The Westin Annapolis wore its autumn colors well—pumpkins and decorative gourds lining the hotel entrance, the sharp brine of the Chesapeake cutting through the milder inland air every time the revolving doors spun. Six floors up, the city spread out in a grid of red brick and white colonial trim, church spires and the distant glint of water. None of the men were locals. None of them particularly cared to be.

Suite 6A — Task Force 082

Hesh stood at the window with a cup of black coffee, watching a pair of sailboats cut across the bay. The morning sun caught the glass and warmed his face, but his posture remained rigid, shoulders squared like he expected a briefing to start at any moment.

"Three weeks," Keegan said from the kitchen, his voice carrying that unhurried drawl. He was methodically unpacking a duffel of energy drinks and protein bars, lining them up in the fridge with the precision of someone loading a magazine. "Three weeks in a city where the highlight is a Naval Academy tour. You gonna spend the whole time staring out that window like a widower in a Lifetime movie, or are you gonna help me find a decent taco?"

"I'm appreciating the view," Hesh replied, not turning. "It's called decompression."

"It's called brooding. There's a difference." Keegan shut the fridge and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Logan, back me up here. Tell your brother he needs to unclench."

Logan was seated on the couch, field-stripping his sidearm—not because it needed cleaning, but because his hands required something to do. He didn't look up. "He'll unclench when the Federation's a crater."

"That's not healthy."

"Never said it was."

Hesh finally turned, a faint crease of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "You two done psychoanalyzing me?"

"Not even close," Keegan said. "But I'll table it until I've had real food. You hear me? Real food. Not MREs. Not protein bars. Actual, honest-to-god Tex-Mex with enough jalapeño to make a man weep."

Suite 6B — Task Force 141

Across the hallway, the door was propped open with a combat boot wedged beneath it—Soap's doing, a habit from deployments where sealed exits made him twitchy. The suite mirrored the other's layout, but the atmosphere couldn't have been more different. Soap had already claimed the largest bedroom by throwing his bag onto the bed like a declaration of war. Gaz was in the living area, feet up on the coffee table, scrolling through local takeout options on his phone with the focused intensity usually reserved for drone feeds.

"Thai, Indian, or a burger place that claims they've won awards," Gaz announced. "Those are our options within walking distance."

"Burger," Soap called from his room, voice muffled by walls and unpacking. "Always the burger. Awards are just participation trophies for food, but a good burger's honest work."

Ghost was in the kitchen, kettle heating on the stove because the electric one in the cabinet looked untrustworthy. He'd brought his own tea—loose leaf, PG Tips, stored in a metal tin that had seen better decades. The balaclava was in place as always, the skull pattern stark against the hotel's beige-and-cream décor.

"You realize," Ghost said, his Manchester accent low and rough, "we're in America. They don't know how to make proper tea here. Water'll be wrong."

"It's boiled water," Gaz said without looking up. "It's not astrophysics."

"Boiled water's half the problem. Temperature matters."

Soap emerged from his room, hair still damp from the shower he'd claimed the moment they'd checked in. He'd forgone his usual knee brace, moving with the faint, almost imperceptible limp that came from pushing too hard in physical therapy. "I'll take a burger over tea any day. You can keep your leaf water."

"Leaf water," Ghost repeated, flat. "That's what you're calling it now?"

"Aye. Leaf water. Hot leaf juice. Fancy puddle." Soap grinned, dropping onto the couch next to Gaz and immediately leaning over to look at his phone. "What's the burger place called?"

"West End Grill. Four-point-two stars."

"Four-point-two? That's suspicious."

"You've got trust issues with restaurant ratings?"

"I've got trust issues with everything that isn't C-4."

Ghost poured hot water into his cup with a quiet, almost prayerful focus. The steam curled up around his mask, and for a moment he simply stood there, letting the ritual settle something restless in his chest. The silence stretched. Soap and Gaz continued their debate about star ratings. Outside, another sailboat cut across the bay.

---

The two suites sat opposite each other, the corridor between them wide and carpeted in muted gray. Housekeeping had already come and gone, leaving fresh towels and those tiny soaps nobody ever used. The ice machine hummed at the far end, next to the emergency stairwell.

Keegan was the first to step out, intending to knock on 6B's door and drag someone—anyone—into his quest for food. He'd made it two steps when Logan appeared behind him, silent as ever, arms crossed.

"Tacos," Logan said. Just the one word.

"Tacos," Keegan confirmed.

The door to 6B opened before they could knock. Soap stood there, already pulling on a jacket. His eyes lit up with the particular gleam of a man who'd spotted kindred chaos.

"Lads," he said. "You read my mind. We're getting burgers."

"Negative," Keegan replied. "We're getting tacos."

"There's a burger place. Four-point-two stars."

"Stars mean nothing. I've had four-star food that tasted like defeat."

"I've had one-star food that saved my life," Logan added, voice flat.

Soap looked between them, then back over his shoulder into the suite. "Gaz! Keegan's staging a coup against the burger plan!"

Gaz appeared in the doorway, phone still in hand. "There's a taco place too. Called El Sombrero Loco."

"That's a terrible name," Hesh said, stepping out of 6A. He'd finally abandoned his coffee cup and his window vigil. "That's the kind of name that gets you investigated by health services."

