CHAPTER 24 – SHADOW HUNT
The CH-47's skids barely kissed the gravel before Ghost hit the ground running, boots sinking into decades of dust and war. The rotors kicked up a storm of grit that chewed visibility to hell. Sunlight bled over the horizon in hard reds and golds, slicing jagged shadows across the FOB's sandbagged perimeter.
Price followed, rifle low, eyes scanning every rooftop like muscle memory. Soap dropped next, shoulders tight, jaw locked.
The base wasn't much—hesco barriers, rusted radio towers, soldiers moving like they'd seen too much and trusted even less. Helmand didn't welcome visitors. It outlasted them.
Colonel Riyaz Ghaffar waited by the comm tent, flanked by a pair of Afghan National Army troopers in patchwork gear and tired eyes. He didn't offer a handshake.
"You bring more fire or more lies?" Ghaffar asked in English roughened by heat and blood.
Ghost didn't blink. "Neither. We're here for one man."
Ghaffar's eyes flicked to the 141 patches on their shoulders. "My men bled last month. Wrong coordinates. Friendly fire, they said. NATO said. That lie got men buried."
Price stepped up. "And what's your truth?"
Ghaffar's lips curled, but it wasn't a smile. "Ghosts and traitors look the same through a scope."
No welcome. Just ground beneath their boots, dust in their lungs, and one more mission wrapped in shadows.
Soap muttered under his breath as they followed Ghaffar toward the CP: "Hell of a place for redemption."
Ghost didn't answer. He just walked. Helmand didn't care why you came. Only if you made it out.
---
Canvas walls snapped in the wind as the team stepped into the tac tent, the air inside thick with heat and dust and suspicion. LED lights buzzed overhead—flickering, unreliable.
Ghost dropped his gear beside the table, boots grinding into the dirt floor. Price stayed standing, arms crossed. Soap thumbed the strap on his rifle, eyes scanning the clutter of maps and signal readouts lining the tent walls.
The screen on the comms terminal flared to life—Laswell's face pixelated, voice crisp and sharp despite the static.
"Heat signatures near Mazar-i-Sharif. Nest of old Mujahideen caves. We picked up traffic—encrypted bursts. Not local militia."
Ghost leaned in. "Spectre?"
"Qadir Anwari," Laswell said. "Former NDS asset. Ran deep recon for ISAF—then went dark. Popped up in Mosul during the Spectre split. Voss trusted him."
Price narrowed his eyes. "What's he doing now?"
"Running cells. Communications hubs. Human smuggling. You name it. He's quiet, but he moves pieces. Intel says he's still loyal to Voss."
Soap cut in, voice low. "You think Qadir knows the next move?"
"I think he is the next move." Laswell's tone sharpened. "Find him, and we cut Voss off at the knees."
Price exhaled, slow and measured. "You catch a rat…"
"You find the nest," Ghost finished, jaw set.
The screen flicked to black. No goodbyes.
Outside, the wind howled across the wire. The caves weren't just cover. They were history. Graves, too.
Soap looked between the two. "Then we start digging."
Ghost nodded once, then turned toward the exit, mask unreadable.
---
The desert swallowed sound.
Six vehicles crawled across the Helmand flatlands, engines growling under the weight of armor and heat. Three technicals in the lead—patched-together pickups with welded gun mounts and attitude. Two NATO Humvees followed close, the last one riding low from age and sand-worn axles. A UN-marked truck bounced at the rear like it had no business being there. It didn't.
Ghost gripped the wheel, eyes narrowed behind his mask. Dust filtered in through the vents, settling on the dash like ash. Price rode shotgun, one boot braced against the dash, weapon across his lap, expression unreadable. Tension clung to the cab like sweat.
In the backseat, Soap muttered into the radio, voice dry with irony. "Anyone else feel like we're rolling into a ghost story?"
Static crackled before Ghost responded, deadpan: "Ghosts don't die. They hide."
A low rumble echoed from the east—far-off thunder, or maybe something worse. The sky shifted, color draining into rust. Ahead, the horizon blurred behind a wall of sand, rising slow but relentless.
"Storm's picking up," Price said, flipping down his goggles. "We lose visibility, we lose control."
"Already lost half the signal bars," Soap added. "GPS is choking."
Ghost kept the wheel steady. "We stick to grid. If it gets bad, we pull in tight."
The wind grew teeth, buffeting the convoy in sideways bursts. Sand hissed off the windshield like shrapnel. Visibility dropped to thirty meters, then twenty. Landmarks vanished. Only shapes remained—moving, flickering, maybe imagined.
The road beneath them wasn't a road anymore. Just a suggestion.
Then came the silence—radio cut, wind howling outside, but inside the Humvee: nothing. No chatter. No breathing. Just the thrum of the engine, the weight of a mission tilting toward something ugly.
