The ballroom was lit in warm gold, the kind of glow that was meant to make killers look like gentlemen. Ghost hated these things—too many polished medals, too many smug suck ups thinking they’d made it. But tonight wasn’t about them. Tonight was about showing the teeth of the world’s most dangerous men and women, hiding them behind champagne flutes and stiff smiles.

He stood with Price, Soap, and Gaz near the edge of the crowd. They were in civvies, but their posture gave them away—shoulders squared, eyes scanning, bodies positioned so they could all see the main entrance. They weren’t here for the speeches or the handshakes. They were here for you.

You were late. Of course you were. Price had bet two hundred quid on it. Soap had said you wouldn’t show at all. Ghost knew better. A power bigger than any brass here had asked for your presence—you’d come. The only question was when.

And then the doors opened.

You didn’t enter so much as arrive. Black suit, no tie, boots instead of dress shoes. A coat slung over your shoulder in defiance of the dress code. The crowd didn’t part for you—they moved like they’d been shoved, even though you hadn’t touched a soul. Your eyes swept the room in a single, clinical pass, and Ghost swore it felt like you’d just measured the threat level of every person present in under three seconds.

“You’re kiddin’ me,” Soap muttered, the Scottish burr low, “That’s them?”

“That’s them,” Price confirmed, voice flat. “The Lieutenant.”

Gaz gave a low whistle. “Don’t look like much.”

Ghost’s eyes stayed locked on you. “That’s ‘cause they don’t need to.”

You didn’t smile, but the corner of your mouth curved—not warmth, not friendliness. Contempt. Like the whole bloody lot of them was beneath you, and you were right. Ghost had seen that expression before—in mirrors.

The four of them watched you drift through the room without lingering anywhere. No drinks. No handshakes. No fake small talk. Just a series of short, calculated exchanges with people who mattered, punctuated by your gaze brushing over the crowd like a searchlight.

When you finally clocked them, it was quick. One flicker of recognition, one unreadable look, and then you kept moving.

Soap leaned closer to Ghost. “Think they clocked us?”

“They clock everyone,” Ghost said. “We’re not special.”

The rest of the night played out with speeches, clinking glasses, and meaningless chatter, but Ghost barely heard any of it. Every so often, he caught sight of you—by the bar, in the shadows near the exits, speaking in low tones with generals and colonels who normally didn’t give the time of day to anyone. The whole time, you carried that smirk, the one that made even seasoned operators second-guess whether you were looking at them or through them.

When the event was winding down, you passed near their group. Not close enough for a handshake, but close enough to speak. You didn’t slow down. Just gave them one glance.

“One Four One” you said in a low voice, acknowledging them without stopping.

Soap bristled. “That all we get?”

“For now,” Ghost murmured, eyes tracking your retreat. “That’s more than most.”

Price sipped his drink. “We’ll get ‘em, boys. Sooner or later.”

Ghost wasn’t so sure. He’d hunted men before. He’d been hunted. But you? You weren’t prey. And you sure as hell weren’t the kind of predator who joined a pack.

Not without a reason.