Ghost from the Past
The blades of my Sea King sliced through the air with a furious rhythm, shaking the cockpit like a rattling cage. My gloved hands controlled the cyclic, guiding my helo through the treacherous airspace with ease as the sun began its descent behind the peaks. The world outside was a blur of craggy rocks and shadows, but inside my mind, everything was painfully clear.
Harley. My goddaughter. Lost in this hellhole, and no one was coming for her. Except me. The thought of her face flashed through my mind – young, innocent. I pushed it down. No room for that now.
I wasn’t here for revenge. I was here because this wasn’t supposed to happen. This was my life’s work spiralling out of control, every dark deed I’d done for the CIA finally coming back to strangle me. I was a part of this mess like a snake devouring its own tail. Sandika, or The Syndicate, knew I’d come. Hell, they wanted me to come. And that only meant one thing – this was a trap.
“Not today,” I reassured myself, forcing my mind into focus. I’d been in traps before. The difference between dying in one and walking away? Being smarter than the bastards who set it.
I glanced at the instrument panel – three minutes out. My fingers traced over the machine gun controls, instinct kicking in as I prepped the weapons systems. I’d rigged this bird myself – every gun, every missile, carefully chosen and calibrated for one purpose: maximum destruction with minimal fuss. Originally, my Sea King was unarmed and designed for civilian purposes such as passenger transport or search and rescue, while the military versions carried torpedoes, but I redesigned the weaponry in my bird with air-to-ground in mind. A 7.62 cal door-mounted minigun with ammo belts. And a few Eagles. That’s missiles.
Legal? Absolutely not!
But this was different. I needed superior firepower on this mission. Took a deep breath and the night air that filled my lungs smelled cool and with the fresh twist of exhaust from two wildly roaring 1,350 horsepower turboshaft engines, I felt safe, secure, home.
But something gnawed at me, deep in my gut. I felt it – the weight of my past, heavier than the AK-47 lying on the seat next to me. I’d flown in and out of war zones for years, trafficking drugs and guns under the Agency’s orders, I’d done things that made most men’s souls wither. But Harley wasn’t just another job. She was family.
My thoughts raced as the mountains opened up into a wide valley, revealing the abandoned compound below – now Sandika’s stronghold in the US. Rats in the nest. The place had been fortified, with heavy artillery and machine guns visible even from the air. A death trap, waiting to be sprung.
The authorities were oblivious to the operations they conducted under the guise of a private security company. In reality, they ran their own army, supplying the government with cannon fodder for wars across the globe.
I’d seen it all before. Seen worse, survived worse. But there was something else – a shadow in my mind that hadn’t been there before.
It was my fault.
My heart pounded in sync with the chopper blades as I locked eyes on the entrance. Fifteen, maybe twenty men. My hands moved fast, engaging the autopilot without hesitation.
‘Fucking hell,’ I growled, jumped out the back, and fired up the minigun—literally. Cleared the area in front of the gate. Didn’t take long
“Bend over, here I come,” I shouted through the roar of the engines. They couldn’t hear me. The turbo twins on my chopper drowned out everything, blocking out every sound, every thought, hell—everything except the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
I banked hard, pulling my lover into a tight circle, so tight the rotors were almost perfectly vertical. Fuck them – sideways! The real fight was about to begin. My vision tunnelled into the courtyard below, where soldiers scrambled to retaliate. I pulled back on the cyclic, making the chopper hover just above the compound, giving me the perfect view of the area.
I quickly locked onto the port, feeding its coordinates directly into the missile’s targeting software with swift, deliberate keystrokes. The navigation system sprang to life, hungry for the data that would guide the projectile towards its intended destination. With a quiet confidence, I confirmed the target lock, my eyes never leaving the display as the numbers and symbols flashed into place, synchronising the missile with its newfound objective. And fired one of my Eagles. With deadly precision, it took out the metal door in the gate and a huge part of the wall that surrounded the compound. Knocked on the door. Loud. And it was wide open!
I felt my bank account unburdened by about 100,000 dollars. That’s the black market price for a Sea Eagle—out of production, so scarcity runs the show. As they say, money talks. They say bye-bye. One day soon, I’ll swap them for a remotely controlled minigun. But for this job, worth every damn penny.
They immediately fired back. RPGs flared from the ground, streaking toward me.
Bastards.
I yanked the Sea King into a sharp dive, hugging the ground, dodging rockets by inches. But my eyes stayed locked on the target. I couldn’t die here. Not now. She’s a fat-assed lady—my helo. But I’ve dodged missiles like this before, and those RPGs don’t have homing. So, piece of cake.
I levelled the bird. Time to land. I lowered the bird, feeling its weight settle as it touched down with a hard thud outside the courtyard. I barely had time to kill the engine before I grabbed my AK-47 and jumped out.
Sandika’s men were popping out of every door in every building, quickly. I could feel their eyes on me, feel the hate in every round they fired. They wanted me dead.
But they had no idea who they were dealing with. Many have tried…
I hit the ground running, rifle raised, eyes scanning for anything moving. My body was a weapon, finely tuned from years in black ops. The first two guards popped out from behind a burned-out truck. They didn’t even have a chance to aim before I fired from the hip, the rifle bucking in my hands. Two short bursts, two bodies dropped.
Keep moving.
My mind raced. Harley. Where the hell was she?
The plan was simple: shoot the bad guys, find Harley. Get out. But things were never that simple. They knew I was coming. After all, I just knocked the door. Hard.