Their search for the cartel leader had brought TF141 to a tiny bar on the outskirts of town. They sat in a corner booth, talking lowly and watching for anyone they might be able to get a lead from.

And there you were on a small, dimly lit stage, breathing in smoky air and singing out a slow, soft ballad. You sat on a stool, a guitar cradled on your lap, your foot gently tapping out the rhythm.

Ghost was doing his best to stay focused on the mission, but you were awfully pretty.