Chapter 2 Brother?

• The warehouse sat in the kind of industrial wasteland that New York pretended didn't exist…twelve blocks from gentrified Brooklyn, where broken concrete met rusted chain-link and nobody asked questions about midnight visitors.
• David's Honda Civic looked pathetic next to the building's bulk, like a toy car someone had forgotten in a construction zone.
• He'd driven here on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him through back streets he hadn't traveled in three years.
• His phone buzzed again. Same unknown number.
• Pier 47. Loading dock 3. Come alone.
• David stared at the screen until the words blurred. Jake's face smiled up at him from the photo, unchanged except for a new scar across his left temple.
• The timestamp read 11:47 PM yesterday. Impossible.
• He'd held Jake's dog tags while medics zipped the body bag.
• He'd flown home with his brother's personal effects and delivered them to their mother personally. He'd stood graveside in Arlington while they played taps and folded the flag.
• Jake was dead. Had to be.
• David's hand drifted to his shoulder blade, tracing the ridge of scar tissue through his shirt.
• The wound had stopped throbbing, but the skin felt tight and hot. His body remembered things his mind had tried to forget.
• The warehouse door stood slightly ajar. No cars in the lot, no lights in the windows. Everything screamed trap, but David found himself walking forward anyway.
• Three years of suburban safety had made him soft, but not stupid.
• He slipped through the gap in the door and immediately stepped sideways, pressing his back against the wall. Old habits. Let his eyes adjust to the darkness before moving into the open space where snipers could find him.
• "Still paranoid as ever."
• David's blood turned to ice. The voice came from directly above him…second-floor catwalk, northwest corner. Same position David would've chosen for overwatch.
• "Then again," the voice continued, "paranoia kept us alive in Damascus."
• A figure stepped into the pale moonlight filtering through grimy windows. Tall, lean, moving with the controlled grace of someone who'd spent years expecting bullets.
• The face was older, weathered by sun and stress, but unmistakably familiar.
• Jake Morrison stepped down the metal stairs like he was descending from heaven instead of hell.
• "Hello, brother."
• David's throat went dry. "You're dead."
• "Yeah, well. Death's been greatly exaggerated." Jake reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped just outside arm's reach. Professional distance. "You look good, Alex. Domestic life suits you."
• The name hit like a punch. Alexander Kane. Ghost Six. The man David Miller had buried along with everything else from that life.
• "Don't call me that."
• "What should I call you then? David?" Jake's smile was sharp enough to cut. "That what you're going with these days? David Miller, suburban nobody with the sweet little wife and the mother-in-law from hell?"
• "How long have you been watching me?"
• "Long enough to see tonight's performance. Jesus, Alex, what happened to you? I've seen you stare down warlords without blinking, and some corporate suit offering you a janitor job makes you run home with your tail between your legs?"
• Heat flashed through David's chest. "I didn't run."
• "No? Then what would you call leaving your wife standing there looking like she wanted to crawl under a rock?"
• David's hands clenched into fists. The careful control he'd spent three years building started to crack. "I walked away. There's a difference."
• "Is there?" Jake circled him slowly, like a predator testing prey. "Because from where I was sitting, it looked like the legendary Ghost Six got his feelings hurt by some rich boy with daddy issues."
• "Stop."
• "Remember Kandahar? When Colonel Rivers tried to dress you down in front of the whole unit? You didn't walk away then. You put him through a wall."
• "That was different."
• "How?"
• Because in Kandahar, David had been Alexander Kane. Alexander didn't take disrespect. Alexander solved problems with violence and slept soundly afterward.
• Alexander was everything David Miller had sworn never to become again.
• "You're supposed to be dead," David said instead.
• Jake's expression shifted, humor draining away like water through a sieve. "Yeah. About that." He pulled out a tablet and swiped to a photo. "Remember this?"
• The image showed their unit's final mission briefing. Twelve men around a table, studying satellite photos of a Syrian bunker complex.
• David recognized every face, remembered every name. Most of them were dead now.
• "Someone sold us out," Jake said quietly. "Fed the Syrian forces our exact route, our timeline, our extraction point. They knew we were coming before we left base."
• David's stomach dropped. He'd suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed felt like swallowing glass. "Who?"
• "Still working on that. But I know it was someone with access to classified intel. Someone who knew our operational protocols." Jake swiped to another photo….financial records, bank statements, wire transfers. "Someone who got paid very well for twelve American lives."
• The numbers on the screen blurred together. David had spent three years trying not to think about that mission, about watching good men die because someone had leaked their position.
• He'd assumed it was bad intelligence or operational failure. The possibility of deliberate betrayal had been too painful to consider.
• "How did you survive?"
• "Barely. Spent eight months in a Syrian prison getting acquainted with their hospitality." Jake rolled up his sleeve, revealing a network of thin white scars across his forearm. "They thought I might know something useful about American operations. Turned out they were wrong, but it took them a while to figure that out."
