PART 3
I stared at the two messages until the words began to blur.
WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE, REAPER.
IF YOU WANT YOUR SON TO LIVE, STOP DIGGING.
For seventeen years, I had lived as Caleb Cole.
Husband.
Father.
Janitor.
Nobody.
I had convinced myself that the man called Reaper had disappeared the day I walked away from the military.
But whoever had sent that message knew better.
They knew the name I had spent seventeen years trying to bury.
And they knew exactly where to hurt me.
My son.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked toward the elevator.
Every instinct I had developed during my years in classified operations told me the same thing.
Don't react.
Don't call back.
Don't threaten.
Don't show fear.
Most importantly, don't let the enemy know what you are thinking.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside alone.
For the first time in seventeen years, my reflection stared back at me from the polished metal doors.
Gray hair.
Tired eyes.
Wrinkles around my mouth.
A faded work shirt.
I looked like an ordinary sixty-year-old man who had spent too many years cleaning floors.
That was exactly what I wanted everyone to see.
But beneath that appearance, something had changed.
The moment someone threatened Ethan, the old instincts returned with terrifying clarity.
I stepped out on the ground floor and walked through the hospital's side entrance.
The cold night air hit my face.
I didn't go to my car.
Instead, I walked three blocks to a twenty-four-hour diner.
I chose a booth in the back corner, where I could see both entrances.
Five minutes later, my phone rang.
I answered without saying anything.
“Caleb?”
I recognized the voice immediately.
“Reaper,” I said.
There was a long silence.
“You shouldn't have called me.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“My son was shot.”
Another silence.
This one was heavier.
“Who?”
“Sheriff Vance.”
The breathing on the other end stopped.
“You're sure?”
“I watched the recording.”
“Does he know?”
“He knows exactly who I am.”
My old teammate swore under his breath.
“What did he find?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You need to leave town.”
“No.”
“Caleb, listen to me. If Vance has connected you to—”
“I said no.”
My voice came out colder than I intended.
“I spent seventeen years running from this.”
I looked through the window at the dark street.
“I won't run now.”
The man on the phone was silent.
Then he asked the question I had been expecting.
“Do you want the team?”
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I remembered the desert.
Smoke.
Gunfire.
Blood.
Men shouting my name.
Then I remembered Ethan at twelve years old, running into the house after school and complaining that I had packed the wrong lunch.
I remembered Laura laughing in the kitchen.
I remembered the life I had fought so hard to build.
“No weapons,” I said.
“What?”
“No guns. No soldiers. No operation.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want information.”
He understood.
“Give me thirty minutes.”
The call ended.
I returned to the hospital before Laura noticed I was gone.
She was sitting beside Ethan's bed.
He was still unconscious.
Machines beeped softly around him.
Laura looked up.
“Where were you?”
I sat beside her.
“Getting some air.”
She studied my face.
“You're lying.”
I almost smiled.
“I'm trying to protect you.”
“By lying to me?”
I looked at Ethan.
“I received a threat.”
Laura went completely still.
“What kind of threat?”
I showed her the messages.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“They know about you?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“I don't know.”
“Caleb…”
Her voice cracked.
“You told me that part of your life was over.”
“It was.”
“Then why are they coming after our son?”
I had no answer.
Or at least, not one I was ready to give.
Just before dawn, my phone vibrated.
A single encrypted message appeared.
WE FOUND THE FILE.
Then another.
YOU NEED TO SEE THIS YOURSELF.
A location followed.
The old county courthouse.
My courthouse.
The place where I had spent seventeen years pushing a mop across marble floors while pretending I didn't notice anything.
I stared at the address.
There was one thing about the message that bothered me.
The location wasn't the records room.
It was the basement.
I knew that basement better than anyone.
It contained old case files, maintenance equipment, broken furniture and records that had supposedly been forgotten years ago.
I looked at Laura.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To work.”
She stared at me in disbelief.
“Your son is lying unconscious after being shot by the sheriff, and you're going to work?”
“I need to find something.”
“What?”
I hesitated.
“Proof.”
I kissed her forehead and left.
The courthouse was dark when I arrived.
I unlocked the side door with the same key I had used thousands of times.
Inside, everything looked exactly as it had the previous evening.
Silent hallways.
Closed offices.
Polished marble.
My mop bucket still stood where I had left it.
I walked past it.
For seventeen years, I had cleaned this building without ever asking questions.
Tonight, I wasn't here to clean.
I headed toward the basement.
The old fluorescent lights flickered above me.
At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped.
The basement door was open.
I was certain I had locked it the night before.
I reached beneath my shirt and touched the small folding knife I carried for emergencies.
Then I entered.
The air smelled of dust and old paper.
I walked between rows of shelves until I reached the records section.
Nothing looked disturbed.
Then I noticed a metal cabinet standing slightly open.
I pulled the drawer.
Inside was a file.
No case number.
No official label.
Just one handwritten word.
REAPER.
My heartbeat changed.
I opened it.
The first page contained an old photograph.
I recognized myself immediately.
Twenty years younger.
Wearing a military uniform.
Standing beside four men.
But there was something written beneath the photograph that made my blood run cold.
OPERATION NIGHTFALL — SURVIVORS: 2
I turned the page.
The next document was dated seventeen years ago.
The year I disappeared.
Then I saw the signature at the bottom.
My own.
But I had never seen the document before.
It contained one sentence:
IF I EVER RETURN, DO NOT TRUST THE SHERIFF.
I stared at the words.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Someone was walking down the basement stairs.
I closed the file.
The footsteps stopped.
A man's voice came from the darkness.
“You really should have stayed a janitor, Caleb.”
I turned around.
Sheriff Vance stepped into the light.
But he wasn't wearing his uniform.
And in his hand was something I had never expected to see.
A photograph of my dead military commander.
Vance smiled.
“You've spent seventeen years wondering why you survived Nightfall.”
He held the photograph up.
“Tonight, I'm going to show you who betrayed your team.”
