Chapter 1: Ghosts from Six Years Ago
The sun beat down hard on the construction site in the outskirts of Ridgeport. Dust swirled through the air as metal clanged and boots shuffled across gravel. Drex Malven tightened the straps on his tool belt and glanced up at the skeletal frame of the new apartment complex. Another ordinary day. Another building going up, brick by brick.
But there was a tightness in his chest that morning. A shadow that hadn't been there before.
"Hey Drex, beam B3 needs realignment," shouted one of the younger workers from above.
Drex gave a quick nod and grabbed his level. He was broad-shouldered, with hands like iron and a stare that could quiet a room. Quiet. Always quiet. Kept his head down, worked hard, and went home to the one person who kept him grounded—his daughter, Jen.
Eleven years old. Bright eyes, sharper mind. He'd built a quiet little life for the two of them. After what happened six years ago, he owed her that much.
But ghosts don't stay buried. Not forever.
That night, Drex sat at the dinner table across from Jen. Their tiny two-bedroom house was nothing fancy, but it was safe. Filled with warmth. Jen chewed on her spaghetti, humming a tune she'd picked up from school.
"Dad," she said with her mouth half full, "Can we go hiking again this weekend?"
Drex smiled. A rare thing, like an old muscle that forgot how to move. "Yeah. We'll pack light, just the basics."
Jen grinned, swinging her legs under the table. "Sweet."
The moment passed quickly, stolen by a buzz at Drex's phone. He glanced down.
Unknown Number.
He frowned.
He picked it up, answered with a cautious, "Hello?"
Silence.
Then—breathing.
Steady. Measured. Controlled.
Drex's body tensed.
"I wondered how long it would take for your voice to crack," a low voice said. Male. Cold.
Drex's heart slowed. "Who is this?"
"You don't remember me, Drex. But I remember you. Every second of what you did. Six years ago. My son."
Silence fell like a blade.
Drex stood slowly from the table, walking toward the window, his mind churning.
"Victor," Drex said under his breath. "Victor Klay."
"Good. You do remember. That makes this easier."
"Where are you?"
"Close."
The call ended.
Drex locked every window in the house that night. Rechecked the back door twice. Loaded the 9mm he kept buried in a locked box in the attic—something he promised himself he'd never need again.
Jen watched him from the hallway, eyes wide.
"What's going on, Dad?"
Drex crouched down in front of her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "We might have to go away for a while. Just us. Like camping. You remember what I taught you?"
She nodded slowly. "Pack light. Stay quiet. Never trust someone just because they smile."
"That's right." He forced a smile. "Go get your backpack, alright?"
Six years ago, Drex was working on a side job, off the books. A warehouse deal gone wrong. He didn't know Victor's son was there—just a kid running errands for the wrong people. When shots broke out, Drex reacted fast, trying to protect himself and the crew he was hired with. The bullet that hit the boy wasn't meant for him. But that didn't matter.
Victor Klay, ex-intelligence, ex-military contractor, watched his only son die in a pool of blood that night.
And now he was back. Not just to kill Drex—but to take from him what Drex took.
His child.
They left before sunrise.
Jen was half-asleep in the passenger seat, backpack at her feet, clutching the stuffed bear Drex gave her when she was five. Drex drove with eyes darting between mirrors.
He didn't go to work. Didn't leave a note. Just vanished. He'd learned from the best back in his darker days how to disappear.
But Victor Klay wasn't like other men. He was methodical. He didn't make threats—he made plans. And when he hunted, it was like a machine—quiet, relentless, and always two steps ahead.
By midday, they reached a safehouse in the woods. Drex had bought it under a fake name years ago, stocked with supplies, weapons, cash. He taught Jen how to keep a low profile—no phones, no internet, no lights after sunset.
But still, Drex couldn't shake the feeling.
He was already behind.
Victor had planned this.
The phone call wasn't a warning—it was a signal.
Three states away, in a black SUV, Victor Klay flipped through a file. Photos of Drex. Surveillance of Jen at school. Their routine, their habits, their patterns.
A man sat beside him—former special forces. One of several on his payroll.
"You sure you want to do this, Vic?" the man asked. "She's just a kid."
Victor didn't look up. "So was mine."
He closed the file. His eyes were hard. "I don't want Drex dead. Not yet. I want him to feel every second of this. I want him to watch it all fall apart."
He turned to the window, as the trees blurred past.
"Then I'll kill him."
Drex sat on the porch of the cabin that night, rifle across his lap. He stared into the darkness.
He knew Victor wouldn't rush. He would wait. Watch. Trap.
And Drex had just stepped into it.
Inside, Jen slept curled under blankets. For now, she was safe.
But Drex knew this was only the beginning.
He couldn't run forever.
He would have to fight.
But this time, not for himself.
For her.
For his daughter.
His world.
Drex stayed awake through the night, watching the tree line. Every sound of rustling leaves or snapping twigs made his finger tighten slightly on the trigger. His instincts had dulled over the years—time does that. You settle down, soften up. But some parts of a man never die. The soldier in him, the brawler, the survivor—it was still buried deep. And now it was clawing its way back to the surface.
