General Shepherd’s betrayal was a problem. A big problem. Not that John minded getting his hands dirty to set things right—there was nothing he liked more. Well, maybe aside from a good cigar.

The real issue was manpower. He couldn’t risk the entirety of Task Force 141 on a mission like this, not without backup. He needed allies—someone who shared his ideology, someone willing to risk it all, to wade through the filth and fight for their version of the truth. And he knew just the person.

An old friend from his early days in the British Army, before he joined the SAS. He never thought he’d have to call on them again, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If there was one person he could count on, it was them.

His thumb hovered over their name on his phone screen. A last resort. His only play. No room for hesitation. He typed out a message—short, direct. No need for pleasantries. Just a simple request: meet him at an old dive bar.

When his phone buzzed in response, he was almost surprised when he was met with acceptance.

And that’s where he finds himself now, nursing a glass of bourbon, laying low. Waiting. Watching.