wait,” Nash said, looking out the shattered window. “Something’s happening.”

Down on the driveway, the shooting had stopped completely. A single figure was walking toward the house. He was holding his hands up, waving a white cloth.

“Parley?” Cyrus asked, finger hovering over a detonator.

“Or a distraction,” I said. “Cover me. I’m going out.”

I walked out onto the porch, my rifle lowered but ready. Atlas stood beside me, blood on his muzzle—not his own.

The man stopped at the bottom of the steps. It was Marco. up close, he looked younger than his file photos, and he was sweating through his expensive suit.

“Senor Thorne,” he called out, his voice shaking. “You fight well. For an old man.”

“You trespass poorly,” I replied. “For a professional.”

Marco licked his lips. “My employer… he respects strength. He offers you a deal. Walk away. Leave the valley tonight. We will let you live. We will even pay you double.”

I laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. “You’re trapped in my driveway, your men are bleeding out, and you think you’re in a position to negotiate?”

Marco smiled, but it was a nervous, twitchy thing. “We are just the first wave, Phantom. You think you stopped us? You just woke the dragon. El Fantasma is not a man who accepts defeat. He is coming. And he is bringing something you cannot shoot.”

“What’s he bringing?” I asked, stepping closer.

Marco’s eyes drifted up to the sky. “Fire. Rain.”

A low thumping sound began to vibrate in my chest. Thump-thump-thump. Distant, but getting louder fast.

I looked at Marco. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking at the horizon with a look of terrifying relief.

“Too late,” he whispered.

“Get back inside!” I screamed, turning to the house.

I tackled Knox through the doorway just as the world exploded.

It wasn’t a rocket this time. It was a chain gun. Thousands of rounds per minute tearing through the roof, shredding the wood, turning my home into sawdust. The sound was a deafening roar, like the sky being ripped open.

We crawled through the debris, coughing, eyes stinging.

“Basement! Go! Go!” I roared, shoving Nash toward the hidden door.

We tumbled down the stairs into the storm cellar just as the ceiling of the living room collapsed. The house—my sanctuary, the place I had built to find peace—was gone.

In the sudden silence of the bunker, the only sound was our ragged breathing and the muffled roar of the helicopter circling overhead like a vulture.

Zane was already frantically typing on his hardened laptop.

“Wade,” he gasped. “I got a lock on the chopper’s signal. It’s not cartel.”

I wiped blood from my forehead. “What?”

“The transponder code,” Zane said, looking up at me with wide eyes. “It’s military. Private contractor. Black ops. But the ID tag… it belongs to a shell company owned by Erebos Group.”

The room went silent. Even Cyrus stopped smiling.

Erebos. The private military corporation that had been kicked out of Iraq for being too brutal. The guys who did the jobs even the CIA wouldn’t touch.

“So,” I said, my voice quiet, dangerous. “The cartel hired Erebos.”

“Or Erebos is running the cartel,” Knox said, spitting out a mouthful of dust.

I looked at my team. They were battered, bleeding, their faces caked in plaster dust. But their eyes… their eyes were burning.

“They burned my house,” I said.

“Yeah,” Cyrus said softly. “They did.”

“They think we’re trapped in this hole.”

“Probably,” Nash agreed.

I walked over to the weapons rack and pulled down the heavy canvas tarp covering the back wall. Underneath was a tunnel entrance, reinforced with steel beams—an old smuggler’s route from the prohibition era that led half a mile up the mountain, right behind the ridge where the helicopter was circling.

I turned back to them. The Phantom wasn’t just back. He was pissed.

“Zane, can you jam that chopper’s comms?”

“I can fry their whole nervous system,” Zane grinned.

“Cyrus, do you have anything left that can take down a bird?”

Cyrus reached into his bag and pulled out a clunky, ugly-looking tube. A Gustav recoilless rifle. “I was saving this for a special occasion.”

“Happy Birthday,” I said.

I checked my mag. Full.

