The flight to the Northern Neutral Zone was a descent into a world of white and gray. The Federation stealth-interceptor cut through the mountain passes like a jagged blade, its engines humming a low, subsonic vibration that rattled the teeth. Inside the cramped, red-lit hold, the air smelled of hydraulic fluid and the cold, ozone-scented breath of the high-altitude vents.
Caspian stood at the center of the cabin, strapped into a harness, staring at a holographic map of the Blackwood Fortress. It was a jagged tooth of concrete and steel jutting out from a frozen cliffside—the sovereign territory of the Eastern Bloc.
"The fortress is built on an old mining shaft," Julian's voice came through the cabin speakers from his station back at the estate. "Elias Song isn't just hiding there; he's using the facility's geothermal core to power a long-range broadcast array. If he finishes that upload, every undercover operative in the Federation is dead. Their covers will be blown in real-time."
Linnea sat across from Caspian, methodically loading armor-piercing rounds into her magazines. She didn't look like a socialite anymore. She didn't even look like the "Ghost." She looked like an executioner. The charcoal-gray armor was scuffed, and her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe knot.
"How does he have the codes?" Linnea asked, her voice flat. "Even if he survived the crash, my father's encryption was biometric. It required a Song bloodline and a 128-bit neural key."
Caspian looked up from the hologram, his eyes locking onto hers. "He didn't steal your father's key, Linnea. He stole yours. Think back to the accident. You were in the hospital for three days. You were unconscious. That's when he mapped your neural signature and used it to resurrect himself in the digital world."
The realization hit Linnea harder than any physical blow. Her own brother had harvested her mind while she lay grieving for him. Every move she had made as the Ghost, every mission she had completed, had been monitored by the man who shared her DNA.
"He was always the better chess player," Linnea whispered, a bitter smile touching her lips. "He used me as a heat-shield. He knew if the Federation ever got close, they'd find my signature, not his."
"He made one mistake," Caspian said, unhooking his harness and walking over to her. He knelt in front of her, his massive hands resting on her knees. "He thought you were a pawn. He thought I was a blunt instrument. He didn't realize that when you put a Ghost and an Iron Hand together, you get a goddamn revolution."
The interceptor lurched as it hit the Fortress's perimeter defenses.
"Incoming flak!" the pilot shouted over the comms. "We're in the hot zone! Dropping in sixty seconds!"
Caspian stood up, pulling Linnea to her feet. He grabbed two heavy-duty grav-chutes from the wall and strapped one to her back, his fingers moving with practiced, military efficiency. He didn't treat her like a subordinate, and he didn't treat her like a wife. He treated her like a partner-in-arms.
"The geothermal vent on the south face," Caspian shouted over the roar of the wind as the rear cargo ramp began to hiss open. "It's the only way in without triggering the seismic sensors. We drop, we breach, we find the server core. If Elias is there, you take the shot. I'll handle the security detail."
"And if he tries to talk his way out of it?" Linnea asked, checking the slide on her pistol one last time.
"Then I'll cut out his tongue myself," Caspian growled.
The ramp dropped, and a wall of sub-zero air slammed into the cabin. Below them, the Blackwood Fortress glowed with a sickly, orange light against the blue darkness of the glacier.
"Now!" Caspian roared.
They dived into the void.
The fall was a blur of screaming wind and ice crystals. They fell through the clouds, two black specks against the white expanse of the neutral zone. Linnea felt the rush of the air trying to tear the goggles from her face, but she kept her eyes fixed on the heat signature of the thermal vent.
At five hundred feet, Caspian triggered his grav-chute, the pulse-thrusters slowing his descent with a violent jerk. Linnea followed suit, her thrusters kicking in just as she cleared the jagged lip of the geothermal shaft.
They landed on a narrow steel grating deep within the mountain's throat. The air here was hot and sulfurous, a stark contrast to the freezing winds above. Caspian hit the ground and rolled, his rifle already raised.
"Clear," he signaled.
Linnea unhooked her chute and drew her pulse-pistol. They moved through the maintenance tunnels, bypassing the laser-grids with a portable scrambler Julian had built into her earring.
The deeper they went, the more the architecture changed. The rough-hewn rock gave way to polished steel and humming server banks. This wasn't just a fortress; it was a hive of information.
They reached the central command deck. A massive glass wall looked out over the geothermal core, and in the center of the room, surrounded by monitors, stood a man.
He was thin, wearing a tailored suit that looked identical to the ones Linnea's father used to wear. He was sipping a glass of wine, watching the progress bars on the screens with a look of bored satisfaction.
"Elias," Linnea said, her voice echoing in the vast, hollow space.
The man turned. He looked exactly like the brother she remembered, save for a thin, silver scar that ran from his temple to his jaw—the only physical evidence of the crash that was supposed to have killed him.
"Linnea," Elias said, his voice warm and smooth, as if they were back in their father's library. "And the Great Commander Vane. You're earlier than I expected. I suppose I should thank Silas for being such an effective, if temporary, distraction."
"The game is over, Elias," Caspian said, stepping forward, his rifle aimed directly at the man's heart. "The Federation knows. The Council is being purged as we speak. There is nowhere left for you to run."
Elias chuckled, setting his wine glass down on a console. "Run? Why would I run? I have the neural keys of every operative in the North. I have the bank codes of the Chancellor. I don't need a country, Caspian. I own the data. And in this century, data is the only crown that matters."
He looked at Linnea, his eyes softening into a look of fake, manipulative pity. "I did it for us, Linnea. Father was weak. He let the Federation bleed us dry. I've rebuilt the Song legacy from the ashes. All you have to do is step away from the Commander. Join me, and we can rule the shadows together."
Linnea looked at her brother, the man who had traded her life for a digital empire. She felt the weight of the pulse-pistol in her hand, the cold reality of the metal against her palm.
"You didn't rebuild the legacy, Elias," Linnea said, her voice as sharp as a diamond. "You just built a bigger cage. And I'm done being a ghost."
She raised the weapon.
"Wait!" Elias shouted, his hand hovering over a large, red emergency-kill switch. "If you kill me, the neural keys are released to the public! Thousands of people will die! Is that the price of your revenge, Linnea? Are you willing to be the greatest mass murderer in history just to see me bleed?"
Caspian looked at Linnea, his jaw set. He didn't tell her what to do. He didn't command her. He waited for the Ghost to decide the fate of the Empire.
Linnea didn't hesitate. She didn't look at the switch. She looked at the brother she had loved, and she saw the monster he had become.
"The price of the crown," Linnea whispered, "is the weight of the blood."
She pulled the trigger.