Flash Marriage: In His Eyes-Chapter 354: Ghost

–Damon–

My heart slammed against my ribs the moment Lore triggered the emergency. The leaders were being escorted to the panic room, but my eyes locked on my wife—standing still, too still.

I didn’t hesitate. I scooped her into my arms and bolted down the stairs toward the control room—one of the safest places in the compound, built to withstand even a missile strike.

"Fuck. Fuck!" I snarled under my breath.

"We have three minutes for that!"

"Fire a missile right at it," Livana cut in sharply. "Now."

"The Dowager Queen already launched one."

Silence fell between us as I kept running, every instinct screaming. Around us, the staff scrambled for cover from the incoming missile—one that could wipe us all out, leaders included.

Fuck. They were targeting us without hesitation. The leaders were expendable. Replaceable.

But not my Queen.

I might be the King on this chessboard—but my Queen? She held more power than anyone.

We reached the control room. The satellite feed flashed on-screen, capturing the missile that had come out of nowhere. I set my wife down carefully, keeping a firm hold on her as her body swayed.

She pressed her fingers to her temple.

"Babe?" I murmured, tightening my arms around her.

"Are they all in shelter?" Livana asked quickly.

I glanced at another monitor—less than a hundred leaders accounted for.

"Yes, my Queen," the commander answered. Rhys—young, petite, but terrifyingly brilliant. "The submarine is ready too."

Livana didn’t hesitate. Neither did I.

We moved through a series of iron doors, each requiring clearance, until we entered the underground panic chamber. Less than a hundred leaders stood there with their bodyguards. Every single one of them turned toward my Queen.

Composed. Untouchable.

"What is going on?!" a female leader demanded, her voice sharp with panic.

"Unfortunately, someone wants to end us all," Livana said with a sigh. "But I am prepared. A missile has been directed at us—I’ve already sent one to intercept it. We only have a few minutes left. I want all of you to evacuate using the submarines. From there, my team will ensure your safe return to your countries."

"Are you fucking kidding us right now?" a man barked—not old enough to be excused.

"Watch your fucking mouth," I snapped, pointing straight at him. "Our lives are on the line too, you old bastard. Now move your ass."

Silence.

They shut up fast.

Our staff—calm, efficient—escorted them one by one, lining them up toward one of our largest submarines. More were already prepared.

I looked down at my wife. She was staring at me.

I gave her a lopsided smile.

"Yes, my wife?" My voice dropped, steady despite the chaos.

"You looked sexy a while ago," she smirked.

I kissed the top of her head.

"Let’s get you on that submarine," I murmured.

She shook her head.

"My men are here. The Dowager already launched the counter," she said, turning toward the doors. "But I need to know where it came from. Sparrow! Escort our guests safely."

"Got it!" Logan called, raising a hand.

Her gaze swept the room before landing on the President of the Philippines, who approached us.

"Aren’t you boarding the ship?" he asked. "That missile is going to hit this island."

"I’m aware," I said evenly. "But I want to know who the fuck did that."

"Baby, cursing isn’t good for our ears," Livana said flatly, glaring at me.

I grinned. "I’m just saying—you sounded sexy."

"Not the time," she hissed, already moving.

I followed.

"Stop following me and escort them!" she snapped.

Not happening.

Once the submarines were loaded, Livana monitored them as they departed, heading toward the nearest mainland under heavy protection.

We returned to the control room, making sure every staff member was accounted for. They’d be boarding soon.

"There." Livana pointed at the screen.

Rhys had already backtracked the missile’s origin using the live satellite feed.

"They’re from the Marquess Empire," Rhys said, jaw tight. "They collaborated with terrorists and built this missile for this very—"

"Our meeting was discreet," Livana murmured, eyes narrowing. "Send Ghost."

"Ghost?" Rhys blinked. "But she’s retired."

Livana looked at her.

Cold. Final.

"She’s the closest. She’s not retired until she’s in her grave."

My eyes widened slightly.

Is that how she treats them?

No retirement. Only death.

"Got it."

Rhys patched the call through. A few seconds passed.

"Ghost, the Crown needs you."

"Send the data. I’m already near their fucking base."

The voice hit me like a bullet.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

–Lore–

My eyes snap wide the moment the missile hits the water near the island.

No explosion.

Not yet.

But that’s worse.

It sits there—half-submerged, metal hissing against saltwater, steam curling up like a warning. Five hundred meters out. Close enough that I can feel it through the monitors, like pressure building behind my eyes.

If that thing detonates?

Shockwave. Reef collapse. Marine life—gone. The whole ecosystem shredded in seconds.

And Alyssa—

She loves the ocean.

Damn it. I hate seeing it ruined.

I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until my chest starts to ache.

Then—

A signal blinks on my screen.

GHOST: ONLINE.

I freeze.

No.

That’s not possible.

She’s supposed to be dead.

So why the hell is she lighting up my system like a Christmas tree?

"What’s going on?" David asks from beside me.

Perfect. Timing.

Another variable I don’t need.

I reroute all comms instantly—private channel, headset only. Compartmentalized. Classified.

"Ghost, do you copy?" I murmur.

"Roger," she replies, voice low, steady—like nothing ever happened.

