The tunnel is a throat. A narrow, concrete throat waiting to vomit them out into the belly of the beast.
Atlanta, Georgia. Mercedes-Benz Stadium.
The air is heavy. It's not just the humidity, though that is thick enough to chew on. It's the noise. Sixty thousand people are screaming above them. The sound doesn't stay in the bowl; it seeps through the concrete, vibrating the floor, shaking the water bottles on the rack.
It sounds like a jet engine warming up.
Robin stands in the line. Single file.
He looks to his left.
The Jamaican National Team. The "Reggae Boyz."
They don't look nervous. They look like they are at a block party. They are dancing. A low, rhythmic chant rumbles through their line, accompanied by the slapping of hands against chests and thighs.
They are massive.
Johnny wasn't lying. These aren't technical midfielders built like ballerinas. These are athletes. Mountains of muscle and speed.
Robin spots him. Number 2. Marcus Sterling.
The Millwall veteran. The Anchor. The man Johnny told him to kill.
Sterling is leaning against the tunnel wall, chewing gum. He looks bored. He looks like a man who has broken noses in bar fights and laughed about it. He catches Robin staring.
Sterling doesn't smile. He just looks at Robin's legs. Specifically, the right one.
He knows. Of course he knows. The scouting report is out. Target the metal.
Robin looks away. He looks at his own team.
The contrast is pathetic.
The USA line is silent. Tomb silent.
Jackson Voss stands at the front, staring straight ahead at the referee's back. He looks like a statue, but Robin can see the tension in his neck muscles. He is holding his breath.
Behind him, Adam Richards is bouncing. Not a warm-up bounce. A panic bounce. He is vibrating. His face is pale, sweat already beading on his forehead before he's run a single yard. He looks like he's about to throw up.
Andrew Smith is checking his socks for the fiftieth time. Perfecting the aesthetic. Calculating the variables.
They are terrified.
Robin closes his eyes.
Focus.
He tries to find the zone. He tries to find the silence he found in the high school field in Ohio.
But the noise above is too loud. It distorts.
The roar of the crowd shifts. It warps.
Screech.
Tires on asphalt. The smell of burning rubber. Deion Vale screaming in the backseat.
Snap.
The sound of his tibia shattering in England. The white-hot agony. The ceiling tiles of the hospital room.
Robin's eyes snap open.
He looks down at his hands. They are trembling.
A fine, microscopic tremor in his fingers.
He clenches his fists. Stop it.
But his body remembers. His body knows what happens when 150 pounds of defender hits bone. His body knows the cost of arrogance.
The fear rises up, cold and slimy. I am not ready. I am broken. I am a ghost.
He feels like a fraud. A cripple in a Superman costume.
"Hey."
A whisper. Rough. Like gravel.
Robin turns his head slightly to the right.
Ben Cutter. "The Dog."
The starting Left Back. The man who vomited during the beep test but refused to quit.
Cutter isn't looking at Robin. He's staring straight ahead, his jaw set, his eyes wide with his own adrenaline. He is shaking too. But not from trauma. From the urge to run.
"I got you," Cutter whispers.
Robin blinks.
"You go," Cutter says, the words spilling out fast, manic. "You go forward. You do your tricks. You run at him."
Cutter swallows hard.
"I'll run. I'll cover you. If he passes you, I'll hit him. I'll run until I die, Silver. I promise."
It's not a pep talk. It's a contract.
You provide the magic. I provide the suffering.
Robin looks at Cutter's profile. He sees the fear, yes. But he sees the resolve. Cutter knows he isn't the best player here. He knows he's lucky to be starting. And he is going to pay for that ticket with blood if he has to.
Robin's hands stop shaking.
He exhales.
He isn't alone. He has a dog behind him.
"Deal," Robin whispers back.
The referee picks up the ball.
"Gentlemen," the official says. "It's time."
The line moves.
Voss steps forward. The rest follow.
They walk out of the grey concrete throat. The tunnel widens.
And then, the world explodes.
The light is blinding. Floodlights mixed with the afternoon sun piercing through the open roof.
The noise hits them like a physical wave. Sixty thousand people roaring. Drums banging. The chant of "U-S-A" shaking the foundations of the stadium.
It is sensory overload. It is chaos.
But as Robin steps onto the grass, the chaos fades.
He feels the turf under his studs. Soft. Perfect.
He looks across the field. The green expanse. The white lines.
The dimensions are the same. Ohio. England. Atlanta.
It's just a pitch.
He looks at the goal at the far end.
Output is King.
Robin Silver takes a deep breath of the humid air. He unzips his jacket.
The Ghost is here.
And he is hungry.