Soap's voice returned, low in the comms. "Feels off. Like we're being watched."
Ghost didn't answer.
He gripped the wheel tighter. The storm wasn't the threat. It was cover—for someone else.
---
The canyon narrowed without warning—walls steep as cathedral spires, shadows swallowing the light.
Ghost's eyes flicked to the ridgelines. Too quiet. Too perfect.
"Hard brake," he growled. The Humvee skidded, tires coughing dust.
Then the lead vehicle disappeared in a fireball—metal sheared sideways, flame curling out in a bloom of dirty orange. The shockwave punched the air out of Ghost's lungs.
"Contact—top ridge!" Soap's voice barked through the comms as RPG trails hissed overhead.
The canyon lit up. Gunfire spat from rock ledges, high and scattered. Echoes made it hard to pin direction. Price kicked open the Humvee door, rolled into cover behind the axle.
Ghost followed, rifle snapping up. He scanned the cliffs—flashes of movement, muzzle flare, the glint of a barrel. He fired short bursts—controlled, methodical. "They're dressed like NATO," he said into comms. "Patchwork gear, upside-down flags."
"Confusion's the tactic," Price muttered. "Don't hesitate. Center mass."
Soap moved left, hugging the canyon wall. A shaped charge barked once—stone split with a thundercrack. He disappeared through the gap, climbing fast, boots finding purchase on jagged rock.
Above, a figure leaned out with a launcher. Ghost fired—two rounds to the chest. The body fell like a sack of wire, bouncing once, then still.
A Humvee turret spat back, .50 cal chewing the ridgeline. Enemy fire slackened, then surged again from the opposite ledge.
"Flanking right!" Soap's voice cut in.
Price reloaded behind cover. "We hold here. Let him clean the rooftops."
A scream echoed from above—short, sharp, and final.
Minutes bled by. Then: silence. Not the peace kind—just absence. Smoke drifted low over the canyon floor. The kind of aftermath where dead men lay hidden under falling dust.
Ghost stepped over a torn sandbag and spotted movement near the rocks—small, crouched.
"Got a live one!" he shouted.
He approached slow, rifle steady. It wasn't a fighter—it was a boy. Seventeen, maybe. Pale with shock. Arms raised, mouth trembling around words in a language that didn't mean anything at first.
On his vest, a NATO patch hung upside-down. Deliberate.
Ghost grabbed the boy by the collar, dragged him out of the rocks. "You speak English?"
The kid nodded, barely.
Ghost shoved him against the canyon wall. "Start talking. Or I start cutting through the lies."
The boy didn't beg. Didn't cry.
He just looked Ghost in the eye and said, "You're already dead. Qadir saw to that."
---
The adobe hut leaned like it wanted to collapse. Wind pushed through the shattered slats, carrying smoke, sand, and the scent of cooked metal. The boy sat on the cracked floor, wrists zip-tied, blood drying on his lip.
Ghost crouched in front of him, silent. No threat posture. No anger. Just watching.
The boy shifted, tried to look anywhere but at the skull mask.
"You speak," Ghost said, voice low. "Now."
The kid's mouth worked like he had to chew the words first. "You think you win? You're already ghosts. Just don't know it yet."
Price leaned in the doorway, rifle resting against his shoulder. "Kid's barely shaving. Not scared though. That's what worries me."
Ghost peeled a half-burned photo from the boy's vest pocket—grainy, but clear: Qadir standing beside a man in shadows, the height and build matching Voss. Dated two weeks ago.
"You run messages for Qadir?" Ghost asked, holding the photo just out of reach.
The boy spat near Ghost's boot. "Qadir waits at the edge of the world. Beneath the lion's teeth."
Ghost didn't flinch. "Poetry's not going to save you."
Price stepped closer, muttering under his breath, translating. "Old Pashto. 'Edge of the world' means deep recon territory. Koh-e-Shah range. Locals say even satellites won't see there—too high, too old, too cold."
Laswell's voice cracked through over comms. "Confirmed. That mountain line's a dead zone. No real-time feed. You go in, you go dark."
Ghost stood, adjusted his plate carrier. "Then we follow the teeth."
Price nodded. "And we don't wait for the bite."
The boy laughed. It was hollow, like he already knew how this ended.
---
The Koh-e-Shah range loomed like a jagged scar under the pale wash of moonlight—no stars, no comms, no second chances. The desert had given way to altitude and cold, thin air that scraped the lungs raw.
Soap grunted as his boot slipped on loose shale. "This ain't a hike. It's a bloody death wish."
"Quiet," Ghost said without looking back, eyes behind the goggles fixed ahead. "You'll spook the rocks."