At 4:32 a.m., he heard it.
A bird didn't just flutter away into the dark like that without reason.
Drex lowered his breathing. Scanned left. Then right. He stood slowly and stepped off the porch, rifle up, feet silent against the dirt.
He moved around the perimeter. Nothing.
Then his foot touched something unnatural.
A tripwire.
He froze.
It was set low. Meant for someone not paying attention.
Drex leaned down, studying it. Military grade. Thin. Almost invisible. He backed up, heart thudding, suddenly very aware: he wasn't alone. He was already being watched.
They weren't going to attack tonight.
Victor was testing his defenses. Seeing how alert he was. Measuring his response time.
A chill ran down Drex's spine.
The game had begun.
Morning broke in mist and silence.
Jen woke to the smell of eggs and instant coffee. Drex was at the stove, stone-faced, but calm.
"Did you sleep?" she asked, voice still groggy.
"Enough," he said. "Eat. We train after."
"Train?"
He looked at her. "From now on, every day."
Jen blinked, but nodded. She didn't question it. Not really. She was smarter than most eleven-year-olds. She saw the weight in his eyes. The way he looked at the woods like they might swallow them both.
They finished breakfast and stepped outside.
The day was filled with drills—silent movement, hand signals, packing gear in under two minutes, climbing trees, spotting traps, even basic knife defense. Drex didn't go easy on her, but he didn't overwhelm her either.
She kept up. She always did.
That afternoon, they took apart an old radio and rebuilt it. No transmissions. No signals out. But Drex wanted to be ready. If he had to call someone, it wouldn't be on a phone.
And still, all the while, he felt eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
Two hundred miles away, Victor Klay stood in an abandoned farmhouse with three of his men. The place was covered in dust, but the floor was marked with gear, maps, laptops, and satellite imagery.
"He's bunkered up. Doesn't trust electronics. Smart," one of his mercs said.
"He taught special tactics years ago," another added. "Was good at it."
Victor didn't respond. He stared at the image of Jen—her school photo.
"She looks like her mother," he muttered.
The men were quiet. They all knew what happened to Victor's wife after the funeral.
"This isn't just revenge anymore," Victor finally said. "This is retribution. I want him to see that his past has claws. That everything he tried to protect will break beneath it."
He looked up, jaw tight.
"Start phase two."
That night, Drex heard it again—this time louder. A soft whistle in the wind. Not from nature. From a man.
A signal.
He moved to the roof silently and scanned with binoculars.
There—at the edge of the woods—a man stood. Just far enough to be a blur. Hands in pockets. No weapon drawn.
Taunting.
Drex didn't react. He didn't shoot. He watched.
The figure turned and disappeared into the trees.
This wasn't an ambush.
This was psychological.
They were cracking him slowly.
He went back inside.
Jen was sitting on the floor with a flashlight and a map.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
"Figuring our exits. There's a stream half a mile west. If we had to go fast."
Drex blinked. "Good thinking."
"I don't want to be a problem, Dad. I want to help."
He knelt beside her. "You're not a problem, Jen. You're the only reason I'm still alive."
She smiled faintly.
"Tell me the story again," she said. "The one about the mountain."
Drex sat back and told her the tale of how they once got caught in a storm while hiking, had to build a shelter from sticks and moss. She'd heard it a dozen times—but it made her feel safe. It reminded her that her dad could survive anything.
But Drex's mind drifted as he told it.
Victor wouldn't let this end peacefully.
He would strike soon.
And Drex needed to be ready.
By the third day, it came.
Not through bullets or explosives.
Through fire.
A controlled burn—set a mile off, but close enough to catch if unchecked. Drex smelled the smoke before he saw it. Then he saw the birds fleeing in flocks. Victor was flushing them out.
Forcing movement.
Drex packed in silence.
"Is it him?" Jen asked.
"Yes."
"Where do we go?"
He looked her in the eyes.
"Somewhere he won't expect."
They left within twenty minutes. Took nothing unnecessary. Moved through a dry creek bed for cover, then vanished into the forest.
Behind them, smoke painted the sky black.
Victor watched from a drone feed.
"He's moving. Took the girl with him."
"Want to intercept?" one of his men asked.
Victor shook his head.
"Let him run."
He tapped the table with two fingers, thinking.
"He's trying to outthink me."
A slow smile formed.
"He doesn't realize I already know where he's going."
By dusk, Drex and Jen reached an old ranger tower deep in the hills—abandoned, half-rotted, but high enough to spot movement for miles.
Drex sat by the broken railing, gun across his lap again.
He didn't speak for a long time.
Jen sat beside him.
"Will it ever stop?" she asked quietly.
He looked out at the horizon.
"I don't know," he answered.
"But I won't let them take you. No matter what it costs."
Jen reached over and took his hand.
In that moment, there were no soldiers. No killers. No ghosts.
Just a father and a daughter.
And the storm that was coming.