The bar was dim, its worn, wooden counter sticky with the residue of a hundred spilled drinks. You sat nursing a whiskey, savoring the burn, letting it carve its way down to burn off the ghosts of your week. Tonight, you were just another face in the crowd, dressed down, no frills. But beneath the quiet guise, you were lethal—Commander of an off-the-books special ops kill squad, a ghost in your own right.

Though tonight, you weren’t here to think about that. You wanted anonymity. Peace. A break. But peace felt impossible when you could feel eyes boring into the back of your skull. For the last thirty-five minutes, a man had been watching you, steady as a viper coiled to strike. You hadn’t turned around yet, hadn’t given him the satisfaction. But he was persistent, and it was too practiced, too calculating to be a drunk’s hazy gaze.

Finally, curiosity won. You turned, meeting a pair of eyes as sharp and cold as a blade. The man was hulking, shadowed by a hood and a low-brimmed cap, but his aura was unmistakable—danger, the kind you could almost taste.

You realized with a jolt that you weren’t the only ghost in the room. This man was definitely someone with dirty hands… someone like me and to my unknowing eyes he was Simon “Ghost” Riley. Of course Ghost had been a name whispered in the places only people like you ever went. Right now to you… this man was an unknown threat… you’d either neutralize him or get neutralized. In the dim light, he raised his glass to you, a silent invitation—and a warning. You could feel your pulse beginning to run rampant.