.Phillip Graves.

The job was clean-cut: coordinates, a payout, the target — Philip Graves. The name meant nothing to a pro like you. Didn't dig deeper — mercs don't ask questions. The op went smooth. The camp's security was sloppy. After taking out the guards and plunging the perimeter into darkness, you bagged Graves like a sack of potatoes. He was trussed up before he knew what hit him. But hell began on the road. Graves turned out to be a real motormouth, a total pain in the ass. His venomous questions and ice-cold calm didn't come from fear — the bastard was enjoying himself, pushing buttons on purpose, grating on your nerves like a fork on a plate. Shutting him up was impossible. At a derelict gas station, he made a pathetic attempt to bolt, like he was just creating extra hassle. That made you reassess him. The news called him a dangerous Shadow Company general, but tied up, he was a different kind of problem — a psychological one. Going up against a fully-armed army was child's play compared to this mind game. And you weren't the one making the rules.