Page 2 of His Lost Mate

This Ghosthawk wasn’t built for combat—it wasn’t armed, wasn’t prepared to face live fire. But it was fast, and it was stealthy. Phoebe toggled the cloaking system, praying that it worked even as the rest of the jet’s systems sputtered and sparked around her.

The enemy fire stopped. For now. But whether she had lost her attacker was unknown.

Breathing hard, she steadied the aircraft, her eyes scanning the dark horizon. Whoever had fired on her wasn’t finished. They’d come back.

Alone in the night sky, miles from safety, Phoebe felt the full weight of her situation press down on her. The Ghosthawk wasn’t just an aircraft anymore. It was a target—and so was she.

The cockpit lights dimmed to near darkness, and the Ghosthawk’s engine let out a guttural whine before cutting out completely. The jet shuddered violently, like a dying animal thrashing against the inevitable.

Phoebe’s hands gripped the controls with every ounce of strength as the jet began to freefall. Warning alarms screamed in her ears, and the display panels flickered erratically. Her breath came in shallow gasps, adrenaline flooding her system as she scanned for any trace of functionality. There was nothing—no throttle response, no power to the flaps, and certainly no way to stabilize the plummeting aircraft.

The wind roared around her, rattling the sleek metal shell of the jet as it sliced through the frigid night sky. The landscape below was a black expanse, barely discernible, but she could make out jagged peaks and endless stretches of forest. Her altitude gauge spun downward in a dizzying blur.

“Damn it!” she hissed, her voice cracking under the strain of the chaos. She tried to deploy the emergency glide system, but the switch stuck uselessly in place. The Ghosthawk was deadweight now, a metal coffin hurtling toward the earth.

She braced herself, forcing her focus despite the fear threatening to overwhelm her. Training kicked in like muscle memory. She tightened her straps, adjusted her crash position, and calculated her odds of survival. Not great.

The ground rushed toward her, and her stomach lurched with the horrifying realization that this was it—no ejection, no backup, no second chances. The jet clipped the treetops with ametallic screech, branches snapping like gunfire as they tore at the fuselage. What seemed like eons later but was mere seconds, the Ghosthawk slammed into the forest floor with a bone-jarring impact that sent Phoebe flying forward against her harness.

For a long moment, everything was still. Silent.

Phoebe’s ears rang, drowning out the soft crackle of fire and the groaning protests of twisted metal around her. She forced her eyes open, her vision swimming as pain blossomed across her body. Her left shoulder throbbed where it had slammed against the side of the cockpit, and her legs were pinned awkwardly beneath the console. Smoke curled in the dim cockpit, stinging her eyes and throat and pushing her into action.

With trembling hands, she unlatched her harness, gritting her teeth against the fiery pain in her ribs. The cabin door was jammed, warped by the crash, but she kicked it open with a burst of desperation. The cold night air hit her like a slap, mingling with the acrid stench of burning fuel.

She managed to get to the flight control computer, which had been reduced in size to that of a smartphone. The Ghosthawk’s upgraded hardware and software with its increased processing power, as well as cyber and product security, would be invaluable to anyone wanting to find a way through the jet’s defenses or reverse engineering their own jet.

Phoebe crawled out of the wreckage with the flight control computer tucked away in her flight suit, her boots sinking into the spongy forest floor. Every movement sent shocks of pain through her body, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward, dragging herself free of the twisted remains of the Ghosthawk.

When she finally collapsed a few feet away, she lay on her back, staring up at the stars framed by the towering silhouettes of trees. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her mind struggling to process what had just happened.

Sabotage—it had to be.

The word whispered in her brain, like a knife to her chest, sharper than any physical injury. This wasn’t an accident. The Ghosthawk hadn’t failed on its own. Someone had wanted this to happen. Someone had sent her out alone, knowing she wouldn’t come back.

Phoebe sat up, groaning as pain flared in her shoulder and ribs. Her pilot’s jacket was torn, streaked with blood and soot. She turned to look at the wreckage, flames licking hungrily at the mangled aircraft and casting flickering shadows across the trees. The sight sent a shiver down her spine. The Ghosthawk, the pinnacle of military technology, lay in ruins.

And she was stranded—injured, alone, and while not technically in hostile territory, she was far from anyone who could help her. Even if she’d crashed at Eielson, she wouldn’t know who to trust. Until she could figure something out, she was on her own.

A chill crept over her as the realization hit. Whoever had sabotaged her would want first to ensure she didn’t survive to tell anyone, and second to get the flight computer. She was now both prey and witness—sure to be hunted by unknown enemies. The wilderness around her suddenly felt alive, its dark expanse hiding threats she could barely imagine.

Phoebe took a deep breath, swallowing back the fear rising in her throat. She wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. If someone wanted her dead, they were going to have to try a hell of a lot harder.

Gritting her teeth, Phoebe forced herself to her feet despite her body's protests. Her first priority was to find shelter and evaluate her injuries. Survival was the second.

And after that? Finding out who wanted to sabotage the project—and making them regret it.

2

JONAH

The icy wind swept through the dense forest, carrying the faint scent of existence beneath the snow and earth. When spring came, life would renew itself. Jonah Locke reveled in the clean air filling his powerful lungs as his paws thudded against the frostbitten ground. In his shifted form, he was a blur of white and silver, a predator perfectly adapted to this rugged, unforgiving wilderness.

As a snow leopard, every muscle in his body moved with precision, and his senses were heightened to a clarity that his human form could never achieve. Here, in the deep silence of the mountains, there were no half-truths, no shadows of doubt clouding his mind—just freedom. Solace. And focus.

Even after all these years, his father’s death was still a raw wound, and Jonah had come here to uncover the truth, to retrace the last steps of a man who’d taught him everything about survival and yet kept so many secrets. The wilderness whispered answers, and Jonah intended to hear them all.

The snap of a distant branch jerked him from his thoughts. His ears swiveled, tracking the sound. The wind shifted, and with it came something foreign—a scent that didn’t belong. Metal, oil, and… fire? Even though the chances of a wildfirecatching and doing much damage in the Alaskan winter were fairly remote, Jonah wanted to check out the disharmonious smells that pricked his nostrils. His whiskers twitched as unease trickled down his spine.

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