Chapter 5: Ghosts in the White Night

It was after hours, long past closing time, when we stepped out the back door of the bar, geared up, weapons loaded, packs tight.

Our giant two-tone cloaks—white and gray—snapped in the wind, turning us into moving shadows against the endless snow.

Fresh snowflakes drifted from the black sky. It was bitter cold.

I handed the map to Bolt; Reaper fell in behind him. Buzz took rear guard. Anchor and I held the center; Castor and Nox flanked behind us.

Bolt set a strong pace, but none of us lagged.

No comms tonight—not in these mountains. Radios were dead weight, so Anchor played comms relay, keeping the whole squad linked with silent hand signs.

The wind cut like razors, stinging the edge of my left eye. The night vision goggles pressed tight to my right. My face mask was already wet with breath and frost—ice formed, melted, refroze, clinging like cold sweat.

I moved fast, mind racing. "Extremis," the file said.

Profile:

"Extremis operatives: generally small, fast, skilled in both firearms and blades, expert at close combat. Multilingual, trained in cross-cultural ops, attractive features.

No living captures to date; further intel limited."

Short and sweet—clearly, if we'd had more on them, it wouldn't be us out here.

Around 3 a.m., we reached the base of the mountains.

After nearly six hours of running through black woods and snow, we regrouped, breath steaming in the darkness.

"Damn, it's cold!" Buzz stomped his boots, voice muffled by his balaclava.

I turned to Anchor. "You and Reaper, find us a spot to rest."

Anchor and Reaper took off toward the slopes.

I checked the map by flashlight—less than a couple of miles to the rendezvous. By sunrise, we'd be there. No idea who our 'allied team' would be.

A few minutes later, Reaper came back. "Found a draw up ahead. Good cover."

I rolled up the map. "Move."

Anchor and Reaper cleared a patch, stomped the snow flat for the rest of us.

It was shielded from the wind. Instantly warmer.

"No need for sentries. Eat fast and rack out," I said, pulling off my pack.

Anchor frowned. "Specter, that's not standard Ghost Squad SOP."

I shrugged, shivering. "You want to post guards, go ahead."

Bolt came up to me. "You alright, Specter? You sick or something?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine."

I ripped open an MRE—self-heating, barely warm in this cold. Wolfed it down, stripped off my cloak, crawled into my sleeping bag.

The world faded out.

I slept like the dead—no dreams, no sound.

When I woke, Anchor was sitting next to me, already packed.

"You're up," he said quietly.

I dragged myself out of the bag. "Time?"

"Almost six," he checked his watch.

"Give Bolt the map. Move out."

Anchor handed off the map, then glanced at me. "You sure you're okay, boss?"

"Fine," I lied.

The snow was still falling. The wind had picked up, howling through the canyons.

We moved slow. The rendezvous wasn't until 8 p.m. No use breaking our necks in the drifts. Most spots, the snow barely hit your boots, but here and there a hidden pit could swallow you to your waist.

Bolt led. We followed single file, all eyes on his footprints.

By 2 p.m., we reached the RV.

It was a wide ridge, nothing but white and wind.

I called the team in. "Buzz, Reaper, Castor, Nox—take the four compass points. Fan out five hundred to a thousand yards, find cover, stay hidden."

They peeled off into the white.

"Bolt, take five. Anchor, set up a perimeter. Watch for signals."

Anchor jogged off to set watch.

I climbed into my sleeping bag again, cloak still on. Bolt zipped me up tight.

"Rest, Specter."

"You too, Bolt."

He tried to protest.

"That's an order," I said, yawning.

I was out like a light.

Every stop, sleep hit harder, like I was sinking.

When I came to, it was dark. The wind hadn't stopped, and the snow was still falling.

Bolt nudged me awake.

"They're here?" I asked first thing.

He nodded. "Looks like it."

I wriggled out, shivering. Anchor jogged up.

"They're here," he confirmed, breath smoking.

Ten minutes later, Reaper led in four figures—heavily bundled, big packs, masks on.

I handed a file to Anchor. He walked over, handed it to their team lead, no words.

The lead read it, nodded. "Pleasure working with you."

"Same here," I replied.

"You're seven, right?" he asked, peering through the dark.

I said nothing, checking their papers.

All good.

I waved Anchor and Bolt off to bring in the rest.

It was too dark for faces—just the outline of three tall shapes, one shorter.

"We're exhausted. Mind if we rest?"

I nodded.

Everyone settled in, found a spot.

Buzz muttered, "If these Brits had taken any longer, I'd have frozen solid."

I didn't answer. My eyes kept drifting to the short figure—something weirdly familiar, but I pushed it away.

"Specter…" Buzz whispered.

"Get some sleep, I'll take watch," I told them.

Bolt watched the other end.

The four Brits: three rested, one kept pacing the perimeter, boots crunching quietly in the snow.

An hour passed, only wind howling.

Suddenly, the lone Brit approached—close, less than thirty feet away.

I stood, rifle raised. "Area's covered. No need to come closer," I called softly.

He didn't stop—maybe didn't hear me.

I flicked my rifle light on, aiming at his face.

He stopped, hands up. Walked closer, slowly.

I tensed—those green eyes, the way they moved. No way.

My mind was racing.

He… no, she, spoke:

"Hello."

I froze.

"Mind if I talk to you?" she asked.

My mind flipped—was this Snow? Snow was from Iceman, local team. These were Brits. But she looked just like…

"My name's Snow. What's yours?"

I could barely breathe. Was I dreaming?

She moved like a ghost.

She slowly removed her mask.

No. No way. The jaw, the skin, the lips, the eyes—green and bright.

I was losing it.

"Never big on talking, are you?" she teased.

I forced myself steady. "We don't chat on watch. Please return to your team."

She smiled, testing me. "Is that so? The Rangers I know love to talk when they're on watch."

She knew me. She had to. She wouldn't take off the mask, wouldn't say all this otherwise.

I pressed my rifle to her forehead. "Sorry, discipline. Please respect it."

She laughed—clear, almost musical, cutting through the wind. "Alright. Cold as always, huh?"

She slipped her mask back on, eyes dancing.

Everything felt wrong—like a fever dream. The only explanation: I was asleep. Or the Iceman team was really British. Or our allies weren't who we'd been told.

As she turned away, she called over her shoulder,

"How's the little doll I gave you? Still got it?"

I stammered, "Don't know what you're talking about."

She just laughed, "Okay, Mr. No-Heart Digits," and walked off.

I stared, shell-shocked. Out of every disaster I'd imagined, I'd never seen this one coming.

But I forced myself to think—three options:

One, I'm dreaming.

Two, Iceman was always British.

Three, our real allies aren't who we were told.

I heard footsteps behind me—Bolt jogging up.

"Specter, you good?"

I looked at him, searching for words.

"This isn't a dream," I finally said.

Bolt looked puzzled, but I waved him away.

Everything was out of order. My mind was spinning.

Nothing made sense anymore.