“Part 1 was the introduction,” I said, stepping toward the tunnel. “Part 2 was the warmup. Now? Now we go hunt.”

PART 3: ASHES AND ECHOES

The tunnel smelled of damp earth and old secrets. It was a narrow throat of rock and rotting timber that cut through the heart of the mountain, bypassing the burning ruin of my home. We moved in silence, a single file line of ghosts navigating the underworld.

My knees screamed with every step, the adrenaline of the firefight beginning to sour into a dull, grinding ache. But I pushed it down. Pain is just information. It tells you you’re still alive.

“Two hundred yards to the exit,” Zane whispered over the comms, his voice tinny in my earpiece. “The chopper is holding a hover pattern directly over the barn. They’re scanning for thermal signatures in the rubble. They think we’re buried.”

“Let them think it,” I rasped. “Cyrus, is that Gustav ready?”

“Born ready,” Cyrus grunted from behind me. “But I’ve only got one round. If I miss, we’re going to have a very bad night.”

“You don’t miss,” Knox said. It wasn’t encouragement; it was a statement of fact.

We reached the exit—a rusted iron grate hidden behind a thicket of blackberry bushes on the ridge overlooking the farm. I pushed it open, wincing as the hinges shrieked in protest.

The view that greeted us was a painting of hell.

My farmhouse was a bonfire. The flames licked sixty feet into the air, casting a flickering, demonic orange light over the valley. The heat washed over us even from this distance. Above the inferno, the helicopter—a sleek, black MD 530 Defender—hung in the air like a predatory insect, its spotlight sweeping the wreckage.

Below, on the illuminated driveway, the Erebos mercenaries were advancing. They moved with a discipline that chilled me. They weren’t cheering or spraying bullets wildly like the cartel thugs. They were methodically sweeping the perimeter, checking corners, securing the kill box.

“There,” Knox pointed.

Near the burning remains of my porch, a command unit had been set up. A man in full tactical gear, no helmet, was barking orders into a radio. He stood tall, arrogant, watching his men pick through the bones of my life.

“That’s the commander,” I said. “Target priority alpha.”

“After the bird,” Cyrus corrected, hoisting the heavy recoilless rifle onto his shoulder. “Clear backblast!”

We scrambled to the sides, pressing ourselves into the dirt.

“Zane, kill the lights,” I ordered.

“Jamming… now.”

Down in the valley, the high-intensity floodlights I’d rigged flickered and died. The Erebos comms would be filled with white noise.

“Fire,” I whispered.

THOOM.

The sound of the Gustav was different from an explosion. It was a vacuum, a sudden displacement of air that rattled your teeth. The rocket shrieked across the gap between the ridge and the helicopter.

It didn’t hit the fuselage. It hit the tail rotor.

The result was catastrophic and instantaneous. The helicopter spun violently, losing all stability. The pilot tried to correct, but physics is a cruel mistress. The machine spiraled down, the engine screaming, and smashed into the roof of the burning barn.

A second sun bloomed in the valley as the aviation fuel ignited.

“Move!” I roared, sliding down the ridge. “Hit them while they’re stunned!”

We descended like a landslide. Knox stopped halfway down, finding a perch on a granite outcropping. His rifle began to sing. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Down below, the Erebos mercenaries were scrambling. The crash had broken their formation. They were looking up, looking around, trying to find the enemy that had just swatted their air support out of the sky.

“Contact front!” I yelled, hitting the flat ground.

Two mercenaries turned toward me. They were good—fast reflexes, weapons up instantly. But they were fighting a reaction; I was fighting an execution.

I dropped to one knee, putting two rounds into the chest of the first man. The ceramic plates stopped the bullets, but the kinetic energy knocked him flat, stealing his breath. I put the third round in his pelvis. He screamed.

The second man fired, rounds kicking up dirt inches from my face. I rolled, coming up with my MP7. A short, controlled burst caught him in the throat.

“Push them!” I commanded. “Drive them into the fire!”

