Chapter 7: The Ghost Maker
Dawn broke over the damp, pine-scented hills of upstate New York. Marcus pulled the truck down a deeply rutted driveway that ended at a decaying farmhouse. It looked abandoned, save for a thin wisp of smoke curling from the stone chimney.
"Silas is paranoid, so let me do the talking," Marcus warned as he cut the engine.
They descended into a basement that smelled of ozone, stale coffee, and hot electronics. A thin, balding man with thick glasses sat surrounded by humming servers and printing equipment. He didn't look up from his monitors as they entered.
"You're tracking mud on my cables, Marcus," Silas said dryly.
"I need ghosts, Silas. Two of them. Today."
Silas finally spun around, his eyes locking onto Sarah, then dropping to the baby strapped to her chest. He sighed heavily. "A mother and child. Do you have any idea how hard it is to scrub pediatric records? Who are they running from?"
"The Vance family," Marcus said plainly.
Silas paled. "You brought the Vances to my door? You're insane. They have private security with military contracting ties." He shook his head violently. "No. Thirty grand, minimum, for the risk."
Sarah pulled out the wrinkled envelope from her bag and dropped it on the desk. "I have two thousand dollars."
Silas stared at the envelope, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "I'm not running a charity."
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Marcus stepped forward, placing his heavy hands on the edge of the desk. "Silas. In Fallujah, I carried your brother three miles with a bullet in his lung so he could see his daughter again. You owe me."
Silas swallowed hard, the defiance draining from his face. He looked at the bruising on Zoe's face, his expression softening into weary resignation. "Fine. What names do you want?"
