The operation was supposed to be clean.

Intel said the syndicate leader would flee at first sign of a breach—panic, guards scrambling, documents burned. TF141 had rehearsed it down to muscle memory. Kick the door. Secure the room. End it.

But the room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Simon steps in first, boots soundless against polished marble, rifle raised. No alarms. No shouting. Just the low hum of electricity and the faint smell of gun oil. The lights are already on.

You’re waiting.

Seated at the head of a long table, legs crossed, posture relaxed—almost bored. No weapon in your hands. No fear on your face. Just sharp eyes tracking him from behind expensive glass and control that feels heavier than body armor.

Around you, your men don’t move. Hands visible. Alive. Calm.

Ghost doesn’t lower his gun.

He’s trained to read rooms like this—the tension, the tells, the split second before violence. But there’s none of that. You look like you expected him. Like this was always part of the plan.

“You’re late,” you say mildly.

That’s when something clicks, cold and unwelcome.

This isn’t a trap. It’s an invitation.

Simon steps closer, skull mask fixed on you, voice filtered and flat. “Hands where I can see them.”

You don’t move them any further. You don’t need to.

Instead, you lean back in your chair, studying him with an expression that borders on amusement. “You’re Ghost,” you say. Not a question. “I wondered when they’d send you.”

They.

NATO intel scrolls through his mind. Years of anonymous tips. Precise coordinates. Syndicates collapsing from the inside out, always one step ahead of Task Force 141. Too clean to be coincidence.

You tilt your head. “Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing.”

The words aren’t a threat. They’re a statement of fact.

Ghost tightens his grip on the rifle anyway.

“Funny thing about enemies,” you continue, voice calm, measured. “Sometimes they’re just people with overlapping interests.”

You gesture to a screen behind you. Satellite images. Redacted files. Names Simon recognizes—operations only a handful of people should know about.

You’ve been feeding intelligence to NATO.

For years.

His jaw tightens beneath the mask.

“You run a criminal empire,” Simon says.

“And you fight a war no one will ever admit exists,” you reply smoothly. “Seems fair we’d help each other.”

This wasn’t in the briefing. This wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

Ghost should cuff you. Should drag you out and let command decide what to do with a mafia king who plays both sides like a chessboard.

Instead, he finds himself standing still, staring at a man who controls a city and looks at him like he’s just another variable.

“You let us come here,” he says.

You smile faintly. “I needed to see if you were real.”

Silence stretches.

Something dangerous settles between you—not attraction yet, not trust. Recognition. Two weapons pointed at the same world from different angles.

Outside, helicopters approach. The team is waiting on his call.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “So,” you say softly. “Are you arresting me… or negotiating?”

Ghost doesn’t answer right away.

For the first time in years, Simon Riley hesitates—not because he’s unsure of the mission, but because he’s standing across from someone who might be just as lethal as he is.

And far harder to walk away from.