We were a wedge of violence cutting through their confusion. Nash and Zane moved on my right, laying down suppressing fire. Cyrus was on my left, tossing flashbangs that turned the night into a strobe-lit nightmare.

We weren’t just killing them; we were breaking them. We were taking away their certainty, their communication, their leadership.

I saw the commander—the man I’d spotted from the ridge. He was rallying his men near the wreckage of the convoy, screaming orders that nobody could hear over Zane’s jamming.

He saw me.

He didn’t run. He didn’t flinch. He holstered his sidearm and pulled a combat knife from his vest. It was a challenge. A primal invitation.

“Cover me!” I shouted to the team.

“Clear!” Knox’s voice rang in my ear.

I holstered my weapon. This was personal. This man had burned my home. He had brought war to my sanctuary. I wanted him to feel the cost of that mistake.

We met in the circle of light cast by the burning house. He was younger than me, bigger, stronger. His face was smeared with soot, his eyes burning with the cold fury of a professional who had just lost control of his operation.

He lunged, a feint to the head followed by a vicious slash to the gut. I sidestepped, the blade missing my vest by a fraction of an inch. I checked his arm, stepping inside his guard, and drove my elbow into his ribs. It felt like hitting a brick wall.

He grunt but didn’t slow down. He headbutted me, hard. stars exploded in my vision. I stumbled back, tasting blood.

“You’re obsolete, old man,” he spat, circling me. “You’re a relic fighting a future you don’t understand.”

“The future bleeds just like the past,” I snarled.

He attacked again, a flurry of slashes. I parried, blocked, retreated. He was fast. Too fast. I could feel my age then, the heaviness in my limbs, the slowness of my synapses.

He caught me. A slash across my forearm. Pain flared, hot and sharp.

I dropped to one knee, feigning weakness.

He took the bait. He stepped in for the kill, raising the knife for a downward thrust.

It was the move of an arrogant man. A man who thought he had already won.

I didn’t block. I surged upward, driving my shoulder into his solar plexus. As he doubled over, gasping, I grabbed his wrist, twisting it until the bone snapped with a wet crack.

He dropped the knife. I swept his legs, slamming him into the hard-packed earth.

Before he could recover, I was on him. My forearm pressed against his throat, pinning him down.

“Who sent you?” I roared, my face inches from his. “Who signed the check?”

His eyes were bulging, face turning purple, but he managed a twisted, bloody grin.

“Doesn’t… matter,” he choked out. “We are… legion.”

“And I,” I whispered, leaning in closer, “am the exorcist.”

I applied pressure. The light faded from his eyes. He went limp.

I stood up, chest heaving, wiping the blood from my mouth.

Around me, the shooting had stopped.

I looked around. The remaining mercenaries were on their knees, hands behind their heads. Knox, Cyrus, Nash, and Zane stood over them, weapons trained.

The valley was silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant wail of sirens approaching from the highway.

I walked over to my team. We looked like demons—covered in soot, blood, and sweat. But we were standing.

“Status?” I asked, my voice rasping.

“Green,” Nash said, though he was holding his side. “Couple of grazes. Nothing vital.”

“Prisoners?”

“Six,” Knox said, spitting on the ground. ” The rest didn’t want to surrender.”

I looked at the burning skeleton of my farmhouse. The roof had collapsed completely. The chimney stood alone, a blackened finger pointing at the accusing sky. Everything I owned—the photos of my wife, the medals, the books, the quiet life I had built—was ash.

“We won,” Zane said, but he sounded unsure.

“Did we?” I looked at the fire. “We survived. There’s a difference.”

The sirens got louder. Sheriff Cooper’s cruiser was the first to tear through the ruined gate, followed by state troopers and an ambulance.

Cooper jumped out, his gun drawn, but he lowered it when he saw us. He stopped, staring at the devastation. The burning helicopter wreckage in the barn. The destroyed convoy. The rows of zip-tied mercenaries.

He walked up to me, his face pale in the firelight.

