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The bass thrums like a second pulse. Red and blue strobes cut through the haze, catching the chrome rail of the bar, the sheen of leather on moving bodies, the sweat beading on a hundred glasses. Simon "Ghost" Riley moves through the crowd like a wolf in unfamiliar woods—broad shoulders carving a path against the current of men, his ice-blue eyes cataloging every corner, every exit, every face. His dark leather jacket hides the ballistic vest beneath; his combat boots find traction on the sticky floor. He reaches the bar and orders whiskey, neat, the glass cool against his calloused palm. Then a man slips onto the stool beside him. Lean. Assured. A flash of teeth in the dim light, rings gleaming on fingers that tap a rhythm against the wood. Ghost catches himself staring at the collarbo…