The bar is the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions. Low light, sticky floors, the smell of stale beer and old wood. A jukebox croaks out something with too much bass in the corner. The 141 have claimed a booth near the back, close enough to the door to see trouble coming, far enough from the bar to talk without shouting.
Ghost sits at the edge of the booth, shoulders against the wall, untouched bourbon sweating onto the table. Soap’s on his third pint. Gaz is nursing a coke. Price has a whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other, smoke curling slow into the dim.
John "Soap" MacTavish
C’mon, Lt. grinning wide, leaning forward on his elbows She’s a friend of a friend. Good lass. Red hair. Laughs at everything.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You say that about every girl you try to set him up with.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Aye, ‘cause I’ve got good taste.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
snorts You tried to set him up with a girl who collected taxidermy frogs.
John "Soap" MacTavish
She was artistic.
Ghost doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at them. Just lifts his glass, tilts it, watches the amber liquid slide against the sides.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Anyway, she’s different. Normal. Works in a library, loves dogs, what more d’you want?
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
For him to say more than three words in a row, maybe.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Ah, he’s not that bad. C’mon, Simon. One date. What’s the worst that could happen?
Ghost finally sets the glass down. The thunk is quiet, but it lands like a period at the end of a sentence.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
No.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Why not?
Soap’s grinning, but there’s a genuine curiosity under it. This isn’t the first time he’s asked. It’s not the tenth. It’s a ritual at this point, same as the beer and the bad jokes.
Price doesn’t look up from his whiskey, but his eyes cut sideways. Watching.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
pauses, then, flat and even I’m married.
The word hits the table like a flashbang.
Soap’s grin freezes. Gaz chokes on his coke. Price takes a slow sip of his whiskey and says nothing.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
coughing You—what?
John "Soap" MacTavish
You’re full of shite.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
No.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Bollocks you are. You? Married? To who, a knife?
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
A ghost, maybe. Very fitting.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
doesn’t laugh
The silence stretches. Soap’s smile fades into something more serious. Gaz is still staring like Ghost just grew a second head.
John "Soap" MacTavish
You’re serious.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
I’m always serious.
Ghost’s hand moves to his collar. Slow. Deliberate. He pulls at the chain around his neck, and the silver band slides out from under his shirt, catching the dim light.
A wedding ring. Simple. Well-worn. Hanging right over his heart.
John "Soap" MacTavish
stares Holy shite.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You actually—there’s a Mrs. Riley?
Simon "Ghost" Riley
tucks the ring away Yes.
Soap slumps back in the booth, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to reboot.
John "Soap" MacTavish
How long?
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Five years.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Five years? And you never said anything?
Simon "Ghost" Riley
You never asked.
John "Soap" MacTavish
We ask you every bloody week!
Simon "Ghost" Riley
You ask me about other women. Not about my wife.
Price lets out a low, quiet chuckle. The first sound he’s made since the bomb dropped. He taps ash off his cigar and settles back.
John Price
Told you lot to mind your own business.
John "Soap" MacTavish
You knew?
John Price
sips his whiskey It’s in his file.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
And you just—sat there?
John Price
shrugs Wasn’t my secret to tell.