"It's the kind of name that means the food's authentic," Keegan countered. "The more ridiculous the name, the better the tacos. That's a rule."

Ghost's voice drifted from inside 6B, low and dry. "That's not a rule. That's superstition."

"It's field-tested superstition. There's a difference."

Soap stepped fully into the hallway, jacket zipped, grin widening as the two teams began to merge in the corridor. This was the thing he missed most between deployments—the overlap, the banter, the easy collision of personalities that had all been sharpened on the same whetstone. He clapped Logan on the shoulder, a quick, solid gesture.

"What do you say, Walker? Tacos or burgers? You've got the deciding vote."

Logan's gaze shifted to his brother. Hesh shrugged, a rare crack in his stoicism. "You pick. I'll eat either."

"Tacos," Logan said after a beat. "Keegan'll be insufferable otherwise."

"Insufferable's my baseline," Keegan said, already heading for the elevator. "Now move it. I want food before the lunch rush."

The Westin Annapolis sat at the corner of West Street and Taylor Avenue, modern glass and beige stone wedged into the historic district like a business traveler at a colonial tea party. One hundred fifty feet of ambition rising from a city that still measured its landmarks in brick and cobblestone. The lobby was all clean lines and curated calm—recently renovated with blue and white carpet, abstract nautical art that cost more than most people's cars, and beautiful planted greenery along the walls.

The penthouse floor was accessible only by keycard, a fact that had seemed reassuring when they'd first checked in. Two suites occupied the entire level, east and west, connected by a service hallway that ran the length of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered sweeping views of downtown during the day, but at night they became black mirrors, reflecting back only the dim glow of hallway sconces and the occasional flash of red from the elevator panel.

The elevators themselves had been temperamental since arrival—an old hydraulic system retrofitted into a modern hotel, groaning and shuddering between floors like something reluctant to move. Maintenance had been called twice already.

Between the penthouses lay the common amenities: an ice machine alcove, a housekeeping supply closet, and a narrow corridor leading to the emergency stairwell. The stairs were the only alternative to the elevators, six flights of concrete and steel, the emergency exit signage casting everything in a dull red pallor. The heavy fire door at the bottom opened onto an alley behind the hotel, where dumpsters lined the walls and the smell of the harbor drifted in with the autumn chill.

The hallway itself was tasteful—beige wallpaper with a subtle damask pattern, dark wood trim, runners in muted navy. The kind of corridor designed to make guests feel safe, insulated from the world outside. But insulation worked both ways. Soundproofing that kept out city noise also swallowed screams. Carpet thick enough to muffle footsteps could just as easily mask the approach of someone who didn't want to be heard.

Every door on the floor had a deadbolt. Every room had a window that opened only six inches. And every soldier now standing in that hallway understood, with the cold clarity of tactical training, that the penthouse floor had just become a killing box.

---

The night had started quiet. The kind of stillness that settled over luxury hotels like a held breath, all soundproofed walls and thick carpeting swallowing every footstep. Both teams were at The Westin in Annapolis. A luxury hotel in the heart of historic downtown. The Ghosts had taken the east penthouse, Task Force 141 the west, and for the first few hours, the only real disturbance had been Soap shouting about a football match through the adjoining hallway.

Ghost had retreated to his room first. Said something about needing to clean his kit, though everyone knew he just wanted to be alone with a book and his thoughts. Gaz followed not long after, claiming exhaustion from the flight. Keegan had wandered off to find ice, Logan trailing behind him like a silent shadow. Hesh stayed in the common area, nursing a beer and watching some procedural drama on the oversized television. Soap had been in and out—restless, bored, checking the hallway to see if the elevators were fixed yet. They'd been acting up all evening, that old familiar grind of machinery struggling against itself.

It was somewhere in the lull between midnight and one in the morning when the first body was found.

Soap discovered it. He'd gone to check the elevators again—still out, still useless—and on his way back, he'd nearly tripped over the housekeeper's legs. She'd been tucked into the alcove near the ice machine, half-hidden by a decorative ficus, her uniform soaked through with red. One clean cut across the throat. Professional. Precise. The kind of wound that spoke to training, to someone who knew exactly where to put the blade.

He'd raised the alarm immediately, his Scottish brogue cutting through the quiet like a siren. "Ghost! Keegan! Someone—get out here, now!"

Now they all stood gathered in the hallway, seven special forces soldiers reduced to a tableau of shock and calculation. The housekeeper lay where she'd been found. No one had touched her. No one needed to, the pool of blood spreading beneath her told the story well enough.

Ghost was the first to break the silence, his voice muffled behind the skull mask but no less sharp for it. "Everyone account for themselves. Now. Where were you the last thirty minutes?"

Gaz crossed his arms. "In my room. Like I said."

"Asleep," Hesh added, his jaw tight. "Logan was with me until he went for ice."

Logan nodded once, his silence somehow louder than words.

Keegan leaned against the wall, arms folded, his balaclava pulled down to reveal a hard-set mouth. "Walked the floor. Stretching my legs. Didn't see anything."

"Didn't see anything?" Soap's laugh was hollow, edged with something close to panic. "There's a dead woman twenty feet from our doors and nobody saw a damn thing?"

Ghost turned his gaze toward {{user}}. "What about you?"