They moved in tight formation—three shadows etched against silver cliffs. Ghost led, carving the route. Price followed, rifle low, senses high. Soap brought up the rear, muttering every few steps under his breath, half-prayer, half-grudge.
The mountain breathed silence. Every crunch underfoot sounded like gunfire.
Halfway up the slope, Ghost raised a fist—halt.
Through thermal: two figures sweeping the ridge above, NVGs glowing like insect eyes.
Ghost whispered, "Split."
Soap veered right, hugging the stone face like it owed him money. He circled behind the ridge. Slow. Clean.
A thud. A muffled breath. Then nothing.
Price moved beside Ghost. "Clear?"
Soap reappeared, wiping his blade on his thigh. "Sleeping now."
They pressed on.
At the summit, the air grew thinner, colder. The terrain knotted into broken rock and narrow cuts—perfect territory for sentries, ambushes, and bodies never found. They ducked under a slab and slid into a cave mouth barely wider than their shoulders.
Inside: dark. Ancient.
Price muttered, "Smells like the Cold War had a grave."
Ghost flipped his goggles to thermal again. A faint glow moved deeper inside—another sentry, dragging a cigarette, alone. Too relaxed.
Ghost signaled. Soap moved past like smoke, disappeared into black.
Seconds later, a crunch. Another body down.
Ghost's voice was a breath. "Tunnel's clean. For now."
They pushed into the gut of the mountain, every step echoing louder than the last.
Soap exhaled. "Lion's teeth? Feels more like the belly."
"Then we cut our way out," Price said, eyes forward.
---
The cave swallowed sound. Stone walls sweated cold, the damp seeping into joints, gear, bone.
Soap clicked off his thermal and crouched low, rifle tracking the corridor's bend. The Russian outpost revealed itself in fragments—half-rotted desks, smashed radios, maps clinging to mold-streaked walls. Shadows danced under their NVG wash, long-dead and unburied.
Ghost scanned a panel of rusted consoles. "Soviet comms hub," he muttered. "No one's used this in decades."
Price swept a flashlight over graffiti etched into a concrete column—dates, kill counts, some in Cyrillic, some in Pashto. Bloodstains faded to rust colored the floor in patches.
Then came the scrape.
A boot. Deliberate.
Soap swung right. "Movement."
From a side corridor, a figure emerged—limping, tall, wrapped in dust-colored robes. One eye gleamed. The other socket held only ruin.
"Qadir Anwari," Price growled, weapon locked.
The man smiled—thin, snake-like. "You made it. I was hoping you would."
Ghost stepped forward, dead calm. "Where's Voss?"
Qadir chuckled, rasping. "You're still chasing shadows. Still believing you're the hunters."
Ghost didn't flinch. "Answer the question."
"You think he's hiding from you? Voss isn't running. He's steering."
Price didn't wait—grabbed Qadir by the collar, slammed him against the wall with the kind of force that echoed. Concrete flaked off around them.
Price's voice was gravel. "Steering us where?"
Qadir coughed, bloody smile widening. "Into your graves... but not before he's done painting you as the monsters."
The cave felt colder. Smaller. Soap's finger hovered near his trigger.
Ghost's tone was quiet, lethal. "Start talking. Or I find out what else cracks in here."
Qadir tilted his head, as if listening to something distant—an old memory, maybe, or an explosion still ringing in his mind.
"You think you're the only ones with ghosts," he said. "But he built his out of yours."
---
Qadir leaned against the cracked concrete, breathing in ragged pulls through yellowed teeth. Blood wept from his lip, a line Price hadn't intended but didn't regret. The one-eyed man smiled through it.
"You think Voss plays at your level. That he wants you dead."
Soap's jaw twitched. "He's dropped enough bodies to convince us."
"No. Those were distractions. Clean-up. Voss doesn't kill problems. He absorbs them."
Ghost stepped forward. The air between them tightened like a tripwire.
"You're stalling."
Qadir tilted his head. "No. I'm handing you the last thread you'll ever pull. He has your names. Your faces. Your voices."
Ghost's silence turned heavier. Behind the mask, you could feel the calculation clicking.
"What does that mean?" Soap asked.
Qadir chuckled. "Biometrics. Command keys. Voss doesn't need to fake orders. He's already you."
Price's knuckles whitened around the grip of his rifle.
"That uplink station outside Tbilisi," Qadir continued, voice gaining rhythm, "the one NATO trusts for satellite handoff. It'll light up soon. And the authorizing callsign will be Ghost. Maybe Soap. Maybe all of you. You'll see the war begin in your own names."
Ghost's voice cut like wire. "He's not just erasing us."
Qadir met his gaze. "He's replacing you. Top to bottom. And by the time command figures it out, they'll already be fighting his war."
The silence after that was thicker than gunpowder smoke. No one moved. No one breathed too loud.
Price finally broke it.
"Then we end it now."
