The rain had a way of masking everything in Rust City. Concrete streets gleamed under the dim orange haze of flickering streetlamps, and the distant hum of the highway sounded like the pulse of a restless city. James Calloway sat in his car, the engine off, staring at the darkened diner across the street. Fifty-three, retired, and living under a name that wasn’t his own, he looked like any other man nursing black coffee at midnight. Except he wasn’t any other man.
A sharp click from the glove compartment made him stiffen. He had learned the sound years ago, in the field. Quick, precise. It meant only one thing: someone knew he was here.
“You always liked surprises, old man?” a voice called out from the shadows. Smooth, deadly, familiar.
Calloway’s hand hovered over the Glock at his hip. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” he said, voice low.
“I didn’t come back. You left me,” the figure said. A young man or at least he had been young, stepped into the dim light. Face hardened by years in the field, eyes cold as ice. Calloway’s stomach dropped. Daniel Mercer. Dead. At least, that’s what he had been told after a botched operation in Istanbul five years ago.
Calloway’s mind raced. Mercer had been the best of his team. Sharp, loyal, reckless. Dead. Now alive. And the man who had been taking down Calloway’s former team one by one.
“You killed them,” Calloway said, voice flat. “Every one of them. Why?”
Mercer’s lips curled into a shadow of a smile. “You trained me to survive. You trained me to kill. Now it’s my turn to teach the rest of the world the same lesson. And you, old man... you’ve been hiding for too long.”
Calloway slid out of the car, keeping his movements slow but deliberate. He needed space. Distance was everything. Mercer circled him like a predator.
“You’re not ready,” Calloway said. “Not for this. Not for me.”
“I think you’re underestimating me,” Mercer said. He lifted a silenced pistol. Calm. Efficient. Deadly.
Calloway moved first. Years of muscle memory kicked in. The gunshot cracked. Mercer dropped into a roll, sliding behind the diner’s neon-lit corner. Calloway followed; fists first, gut punches, elbows, every move he remembered from the old days. But Mercer was fast. Too fast. Trained the same. Anticipated the moves.
“You were always predictable,” Mercer said, reloading.
Calloway wiped blood from his cheek, grinned. “Predictable is boring. But I’m still alive.”
The battle spilled into the alley, crates toppling, water puddles splashing under heavy boots. Calloway smashed a pipe across Mercer’s knee. Mercer responded with a knee to Calloway’s ribs, a crack that left him gasping. Rain mixed with blood, slicking the alley floor.
“You wanted me to learn,” Mercer said, twisting, gun now pressed to Calloway’s chest. “I learned. And now... everyone pays.”
Calloway’s mind spun, running through every option, every angle. He couldn’t talk him down. He couldn’t overpower him easily. But he could survive. Always survive.
“You think this is revenge,” Calloway said, voice ragged. “It’s not. It’s closure.”
Before Mercer could respond, Calloway lunged, a sudden, violent movement. The gun skidded across the wet concrete. Mercer twisted, but Calloway’s knee hit his midsection, knocking the air out. He grabbed Mercer, slammed him into the wall, twisting the arm, wrenching the weapon out of his hand. Mercer growled, the sound primal, human and animal all at once.
“You could have been a ghost,” Calloway said, voice heavy, fingers tightening around Mercer’s throat. “Instead, you became a monster.”
Mercer’s eyes flickered with something that resembled fear or maybe respect. “Maybe,” he said, whispering. Then, a sudden movement. A knife. Calloway blocked it, snapping Mercer’s wrist, sending the blade clattering.
“You survive. You’re better than me. That’s why I’m leaving,” Mercer said, stumbling to his feet, chest heaving, pain in every movement. “But this isn’t over. Not for me. Not for anyone I touch next.”
Calloway didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Mercer turned and ran into the pouring rain, a shadow swallowed by darkness, leaving only silence behind.
Hours later, Calloway returned to his safehouse. Cleaned his wounds. Locked the doors. Sat down with a single glass of bourbon.
The phone rang. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t Daniel. It was the world. The ghosts of the past, the ones who never stayed dead, always circling, always waiting for the right moment.
Calloway lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling. He’d survived worse. He always did. And if Mercer came back, he’d be ready.
The night outside was quiet now. Rust City slept. But Calloway didn’t. Not ever.
Because some ghosts never die. They just wait.
The End
