Location: Birmingham, Alabama
Objective: Find "Warden" — Last known survivor of Unit 13
Zane drove an old black Chevy Tahoe with no plates, no GPS, and a compartment under the backseat full of burner phones and cash. He'd traded his uniforms for jeans and a tan jacket. Unshaven. Quiet. Ghost again — but this time, on his own terms.
He was hunting a name whispered in his father's declassified files.
Warden.
A specialist in psychological ops and enhanced interrogation — and the only man left from the kill squad his father belonged to.
Last location pinged six months ago: a veteran's shelter in Birmingham.
The Shelter
The building smelled like cigarettes, old blankets, and pain.
Zane walked through slow, scanning faces. PTSD had its own signature — thousand-yard stares, fingers twitching like phantom triggers.
Then he saw him.
Warden was sitting alone in the back, stirring black coffee like it had secrets.
Zane approached. Didn't sit.
"You were in Unit 13."
Warden didn't look up. "So was your daddy."
Zane blinked. "You knew him?"
"Trained him," Warden said, voice like sandpaper. "Watched him come in wide-eyed and hungry. Watched him leave broken and bitter. Now I'm watching his kid make the same damn mistake."
Zane sat.
"I'm not here to repeat history."
Warden finally looked up — one eye glass, the other sharp as a bayonet.
"No. You're here to burn the whole thing down."
The Files
Warden took Zane to a storage unit three miles out — nothing but metal walls and silence.
Inside were boxes. Hundreds.
Old records. Photos. Audio tapes.
Warden pulled one box from the back. Stamped in faded red ink:
"OPERATOR GENEVA – U13."
"Your father's final mission," Warden said. "The one that got sealed tighter than the moon landing."
Inside: photos of a village in Kosovo. Burned. Bodies. Men, women, children.
Zane's hands tightened.
"Your dad led that op," Warden said. "Was told they were housing war criminals. They weren't."
Zane's throat felt dry. "Who gave the order?"
Warden handed him a photo.
The same CIA handler who gave Zane the Crow mission.
The Pattern
Zane pieced it together:
Unit 13 was used to eliminate inconvenient truths.
When missions went off-script, the operators were blamed.
His father had tried to expose it — and was silenced. Not killed, but shattered.
Now they were doing the same thing again — with Zane. Testing him. Using him. Hoping he'd break or follow.
But he didn't break.
And he damn sure wasn't following.
Warden's Warning
"You keep pulling this thread," Warden said, lighting a cigarette, "and the whole damn flag might come undone."
Zane looked him dead in the eye.
"Good."
Warden exhaled. "Then you'll need help."
He handed Zane a sealed manila envelope.
"Names. Ex-operators. Disavowed. Like you. If you want to fight this war — build your own team."
Zane took it.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Final Scene
Zane stood in a cheap motel bathroom, shaving the beard off piece by piece. His reflection was clearer now. Sharper. Leaner. Colder.
Not a soldier.
Not a son.
Not a pawn.
A ghost.
He grabbed a burner phone and dialed one of the numbers Warden gave him.
A gruff voice answered. "Yeah?"
Zane spoke just two words:
"We're not done."