• David felt sick. While he'd been playing house with Sarah, his brother had been rotting in a cell halfway around the world.
• "Why didn't you contact me? I could've—"
• "Could've what? Blown your cover? Risked your nice suburban life?" Jake's voice turned cold. "Besides, I had work to do. Had to figure out who sold us out, and why."
• He swiped to another screen. Financial records, corporate documents, shipping manifests. "Ever hear of Morrison Industries?"
• The name hit David like a slap. "That's Sarah's family business."
• "Yeah. Funny coincidence, isn't it?" Jake's smile was razor-thin. "Your wife's daddy runs a nice little import-export operation. Mostly legitimate, but they've got some interesting side ventures."
• David stared at the documents. Morrison Industries…the company that had paid for Sarah's MBA, her apartment, her car. The family fortune that Margaret never let him forget he'd married into.
• "What kind of side ventures?"
• "Arms dealing. Money laundering. The kind of stuff that requires government connections and classified information." Jake pulled up another file. "The Crimson Syndicate's been using Morrison Industries to clean their money for the past five years. Your father-in-law's been very accommodating."
• The warehouse seemed to tilt around David. Sarah's family. The people who'd raised the woman he loved, who'd sat at his dinner table and complained about his lack of ambition. They were criminals.
• "Sarah doesn't know," he said automatically.
• "Doesn't she?" Jake's voice was soft, dangerous. "Sweet little Sarah with her marketing degree and her family connections? Never occurred to her to wonder where daddy's money comes from?"
• "She's not involved."
• "Maybe not. But her family is. And her family sold us out." Jake closed the tablet with a sharp snap. "Twelve good men are dead because Morrison Industries needed to keep their business partners happy. Your wife's promotion party was paid for with blood money."
• David's legs felt weak. He leaned against a concrete pillar, trying to process what he was hearing. Sarah's family were criminals. His unit had died because of them. His entire civilian life was built on a foundation of lies and corpses.
• "There's more," Jake said. He pulled a secure phone from his jacket, military-grade encryption with a black screen. "Five hundred men, Alex. Loyal soldiers from our old operations, contractors who worked with us, intelligence assets we developed. They're all still out there, and they all remember who you are."
• He held out the phone. "One call from Ghost Six, and they'll drop everything to answer. Doesn't matter where they are or what they're doing. The network is still active, still loyal."
• David stared at the device like it was a loaded gun. Which, in a way, it was. Five hundred trained killers at his command.
• The power to topple governments or start wars. Everything he'd given up to be David Miller.
• "I don't want it."
• "Want doesn't enter into it. Morrison Industries betrayed us. The Crimson Syndicate killed our brothers. Someone needs to pay."
• "I'm not that person anymore."
• "Bullshit." Jake stepped closer, close enough that David could smell gun oil and desert dust on his clothes. "You think putting on a wedding ring and playing house changes what you are? You're a predator, Alex. Always have been. Tonight proved that."
• "What's that supposed to mean?"
• "You felt it, didn't you? When that corporate pretty-boy offered you a janitor job? When your mother-in-law called you worthless in front of everyone?" Jake's eyes were cold as winter. "You wanted to hurt them. Wanted to show them exactly who they were disrespecting."
• David's shoulder blade throbbed. He had felt it. For just a moment, standing in that living room, he'd imagined what Alexander Kane would do to people who showed him such disrespect.
• The images had been vivid and satisfying and absolutely terrifying.
• "That's the real you," Jake continued. "David Miller is just a costume you wear. But the Ghost is still in there, still hungry."
• "I chose to walk away."
• "This time. But what about next time? What happens when Sarah realizes she married beneath herself? When she starts looking at you the same way her family does?"
• The words hit their target. David had seen it in Sarah's eyes tonight…shame,
• disappointment, the slow realization that her husband might not be the man she'd thought she married.
• "She loves me."
• "She loves David Miller. The question is, what happens when she meets Alexander Kane?"
• Jake pulled out his car keys, a signal that the conversation was ending. "I'll give you forty-eight hours to decide. After that, I start hunting Morrison Industries with or without you. Would hate to see Sarah caught in the crossfire, but business is business."
• He headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and Alex? Your wife might want to invest in better soundproofing. That apartment of yours isn't as private as you think."
• The warehouse door clanged shut behind him, leaving David alone with the weight of impossible choices. He looked down at the secure phone in his hands, its black screen reflecting his face like a dark mirror.
• Somewhere in the distance, he heard the rumble of Jake's motorcycle disappearing into the night.
• David's phone buzzed. His regular phone this time, the one connected to his safe suburban life.
• Sarah's name appeared on the screen.
• "David? Where are you? We need to talk."
• He stared at the message, wondering if she'd already heard something. Wondering if Jake was right about the soundproofing.
• His thumb hovered over the reply button as footsteps echoed from the warehouse's upper level.
• David wasn't alone after all.