“Jesus, Wade,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

“I took out the trash, Sheriff,” I said, holstering my MP7.

“These men…” Cooper shone his flashlight on the prisoners. “This isn’t cartel. This is… military.”

“Private contractors,” I corrected. “Illegal operation on US soil. You’ll find their heavy weapons in the trucks. And you’ll find a data drive in that commander’s pocket that links them to the syndicate moving product through the north pass.”

Cooper looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in years. He didn’t see the farmer anymore. He saw the Commander.

“The Feds are going to be all over this,” Cooper said. “Homeland Security. FBI. You can’t just… explain this away, Wade. You destroyed a small army.”

“I defended my home,” I said simply. “Self-defense.”

“With a recoilless rifle?” Cooper gestured to where Cyrus was innocently leaning against a tree, trying to hide the launcher behind his back.

“It was a very aggressive home invasion,” I said.

Cooper rubbed his face. “Wade, they’re going to come for you. Not the cartel. The suits. The government. You can’t stay here.”

I turned and looked at the fire again. I watched the sparks drift up into the night sky, joining the stars.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mike,” I said. “This is my land. My wife is buried on that hill. I promised her.”

“There’s nothing left!” Cooper gestured to the inferno.

I knelt down and picked up a handful of dirt. It was warm, gritty, real.

” The land is still here,” I said. “Houses can be rebuilt. Barns can be raised. But the ground? You don’t give up the ground.”

I stood up and patted Cooper on the shoulder. “Besides. I think the neighborhood watch just got a hell of an upgrade.”

I looked back at my team. Knox was lighting a cigar. Nash was bandaging Zane’s arm. Cyrus was explaining the finer points of demolition to a terrified deputy.

They weren’t leaving either. I knew it without asking.

We were old dogs, maybe. But we had found a new porch to guard.

EPILOGUE: THE WATCHERS ON THE WALL

Six months later.

The new house isn’t as big as the old one. It’s single-story, reinforced concrete disguised with cedar siding. The windows are ballistic glass. The basement is deeper.

I sat on the new porch, watching the sun rise over the Ironwood peaks. The coffee in my mug was hot and black. Atlas lay at my feet, chewing on a new toy.

The valley was quiet. The cartel hadn’t come back. The Erebos Group had dissolved into a mess of congressional hearings and indictments after “anonymous” intelligence leaks—courtesy of Zane—exposed their operations.

The world thought it was a drug bust gone wrong. A gang war.

We let them think that.

A truck pulled up the drive. It was Sarah. She hopped out, carrying a basket of muffins. She looked lighter, younger than she had six months ago. The fear was gone from her eyes.

“Morning, Commander,” she teased, walking up the steps.

“Morning, Sarah,” I smiled. “I told you, it’s just Wade.”

“Uh-huh.” She looked out at the ridge, where Knox was teaching a ‘long-range marksmanship’ clinic to a group of local ranchers. “Just Wade and his gardening club.”

“We’re growing a very specific crop,” I said, sipping my coffee.

“Safety?” she asked.

“Peace of mind,” I corrected.

She sat down next to me. “You know, people in town still talk. They say you’re a ghost. That you summoned demons to eat the cartel.”

“Let them talk,” I said. “Legends are good security systems.”

I looked out over the valley. It was scarred, yes. There were blackened stumps on the hill where the barn used to be. But the grass was growing back, green and vibrant. The scars were just history written on the earth.

I thought about the violence. The blood. The way the Erebos commander’s eyes had dimmed. I didn’t enjoy it. I never had. But I accepted it.

There are wolves in this world. There always will be. They feed on the weak, the quiet, the ones who just want to live their lives. And as long as there are wolves, there need to be sheepdogs.

Old, scarred, tired sheepdogs with bad knees and demons of their own.

I reached down and scratched Atlas behind the ears. He leaned into my hand, content.

“We’re not going anywhere, are we, boy?” I whispered.

He looked up at me, his amber eyes clear and steady.

We were the ghosts of Ironwood Valley. And we were home.