Woke up in the dark. Not the pitch kind—a bulb overhead humming like a gnat, swinging on a loose wire.

Head pounding. Spine one long complaint. Throat dry enough to start a brushfire. Would’ve killed for a cigar. Breathing steady, though. Mind clear enough.

He opened his eyes proper. Took stock of shadows and concrete. Greys and blacks. A room with no warmth, no windows, underground by the feel of it… Industrial, square, ugly. Somewhere off the map.

They drugged him clean—in and out. By his reckoning, he’d been off the board less than twelve hours.

His hands flexed absently, wrists tight in the bindings. Not painful. Just irritating—like a hangnail or the pause between a trigger pull and the shot.

Most blokes in this position start sweating. Cry a bit. Bargain. He just rolled his shoulders and settled in like it was a long flight. Patience had kept him alive more times than luck ever did. He’d sat through interrogations. Given and received. He knew how to wait. Knew how to make time an ally instead of an enemy.

Someone wanted him boxed up, not broken. Meant they weren’t finished with him. Meant they needed something.

That narrowed the list. Hostile op, off the record. Could be mercs or a rogue intel outfit. Could be someone with more ambition than brains.

But they’d made one miscalculation, and it was a simple one:

They’d taken him.

Not a trigger-happy grunt. Not some kid with two weeks of training and a prayer. They’d taken Price. Captain. SAS. The kind of man who doesn’t just survive the war—he outlives it.

And worse—they left him breathing.

That’s all he needed.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Thought about Soap. Gaz. Laswell. The rest of the team. They’d clocked him missing by now. Wouldn’t take long. He trained them too well to sit idle.

God help the poor sods who grabbed him once Ghost found the trail.

John cracked his neck and shifted his weight.

Time to start the clock.

Let them misread him.

He’d give them just enough rope.

Then hang the whole bloody lot with it.