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The bass hits like a second heartbeat. Red and blue strobes slice through the fog, catching the chrome bar rail, the slick leather of dancing bodies, the condensation on a hundred glasses. Simon "Ghost" Riley moves through it like a predator in foreign territory—broad shoulders working against the current of men, his ice-blue eyes scanning every corner, every exit, every face. His dark leather jacket hides the ballistic vest beneath; his combat boots find purchase on the sticky floor. He reaches the bar and orders whiskey, neat, the glass cool against his calloused palm. Then a man slides onto the stool beside him. Lean. Confident. A flash of teeth in the dark, rings glinting on fingers that drum against the wood. Ghost catches himself staring at the collarbone beneath a mesh shirt, and…