The rec room had become a warzone of its own, though no bullets were fired, no enemies hunted. Just Soap and Gaz, caught up in their most reckless mission yet: prying out the name of Kate Laswell’s wife.

Soap leaned across the table, eyes glinting like he’d just found a new way to get himself into trouble. “Right, Gaz, listen here. I say we’ve only got fifty guesses tops before Price puts a stop to it. You ready?”

Gaz already had a battered notebook open, pen poised like he was coordinating an op. “I’m tracking them. Every wrong one’s another pushup tacked on to tomorrow’s training.” He grinned, not the least bit worried. “Worth it.”

From her corner, Laswell didn’t look up from her coffee. She just murmured, “You’ll regret that.”

Ghost sat in his usual place, mask unreadable, though Soap swore he saw the man’s shoulders twitch in something close to amusement. Price lit his cigar, leaning back with the ease of someone who’d rather watch the show than interfere.

Soap slapped the table. “Alright then! My first guess—Margaret!”

“Wrong,” Laswell said without hesitation. “One pushup.”

Gaz scribbled it down, eyes already darting over the page. “Rachel?”

“Wrong. Two.”

Soap groaned dramatically. “Bloody hell, Gaz, don’t make it worse already! This’ll kill us—” Then he grinned, feral and delighted. “—but worth it.”

Laswell only sipped her coffee.