Ghosts of War by George Mann

he'd made. No, it really wouldn't be fair, not to do that to her again.
    No lies. No secrets. He'd promised himself that. He owed it to her. She'd meant so much to him before, and he'd never told her. He'd allowed her to think he was just a drunken playboy, allowed himself to push her away, keeping the real Gabriel hidden beneath layers of secrets and lies, protective barriers. This time it would be different. This time he had to trust her. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to a whisper. He realized he was trembling. “Have you heard of a man called ‘the Ghost,' Ginny?”
    She nodded, unsure where this was heading. “Yes. The crime fighter. The vigilante. I've read about him in the Globe. But what's he got to do with it?”
    Gabriel put his hand on her arm.
    “Well, there's something I need to tell you….”
    “One of the neighbors reported gunfire, so a couple of the boys from uniform came down to check it out. They were expecting to find some kids playing around with a handgun. They weren't expecting this.” Donovan said this as he led the Ghost along the hallway to the door of the apartment where the body had been discovered.
    The apartment block was a dingy sort of place, probably inhabited by more rats than humans. What was more, it stank. The Ghost had to cover his mouth and nose as he picked his way along behind Donovan, trying not to step in any of the heaps of discarded trash that had gathered in the stairwells or lobbies. It didn't fit at all with his mental image of the sort of place a foreign spy would set up shop. He supposed that was precisely the point.
    He'd left Ginny in the car, keeping watch on the door. He still wasn't entirely sure if he'd done the right thing telling her about his double life. She'd seemed to find the whole thing terribly exciting, bombarding him with questions in the car all the way to Manhattan. He'd tried to impress upon her the gravity of the situation, the need to maintain the secrecy of his separate identities—the risk he'd taken by letting her in on his secret.
    He'd also explained to her why he'd done it. Why he'd felt the need to be honest with her about it, about who he really was. At this she'd gone quiet, serious, circumspect.
    Later, she'd watched in awe as he'd stripped in his apartment on Fifth Avenue, running her fingers over his scars, silent as he'd donned his black trench coat and fastened his buckles, collecting weapons from his armory in the back. She'd helped him to strap his fléchette gun in place, watched as he'd loaded pistols and secreted knives in hidden sheaths all over his body.
    When they'd returned to the car to drive down to Greenwich Village, to the address Donovan had given him on the holotube, something had changed between them. Some slight alteration in the way she was acting. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but she'd looked at him differently. He'd wondered if she was judging him, if by telling her the truth he'd made a terrible mistake. Had he simply caused the rift between them to widen? When he'd sat behind the wheel, she'd looked over at him as if she didn't recognize him anymore. It went deeper than the change in appearance, too. She seemed to be seeing him for the first time.
    He hadn't known how to respond, so he'd started the engine and the car had hissed away from the curb, trails of soot belching from its exhaust funnels. The way she'd looked at him—it was as if she'd seen into the core of him. It was as if the lines between Gabriel and the Ghost were blurring, merging, and he didn't know who he was any longer. The two halves of his life had collided, and the resulting confusion had been too much to deal with. So he'd buried all thoughts of it while he focused on helping Donovan, and he'd told Ginny to wait in the car, despite her protests. He'd put her in enough danger simply by bringing her along. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to her.
    Donovan had been waiting for him in the lobby. He'd shut the