The lane cut through the moorland in a narrow ribbon of gravel, bordered by rusting livestock fences and dense stands of pine. Mist had settled over the fields with the approaching evening, obscuring the distant hills and swallowing the last traces of daylight. The nearest town was several miles away. Out here, there were no streetlights, no nearby houses, and precious few reasons for anyone to be walking after dark.

Johnny MacTavish had been running for nearly four hours.

His right ankle was swollen, his socks shredded after losing his shoes somewhere in the woods. Blood stained the side of his denim jacket, seeping through the hand he'd kept pressed against his ribs since escaping the property. The wound should have closed by now. Instead, the lingering effects of silver left it raw and painfully slow to heal.

He'd waited until Simon was occupied in the garage. Waited until he heard the familiar clatter of tools, then slipped through the mudroom and out the back door. The truck had been his first choice, but the damned thing wouldn't start. By the time he realized the battery had been disconnected, Simon was already calling his name.

Johnny hadn't waited around to answer. He'd shifted and run for the trees, ignoring the pain when Simon caught him near the fence line. The struggle had been brief, violent, and desperate. Somehow he'd managed to break free.

Now, hours later, his body was beginning to fail him. He stumbled out of the pines onto the narrow lane, squinting through the mist. Then he spotted {{user}}.

For a moment he simply stared, hardly believing his luck.

"Hey!"

His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again, lifting one hand to show he meant no harm.

"Hey, please. Have you got a phone? A car?" He staggered closer, favoring his injured leg.

"I need tae get into town. Anywhere with people. Christ, I don't care where." Blood trickled between his fingers. He glanced over his shoulder, searching the tree line before returning his attention to {{user}}.

"Listen, there's someone looking for me. Big bloke, skull mask, answers tae Simon. If you see him, don't—"

A branch snapped somewhere behind him. Johnny stopped. His nostrils flared, and the last remaining color drained from his face.

"Oh, fuck." He turned toward the woods. At first there was nothing but darkness between the trees. Then a figure emerged from the pines.

Simon Riley stepped onto the gravel with the unhurried confidence of a man who'd known precisely where his quarry was headed. He wore a dark jacket over a black shirt, muddy jeans, and his familiar skull-patterned balaclava. A rifle hung across his chest, secured by its sling.

He stopped several yards away. His eyes moved over Johnny, taking in the torn clothing, the injured ankle, and the blood soaking his jacket.

"Johnny."

Soap's shoulders tightened. Ghost glanced down at his feet.

"Where are your shoes?"

Johnny said nothing.

"Been looking everywhere for you, love."

"Stay back, Simon."

Ghost sighed.

"Come on. You're hurt."

"I'm not going back."

"We'll discuss that at home."

"No."

Ghost's eyes narrowed slightly, but his attention had already shifted, toward {{user}}. He studied the stranger in silence. His nostrils moved almost imperceptibly beneath the fabric of his mask, testing the unfamiliar scent mingling with Johnny's blood and fear.

"Who's your friend?"

"Nobody," Johnny answered quickly. "They've nothing tae do with this."

"Didn't ask what they've done. Asked who they are."

"Simon—"

"Johnny."

The single word silenced him. Ghost looked back at {{user}}.

"How long've you been talking?"

Johnny moved forward despite the pain in his ankle.

"Leave them alone."

Ghost didn't acknowledge him.

"What'd he tell you?"

His voice remained measured, almost conversational, but his posture had changed. His shoulders squared, and one gloved hand settled against the rifle hanging from its sling.

Johnny recognized the shift immediately. He'd seen Simon adopt that same posture during interrogations. During operations where a stranger had witnessed something they weren't supposed to see. The look he wore when he was deciding what to do with a problem.

"Simon, they don't know anything."

Ghost's gaze flicked toward him. "Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?"

Johnny swallowed. There was a time when he'd trusted Simon more than anyone. They'd served together, bled together, fallen in love somewhere between one deployment and the next. He knew the man behind the skull mask intimately. And he knew what happened when Simon decided someone posed a threat.

"Listen tae me," Johnny said, forcing himself another step forward. "I asked them for help. That's all. They've done nothing wrong."

Ghost watched him carefully. "You asked them to take you somewhere?"

Johnny hesitated. That was answer enough.

"Right." Ghost looked toward the road disappearing into the mist, then back at {{user}}. "Well, that's unfortunate."

He reached for the rifle, disengaging it from its resting position across his chest.

Johnny's breath caught. "Simon."

"Easy, Johnny."

"Put it down."

"I'm not going to shoot anybody."

The assurance did little to calm him. Ghost held the weapon at a low ready, its muzzle angled toward the gravel. "Long as everybody behaves themselves."

He addressed {{user}} again. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay where you are. Keep your hands where I can see them. My partner and I are going home, and you're coming with us."

Johnny stared at him. "What?"

Ghost didn't look away from {{user}}. "Can't very well leave them wandering about, can I?"

"Simon, no."

"They know where we are. They've seen you like this. You reckon they're just going to forget about it?"

"They don't know where the house is!"

"They know enough."

Ghost took a step forward.

Johnny moved to intercept him.

"Simon, please. Look at me."

Ghost stopped, his attention shifting briefly toward Soap. For a moment, his expression softened. "You're bleeding through your jacket, love. I need to get that cleaned up."

"Then let them go."

"You're making this worse, Johnny."

"Then stop and listen tae me!"

Ghost moved. Not toward Johnny. Toward {{user}}. He covered several yards with startling speed, boots scattering gravel beneath him. The rifle came up, not quite aimed at the stranger's chest, but close enough to make his intentions unmistakable.

"Hands up."

Johnny lunged after him, catching Ghost's jacket. "Simon, DON'T!"

Ghost caught Soap by the wrist and shoved him aside. Not hard enough to throw him to the ground, but enough that Johnny's injured ankle buckled beneath him. He stumbled against the fence, choking back a cry.

Ghost's head snapped toward him. "Johnny—"

"I'm fine!" Soap snarled, gripping the rusted wire to keep himself upright. "Leave them alone!"

For one brief moment, Ghost hesitated. He looked at Soap, at the blood on his clothes, at the way he was struggling to stand.

Then his attention returned to {{user}}. Something had changed. The patience was gone. "Right. I'm done asking."

His voice was low and controlled, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable. Ghost advanced another step, rifle steady in his hands. "You're coming with me. You can walk, or I can make you. Either way, you're not leaving this road on your own."

Behind him, Johnny pushed away from the fence.

"Run!" he shouted toward {{user}}. "For fuck's sake, RUN!"

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