An Old Ghost Returns

Ethan drove through the dimly lit backstreets of the city, tension coiling in his muscles. He shouldn't be doing this. Seeking out old contacts was dangerous—especially one like Victor Sloane. But at this point, he had no choice. The ledger had marked him. Whoever controlled it knew who he was. Knew what he had buried.

And if anyone could give him answers, it was Sloane.

The bar hadn't changed in the years since Ethan had last been there. A rundown hole-in-the-wall joint called Calhoun's, tucked between abandoned buildings on the bad side of town. The kind of place where questions weren't asked, and trouble found you before you found it.

Ethan parked a block away, scanning the area before stepping out. The streets were quiet, but quiet didn't mean safe. His instincts told him he was being watched. Then again, they always did.

Inside, the bar was thick with the smell of stale beer and regret. A few drunks slumped over their drinks. A tired-looking bartender wiped the counter, his eyes dull with disinterest. And there, at the farthest booth in the corner, sat Victor Sloane.

Sloane hadn't changed much. Grayer, maybe. A little heavier. But still sharp, still dangerous. He was the kind of man who never truly retired. A survivor.

Ethan approached. Sloane looked up from his whiskey and froze. For a second, his expression didn't change. Then, ever so slightly, his fingers twitched.

"I'll be damned," Sloane muttered. He leaned back, exhaling a slow breath. "You were supposed to be dead."

Ethan slid into the seat across from him. "Yeah. A lot of people think that."

Sloane studied him for a moment before reaching for his drink. "And yet, here you are. Which means either you screwed up real bad, or something worse than death is after you."

Ethan placed the ledger on the table. "I need answers."

Sloane's eyes flicked to the book, his amusement fading. He didn't touch it. Didn't even move. But Ethan saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his fingers curled slightly, like his body was resisting the urge to recoil.

"Where did you get that?"

"It found me."

Sloane exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Then you should've burned it."

"Tried."

Sloane finally met his gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. "And?"

Ethan didn't blink. "It wouldn't burn."

Sloane let out a low chuckle. "Then you're in more trouble than I thought."

Ethan tapped the ledger. "I need to know what it is. Who controls it. How to stop it."

Sloane rubbed a hand over his face. "Damn it, Cross."

Hearing his old name out loud sent a ripple through Ethan's spine. He hadn't been Ethan Cross in years. He was Daniel Reed now. A different man. A different life.

But the ledger didn't care about new names.

Sloane reached for his drink again, took a slow sip, then set it down. "That book isn't just a hit list," he said finally. "It's a contract."

Ethan frowned. "What kind of contract?"

"The kind that doesn't need permission."

Ethan stayed silent, waiting.

Sloane sighed, as if debating whether to tell him the truth. Then, he leaned in slightly. "The ledger enforces names," he said. "Doesn't matter who you are. Doesn't matter how careful you are. The moment your name is written inside, you're as good as dead. It might not happen exactly when it says, but it will happen."

Ethan's mind raced. "I changed a name," he said. "I stopped a death."

Sloane smirked, but there was no humor in it. "And what happened to the guy after you stopped it?"

Ethan thought of Samuel Hart. The sniper's bullet. The way the ledger had still crossed out his name.

"It didn't matter," Ethan admitted.

Sloane nodded. "Exactly. You think you have a choice, but you don't. The book adjusts. It corrects."

Ethan felt a cold weight settle in his gut. "Then what about my name?"

Sloane hesitated. "If your name's in that book, you're already dead."

"No," Ethan said. "Not yet."

Sloane looked at him then, really looked at him. Something passed behind his eyes—understanding, maybe. Or pity. "You don't get it, Cross. The people behind that book? They don't leave loose ends."

Ethan leaned forward. "Who are they?"

Sloane hesitated again. Then, just as he opened his mouth to speak—

The front window shattered.

Glass exploded into the bar as the sound of suppressed gunfire filled the air. The bartender went down first, a spray of blood misting the bottles behind him. The few drunks who had been dozing off barely had time to react before more shots ripped through the air.

Ethan moved on instinct.

He yanked Sloane down just as bullets tore through the booth where they had been sitting. Rolling to the side, he reached for his gun, already scanning the angles. Three shooters. Tactical. Silent. Professional.

Not a random hit. They were here for him.

Sloane cursed, crawling toward cover. "Damn it, Cross! You led them here?"

Ethan didn't answer. He fired off two quick shots, forcing one of the gunmen to duck behind the bar. Another advanced from the right, moving fast. Ethan grabbed a half-empty whiskey bottle from the table and hurled it, shattering it against the man's face. As the attacker stumbled back, Ethan closed the distance and snapped his neck.

Sloane pulled his own gun, firing wildly as he ducked behind a table. "We need to get the hell out of here!"

Another round of bullets tore through the bar. One of the remaining shooters advanced, methodical. Ethan grabbed Sloane by the collar and hauled him toward the back exit.

They burst into the alley, the cold night air hitting them like a slap. Footsteps thundered behind them. Ethan turned and fired, clipping one of the pursuers in the leg. The man grunted, dropping to the pavement, but another emerged from the darkness, raising a rifle.

Ethan barely had time to react before Sloane shot him in the throat.

The man gurgled, crumpling to the ground. Sloane exhaled, shaking his head. "Damn, I'm out of practice."

Ethan scanned the alley. No more immediate threats. Sirens wailed in the distance. They needed to move.

Sloane turned to him, breathing hard. "This is what I was trying to tell you. Once you're in the ledger, there's no getting out."

Ethan glanced at the blood-soaked street, his mind calculating his next move. His only move.

"We'll see about that."