Rise Of The Ghost

ONE

Before anyone knew his name—before his legend echoed through the corridors of MI6—Ronan McNeilly made one fatal mistake: he underestimated the only person on earth who could beat him.

Monday — 4:00 p.m. — MI6 Headquarters, London

The strike came faster than thought—an obsidian blur cutting the air.

Ronan’s head snapped back as a gloved fist connected with his helmet, the shock ricocheting down his spine. He adjusted his stance, boots gripping the mat, muscles coiled with lethal poise. At six-foot-four, built like a professional rugby player, Ronan McNeilly dominated every training exercise he entered.

Except this one.

A hush fell across the viewing gallery behind the reinforced glass. Agents pressed closer, their breath fogging the pane. For weeks the whispers had circulated: He’s unbeatable. He’s MI6’s new secret weapon. He’s Ronan Mc“Lee.”

Today, that certainty began to fracture.

A woman’s voice murmured with awed disbelief, “He’s holding back.”

A cynical male voice replied, “No. He’s getting wrecked.”

Ronan launched a kick—a blur of power—but his opponent anticipated it, sweeping his leg off balance with snake-like precision. Ronan stumbled, recovered in a fluid pivot, and locked eyes with the figure across from him. The helmet revealed nothing. But the energy was unmistakable.

Predatory. Calculating. Almost playful.

Ronan spat out his mouthguard and raised both hands in surrender.

“All right, all right,” he said, breath controlled though his pulse hammered. “You win. I’ll buy dinner.”

His opponent reached up, tugged at the strap, and removed the helmet.

A waterfall of glossy black hair spilled free, catching the cold fluorescent light like silken night.

The crowd fell silent.

Gillian McNeilly—Ronan’s wife of ten months—shook her hair back with casual grace and gave him a look that was equal parts victory and affection.

“And I get to choose the restaurant,” she said, a slow, devastating smile curving across her lips.

Even the skeptics watching behind the glass couldn’t help but grin. MI6’s deadliest recruit had just been disarmed—by his own wife.

And he loved her for it.

Two Days Later — 6:00 p.m. — Regent’s Park, London

Headlights carved through the mist as a Volkswagen Polo surged along Prince Albert Road, slicing through the gloom. The CrossPointe office complex rose ahead—nine stories of glass and shadow, the city’s pulse fading into twilight. Almost every window was dark.

Except for one.

Suite 528.

The name on the frosted glass read MANSFIELD MARKETING RESEARCH.

In reality, it was the fortified command center of Ardie Logan, Regional Director of Anti-Terrorism—and Ronan’s soon-to-be stepfather.

Ardie ran a hand down his tired face as he stared at the encrypted briefing before him. It had been a long day, but his mind kept circling back to one name.

Ronan McNeilly.
Graduate of the most grueling MI6 training program in history. Top marks in cryptography, weapons, psychological assessment, and combat. Four languages. Russian had nearly beaten him—but “nearly” was not a word that applied to Ronan.

His physical scores shattered every recorded benchmark. His analytical scores redefined the standard. His loyalty was absolute.

And yet—there was something Ardie admired even more.

Ronan had walked away from a guaranteed professional rugby career, turning down contracts worth millions. He’d sacrificed fame to stay in Northern Ireland with his widowed mother and young sister. That choice had forged him into something far more valuable than a celebrity athlete.

It had made him unbreakable.

That was the kind of man Ardie trusted to face the enemies that haunted the world’s shadows.

A LONE FIGURE slipped between parked cars in the CrossPointe parking garage, each movement ghostlike, precise. Dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, he paused behind a concrete pier and listened.

Click. Clack. Footsteps. A security guard making rounds. The guard, a former police officer, grips his ASP baton. Slowly, he movedstowards the pier. Step by step his heart pounds like a thoroughbred at the starting gate.

His brow tightens, and his breathing becomes labored. He stops five feet from the pier. All of his police instincts crawl up his nerves to the tips of his hairy back.

He takes a defensive stance, listening for movement.

The intruder exhaled three measured breaths to still his pulse.

The guard glimpsed movement—a flicker of darkness where none should be. His instincts—honed from years as a police officer—flared hot. He drew his baton with a hiss and approached.

Five feet away.

The air held its breath.

The attacker exploded forward.

His boot slammed into the guard’s abdomen, folding him in half and launching him into the side of a parked car with a sickening impact. The guard’s baton clattered to the floor.

The intruder stepped back into shadow.

Waiting.

Watching.

Calculating.

Someone was coming.

A KNOCK on the door jolted Ardie back to the present. He glanced at the clock.

Derin Togan, his assistant and former MI6 field agent, had left hours ago. Most people would be asleep by now.

Gillian McNeilly poked her head inside. “Busy?”

Ardie stood immediately. “Gillian! Come in.”

She stepped into the room with effortless elegance—her Persian features glowing against the dark leather and wood. Where Ronan was storm and steel, Gillian was fire and silk. She smiled warmly, but there was an undercurrent of something else in her eyes.

Gillian sank into the burgundy leather couch, its cushions sighing beneath her. The office carried a distinctly masculine weight—dark walls, straight lines, the smell of polish and paper—but softer traces interrupted the austerity. A white candle burned gently on a burlwood table. A vase of pale lilies brightened the corner of Ardie’s desk. On the far edge, a crystal-based lamp diffused warm light into the room’s sharp geometry.

She smiled. Hannah’s touch. Ronan’s mother had a way of turning even an MI6 office into something that felt human.

Ardie circled around and plopped in a matching leather chair. “To what do I owe this delightful surprise?”