A ghost, indeed.

"I’ve got you on radar. What do you need?"

"I need access to main control," she says. "They just launched another. Missiles are locking onto the submarine. Someone onboard is a traitor—suicide mission."

My fingers fly across the console, pulling up blueprints, schematics unfolding in layers. I push the data straight to her HUD.

"I’ll guide you in," I say, already breaching their firewalls. "But I need network access. Give me a door."

"Copy that."

I glance sideways.

David’s still hovering. Watching. Too close.

"Baby," I say casually, not looking away from the screen, "can you relocate your brother? He’s interfering with operations."

Alyssa doesn’t even argue.

Within seconds, David’s gone from my peripheral. Extracted. Clean.

Muffled voices echo faintly behind me, but I’m already locked back in.

"Ghost," I call.

"This is temporary," she mutters. "But I’m not letting them pull this shit again."

I grin despite everything. "Language, soldier. You’re ruining your mysterious-dead-agent aesthetic."

"Are you flirting?" Alyssa hisses from somewhere behind me.

I chuckle under my breath, eyes glued to the blinking dot moving across the grid—Ghost’s position.

"Focus, baby," I mutter, feeding coordinates. "Left corridor. Two guards. Blind spot in three... two... now."

Her feed comes through—grainy camera visuals.

She moves like a shadow.

Backpack secured. Mask on. Tactical suit hugging every movement. Efficient. Lethal.

Two down. No noise.

I mirror-hop through cameras, looping feeds, wiping her presence clean. No trace. No footprint.

At the same time, I ping Logan and his team—encrypted burst transmission.

TRAITOR CONFIRMED. SUICIDE VECTOR. PRIORITY ALERT.

Missiles are still targeting the island.

Of course they are.

Livana’s still the objective. Always has been.

Which means whoever’s behind this—Empire of Marquiss or whatever fancy villain name they’re using—they’re pissed. The leaders they backed just signed with the White Queen.

Power shift.

And now?

They’re lashing out.

Ghost—or you-know-who—keeps moving.

She slips into the vents, body flattening as she crawls through metal shafts. I track her heat signature, dim and flickering.

Charges placed. One by one. Precise.

"That’s it," I murmur, leaning forward. "Beautiful execution. You’ve got this, Ghost."

"There are thirteen in the control room," I warn. "Do not go full martyr mode—"

She does it anyway.

Of course she does.

A tear gas canister rolls across the floor—

Hiss.

Cloud blooms.

Panic erupts.

She drops in from above—fast, brutal.

Shots fired. Clean. Controlled.

Then blades—quick slashes, throats opened before they can scream.

"Behind you!" I snap, pulse spiking. "Don’t you dare—don’t fucking kill yourself!"

Too late.

She takes a hit.

Hard.

Her signal glitches—then flickers.

Gone.

"Ghost?!"

No response.

Damn it.

I switch priorities—hard pivot.

I’ve got access now. Full control panel. Missile systems live in front of me.

My fingers move faster than thought—override, disarm, reroute.

One by one, the missiles shut down.

Neutralized.

Safe.

I slam my palm against the console.

"Ghost!" I shout into the mic, voice cracking through the channel. "Where the hell are you?!"

Static.

Nothing.

"Don’t you fucking die on us before you retire," I mutter, jaw tight, eyes scanning every feed like a man possessed.

Silence.

The kind that presses in on your ears until it hurts.

But my hands don’t stop. They can’t. Fingers flying across the keyboard, keystrokes snapping like gunfire in a warzone—rapid, precise, relentless. I jump systems, breach attempts stacking, firewalls slamming down in my face one after another.

"This is damn encryptive," I mutter, jaw tight. "I can’t get in."

New missile trajectory lights up on my screen—red, aggressive, hunting.

"This one’s locked onto the ships," I add, voice sharper now. "Ghost, do you copy?"

Nothing.

No static. No breath. No movement.

Just... dead air.

My pulse spikes—fast, erratic, like alarms going off inside my chest.

"Ghost?" I try again, lower this time. Tighter. "Come on, don’t do this. Respond."

Still nothing.

Damn it.

"Ghost, rescue is on the way."

Livana’s voice cuts through the channel—calm, steady, commanding. Like she’s already ten steps ahead of whatever nightmare we’re walking into.

Then—

A sound.

Faint.

Rough.

Coughing.

I snap upright, eyes locking onto the waveform spike.

"Ghost?"

"They have... something more in here," she murmurs, her voice strained, like every word is dragged through broken glass. "A fucking killing machine..."

My breath catches.

Feeds flicker—then stabilize.

And there it is.

A chamber.

Cold. Metallic. Clinical.

At the center—

A capsule.

Massive. Reinforced. Tubes snaking in and out like veins feeding something alive.

Inside—

A body.

No—

Not just a body.

Something bigger.

Muscle stretched unnaturally beneath pale skin, veins pulsing with something that doesn’t look human. Suspended. Growing.

Incubated.

Mutating.

My eyes widen as data begins to crawl across the screen—unstable readings, biological spikes off the charts.

"Ghost..." I whisper, barely breathing now. "Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is—"

The capsule twitches.

Just once.

Then again.

And the readings—

They start to climb.