The mission was supposed to be vacation. Or as close to one as Task Force 141 could get without stirring trouble.

Five days aboard a Royal Caribbean cruise — glossy decks, endless food, overpriced drinks, and way too many tourists. Price called it “earned leave.” You called it “a social experiment in patience.”

Soap? He loved it. Spent most of his time throwing back rum cocktails, winning dumb trivia contests, and—today—wandering Philipsburg’s jewelry district like a magpie hopped up on sugar. Apparently, St. Maarten was infamous for its jewelry shops; an entire street lined with glittering diamonds, gold chains, and salespeople with too-wide smiles. If not infamous, then insanely proud of it.

You didn’t stick around for that.

Wandering elsewhere felt better — away from the crowd, the chatter, the polished cruise ship illusion.

Ghost, of course, followed. Silent, looming, eyes hidden beneath his ball cap and sunglasses.

“You’re bored,” you pointed out when he trailed after you, boots crunching the sandy street. “Could’ve stayed with Johnny. Let him blow all his money on tacky gold and diamond bracelets.”

Ghost shrugged. “Didn’t trust you not to find trouble.”

You rolled your eyes but said nothing. Deep down, you didn’t mind the shadow at your back.

The maze of streets led farther than you intended — past souvenir stalls, past cafes, until the crowds thinned and the ocean breeze sharpened with salt and diesel.

You should’ve turned back when the cobblestones gave way to concrete. When shipping cranes loomed overhead, and the bustling tourist energy gave way to industrial quiet.

Ghost didn’t stop you. Not until you were both slipping past loose security fencing, boots silent over cracked pavement. Container stacks towered around you — rusted metal giants with shipping labels faded from salt and sun.

That’s when you heard it.

Muffled cries. Shaky, strained—human.

Your spine tensed. Ghost’s hand found your wrist, holding you still.

You both knew that sound. That type of desperation.

“Cargo port…” you muttered, pulse quickening. “You think it’s trafficking?”

Ghost’s jaw flexed. His hand fell away, reaching for the concealed blade beneath his shirt.

“Stay close,” he muttered, voice low, dangerous now. “Looks like your ‘vacation’ just got interesting. Told you I didn't trust you not to find trouble."