“I just finished my last class,” Gillian said, her tone light. “Thought I’d stop in and see if Ronan was here. He said he’d come by after Belfast.”

“Yes, he was supposed to,” Ardie replied, leaning back. “Probably a flight delay. You know how they are.” His voice carried its usual calm. “How are your classes going? Behavioral psychology, isn’t it?”

She brightened. “Yes—at Newham. I love it. Derin’s been incredible, actually. She lent me Tim Johnson’s book on reading body language. It’s fascinating—people reveal more in silence than speech.”

Ardie chuckled. “Then I’d better watch myself around you.”

Gillian’s smile turned sly. “Too late for that. I pegged you ages ago.”

He laughed, shaking his head. But when the laughter faded, a pause filled the room—comfortable at first, then gently edged with hesitation. Ardie leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Tell me something,” he said softly. “How’s Ronan… really handling all this? Me marrying his mum?”

Gillian tilted her head, studying him. “Promise you won’t tell him I told you?”

Ardie raised a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“He said”—she leaned closer, her voice lowering—“‘Ardie’s the best thing that’s happened to my mum in years. And Rachel adores him.’”

Ardie blinked, caught off guard. A faint flush rose in his cheeks.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “if Ronan’s little sister is on my side, I suppose that’s a good start.”

Gillian laughed. “It’s more than a start.”

“How are wedding plans coming?” she asked after a beat.

“I’ve surrendered that front entirely to Hannah,” he admitted. “We wanted small, but it’s becoming… less so. Maybe we should elope like you two did.”

“Worked for us,” Gillian said with a playful shrug, rising to her feet. “Speaking of which, I’d better go. I promised Ronan ghormeh sabzee tonight. He’s obsessed with Persian food.”

Ardie stood with her, warmth softening the steel in his expression. “Thanks for stopping by, Gillian. It’s always a pleasure to see my future daughter-in-law.”

She smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “It’s good to see you too, Ardie.”

As she stepped into the hallway, the scent of candle wax and lilies followed her—fragile, fleeting, almost prophetic.

But as the elevator doors slid open to a cold car park, that warmth vanished.

A cold tremor of dread brushed the back of Gillian’s neck.

She hesitated.

Keys. Purse. Candles. Lemons. Ronan.

Then—

An arm snaked around her shoulders.

Thinking quickly, she raised her foot and tried to stomp on the assailant’s shin, but he quickly diverted his foot. He kept a strong grip around her mouth, but she swung her purse in a roundabout motion knocking him in the head.

The purse fell from her hand and gave a soft thud as it hit the concrete. The blow to the head only startled the ninja.

A cloth covered her mouth.

The last thing she heard was her own heartbeat hammering in her ears.

Then silence.

TWO

Ronan was surprised to find the door locked and the house dark when he stepped into 57 Wilton Row.

That wasn’t like Gillian.

He entered anyway, the marble foyer cool beneath his feet, and reached for the alarm panel. A few quick taps and it went silent.

“Gillian?”

His voice drifted through the house, unanswered.

He moved down the short hallway into the kitchen—a space that always felt more like a showpiece than a room meant for living. Steel, stone, everything in its place. He half-expected to see the beginnings of a Persian dinner laid out—spices, steam, something simmering.

Instead, it was spotless.

“Gillian,” he called again, a little louder this time.

Nothing.

He checked the sitting room, then the study, moving a little quicker with each empty space. When he reached the door to the garage, he noticed it wasn’t fully closed.

That stopped him.

He pushed it open and stepped inside. The overhead light flickered on. Her space was empty. The red Porsche was gone.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Of course. She’d gone out.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called her. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail.

The trip to Belfast had drained him more than he cared to admit. He sat down on the edge of the bed, intending to rest for a minute before she came home.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

When he woke, the room was dark.

He reached across the bed without thinking, expecting to find her there—warm, familiar. Instead, his hand met cool sheets.

That woke him fully.

Ronan pushed himself up, listening. A faint glow slipped under the bedroom door from the kitchen, just enough to outline the floor.

“Gill? You in the loo?”

No answer.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood.

“Gillian?”

Still nothing.

He moved quickly now, down the hallway and toward the garage. When he pulled the door open, the emptiness felt different this time. He stood there for a moment, staring at the vacant space where her car should have been.

Then he reached for his phone again.

THE RINGTONE cut through the silence of Ardie’s room. He fumbled for the phone, blinking against the light as he glanced at the clock.

1:27 a.m.

“Logan,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Ardie.” Ronan’s voice was tight, controlled, but there was something under it. “Gillian hasn’t come home. Have you seen her?”

Ardie sat up, fully awake now. “I saw her earlier—around seven. She was looking for you. Said she was heading home. Something about making you dinner.”

Ronan was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally, more to himself than to Ardie. “Where could she be?”

Ardie knew Ronan wouldn’t go back to sleep. “Meet me at the office in twenty minutes and I’ll pull up security footage and see how far we can track her.”

NIGHT CLUNG to the city like a well-kept secret. When Ronan arrived, the carpark hummed with fluorescent lights as if trying to remember a tune; somewhere a pipe clicked, expressing a tired hum for a chilly night.

Ronan did not feel the cold. He felt the emptiness where Gillian should have been.

He had been trained to read space like an opponent—angles, shadows, movement. It was the same instinct that made him a legend on the rugby field. At six-foot-four, with the instincts of a predator, he’d broken nearly every record in Britain. Professional clubs courted him across Europe; even the New England Saints dangled an American football contract worth millions.