---
Qadir's gaze broke contact for less than a second—just enough.
Ghost saw the twitch in his hand, the barely-there shift of his shoulder. A trained reach, not hesitation.
"No," Ghost muttered, too soft for anyone but himself.
Qadir's fingers scraped against the edge of a satchel tucked behind the comms rack—dust-covered canvas, frayed cord. Not big, but heavy enough to matter.
Price shouted—"Hands!"—weapon rising.
Qadir lunged.
Ghost's pistol barked once.
The round punched through Qadir's temple. Bone snapped. Blood slapped the concrete wall. His body folded like a dropped marionette.
No pause. No second shot.
Soap froze mid-step, eyes on the corpse. "Jesus, Ghost."
Ghost holstered his sidearm. "He moved."
Soap's tone sharpened. "Yeah, toward a bag. Might've been bluff. Might've been bait."
"Might've been a second wave on that switch," Ghost said. "I don't gamble on maybe."
Price kicked the satchel aside—empty, save for a cracked radio unit and a rusted flare. No detonator.
No bomb.
Just the echo of what could've been.
Soap stared at the body. "So that's the line now? No prisoners?"
Ghost didn't answer right away. He checked the corners, scanned for movement, eyes colder than the Afghan wind crawling down the mountain tunnel.
Then: "Not when the enemy knows our passwords."
Price didn't argue.
No one did.
---
Gunfire cracked down the tunnels like lightning in a mine shaft—short bursts, sharp echoes, too close.
Ghost slid behind a jagged rock outcrop, back scraping cold stone. The air stank of cordite and blood. Soap moved ahead, low and fast, rifle sweeping left. Price crouched near the exit, weapon braced, eyes locked on their six.
"Movement, ten o'clock," Soap hissed through the comms—mostly static, mostly useless.
Shadows sprinted through the branching tunnels. No IDs, no friendlies. Just muzzle flashes and boots slapping wet stone.
"Flash out," Price barked.
The detonation painted the cave white for a heartbeat. Then came the screams—raw, confused.
Ghost didn't wait. He pushed forward, suppressor coughing. Two shapes dropped—one clean headshot, one throat gurgle. He stepped over them without looking down.
"Tunnel's pinched ahead," Soap warned, pausing at a vertical shaft half-filled with shattered rebar.
Ghost tossed a smoke grenade into the gap. "We go low. Eyes up."
They dropped fast—Price grunting as his boots landed hard. The shaft fed into a wide cavern mouth, moonlight bleeding in from above. Wind howled through broken scaffolding. The exit.
But more shadows spilled in from side routes—rushed, less coordinated, but numbers stacking.
Price fired from the hip. Shell casings bounced off his vest. "Go, go! I've got rear!"
"Don't play hero," Ghost snapped.
"Just don't let me die alone."
Soap planted a charge near a collapsed support beam, thumbed the detonator. "This'll buy us thirty seconds. Maybe less."
Ghost nodded once. "Seal it."
Boom. The roof groaned, then buckled. Dust geysered down. A makeshift tomb, now sealed.
They staggered into the clearing just beyond the rock face. Dawn cracked over the ridgeline, casting long, cruel shadows.
Ghost keyed the beacon. "LZ clear. Package in hand. Request urgent evac."
Rotor blades thundered minutes later. A NATO V-22 tilted in low, back hatch already open. No salutes. No ceremony. Just urgency.
They climbed aboard bloodied, scorched, silent.
Three out.
Still breathing.
For now.
---
The V-22's rotors screamed overhead, chopping thin air as the chopper clawed east toward safer skies. Inside, the cabin stank of sweat, blood, and gun oil. Nobody spoke.
Ghost sat hunched near the rear ramp, helmet off, balaclava rolled to his neck. His fingers ghosted over the map on his lap—creased, smudged, torn at the edges. Not digital. Not traceable. Just coordinates and ink. Safer that way now.
Soap leaned against the bulkhead, legs stretched, cradling his rifle like a lifeline. Dried blood painted his sleeve. Not his.
Price sat across from them, elbows on knees, head down but eyes sharp. The team looked gutted, held together by muscle memory and grim habit.
The headset crackled.
Laswell's voice cut in—strained, clipped, buried in static.
"Tbilisi uplink station just went active. Multiple false logins… All tagged to Task Force 141 call signs. Yours, specifically."
Ghost's head snapped up.
Price leaned forward, voice low. "Voss isn't burning us. He's wearing us."
No one blinked.
Soap broke the silence. "He's got keys to the house and he's lighting fires."
Ghost stared at the map, index finger sliding along the Georgian border, stopping where the hills kiss the sea. His voice came cold and level:
"Then we intercept."
He looked up.
"We end this before our ghosts start a war."
The hum of the engines swallowed everything else.