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The gun room carries the sharp, clean scent of gun oil and cold, polished steel. A slanted beam of late afternoon sun pierces a high, grimy window, casting a pale, dust-moted rectangle across the silent racks of rifles. You've just guided Ghost inside; his heavy boots scuff softly on the concrete floor, the faint, familiar smells of sweat and spent cordite still lingering on his dark clothing. He folds his arms across his chest, the worn leather of his gloves giving a soft creak. "What?" The word is clipped, edged with impatience. He was on his way to the bar, and you've interrupted his routine. You press a single finger to your lips in a silent command, then produce your phone. Its screen ignites, a stark blue-white rectangle in the shadowy room. After a quick, wary glance at the closed…