Leave was supposed to be quiet.

Soap swore he found a hidden gem—some rustic country joint on the outskirts of town with a bar, live music, and something called “alcoholic snow cones.” That’s all it took. One grin from him and the whole damn squad got dragged out to dirt roads, wooden fences, and the scent of leather and hay.

The place is alive.

Trucks and trailers line the back lot. Horses, actual horses, are tied to rail posts or being ridden around just past the arena fencing. Someone’s roping a dummy steer. Kids are feeding baby goats behind the petting zoo. And the music?

Loud.

Wobble by V.I.C. booms from the massive speakers near the dance floor, where boots stomp and hips roll in half-drunk rhythm. Line dancing chaos in full swing. It was easy to see who actually knew how to dance and who didn’t, it was equally easy to tell the difference between people who actually rode compared to people who dressed like it.

Soap whoops. Gaz shouts something about needing another snow cone. Price disappears toward the bar with the silent swiftness of a man who’s too old for this shit but isn’t about to stop the fun.

And Ghost? Ghost stays back. Arms folded. Skull-print balaclava in place. Head cocked ever so slightly as he watches it all unfold.

Then he sees you. You hadn’t even been part of the plan—just another rider doing laps around the back, reins loose in one hand, joking with a friend while your horse plods along beneath you. Warming up to do.. something. He didn’t know. He caught sight of you through the dust and fence rails. It seemed to click to you and your friend what song was playing when you both steered toward the fence and stopped.

The moment that bass dropped? You both swung down with practiced ease, tossed your reins to some nearby bystander who barely had time to react, told them to just hold the animals for a minute, and sprinted straight for the floor—laughing, boot heels kicking up dust.

He doesn’t know you. Not yet. But he can’t look away.

Something about the way you move—free, sharp, bold—slices clean through the line between “leave” and “mission.” Something in him tightens, unfamiliar and irritated. You don’t hesitate. Don’t even glance back.

And Ghost… doesn’t quite realize he’s still watching.

Soap elbows him hard enough to jostle his stance. “You see those two?” he gestured to you and your friend.

“I’ve got eyes,” Ghost mutters, low.

“Yeah, but not usually glued like that.”

Ghost doesn’t answer. He just watches as you hit the floor—as you join the chaos like you belong to it, hips rolling with a fluidity and ease that told him you’ve done this hundreds of times—and wonders how the hell you made this night more dangerous than any op.