Chapter Text
The door groaned open.
You stepped out first, dragging the chair behind you, its legs ticking softly against the floor like the last beats of a dying clock. Logan followed silently, the prisoner left behind—what was left of him, anyway. Blood painted Logan’s gloves, stained his sleeves, and smudged across his jaw where something must’ve splattered. Your own face was marked just the same—crimson streaks over cheekbones, seeping into the collar of your shirt, sticky on your hands.
You didn’t say a word as the two of you made your way back down the hall
Ahead, Keegan and Hesh stood with the 141 and Vaqueros, conversations quieting the moment they caught sight of you.
Keegan was the first to move, fast, tense, and already pulling out a small towel from his gear pouch. “Hey,” he breathed, reaching for your face. His movements were careful as he dabbed at the blood smeared across your cheekbones and jawline, the cloth soaking red with each gentle pass. “You okay?”
Behind him, Hesh stepped up to Logan. “You good, man?”
Logan gave a single nod. That was all he needed to say.
But Hesh’s gaze shifted. He looked past his bloodstained brother and straight at you—his jaw clenched in that way it always did when he was worried but trying not to show it.
“And you?” he asked.
You hesitated, looking up at him.
Then the fight left your shoulders. The cold steel unraveled from your spine.
You stepped forward and leaned into Hesh’s shoulder, resting your head there like it was the only safe place in the entire world. The leather of his vest was warm from his body, smelling faintly of powder and metal—but still, somehow, familiar.
Keegan’s hand was still holding the towel against your cheek. With your free hand, you reached for his and laced your fingers together tightly.
“I miss Dad,” you murmured.
There was silence.
Then Hesh huffed a short, tired laugh—one of those exhale-through-the-nose laughs. “Yeah, I know you do,” he said, voice thick.
Hesh glanced at Logan, and with just a subtle jerk of his head, motioned him closer. Logan paused, then stepped in without hesitation, arms wrapping around both you and Hesh in that quiet, unbreakable bond only family could share.
His gloved hands patted Logan’s back and yours, then Hesh's voice came, low and warm. “Rest easy, you two. You did what had to be done. Is he dead?”
You shook your head faintly, still leaning against him. Logan stepped back first, always the one to move in shadows and step out before the moment lingers too long. You inhaled deeply—once, twice—letting the quiet stretch long enough for your pulse to steady.
Then your spine straightened again. Your hand slipped from Keegan’s as you stepped back from Hesh, the warmth of them both still lingering on your skin like armor. The moment could’ve stayed forever, but the war wouldn’t wait.
You looked around—at 141, at the Vaqueros, at the lines of blood and wear and weight etched into every single face.
“Sorry for slowing things down,” you said, voice low but cutting through the stillness like a drawn blade. “Let’s get moving.”
The prep had continued without fanfare, just the quiet, heavy rhythm of soldiers readying for war. Weapons cleaned and checked. Ammo redistributed. Wounds were wrapped tightly and hidden beneath layers of gear. Everyone moved like clockwork—efficient, grim, and deadly silent unless words were absolutely necessary.
Now, a lot of you stood just outside the safehouse, where the vehicles had been pulled into formation—engines still off, but the scent of oil and dust thick in the air. Dawn was bleeding into the horizon, casting a cold gray light that glinted off vests, rifles, and the tired steel in everyone’s eyes.
You, the Ghosts, their presence a wall of unspoken history at your back. Alejandro and Rudy stood side by side, Vaqueros close behind them, their loyalty burning as fiercely as ever. Task Force 141 was there too, the infamous four, each one exuding that quiet readiness that came from seeing too many battles and surviving anyway.
Graves hovered nearby, helmet under one arm, scanning each face like he was still trying to figure out what kind of team he’d thrown himself into.
Price’s gaze swept over everyone. “Everyone good?”
You nodded once, the motion sharp. Your fingers brushed over your vest out of habit, double-checking your gear. Everything was in place. Keegan had lent you one of his spare neck gaiters—a worn black one that smelled faintly of gunpowder and whatever soap he still hoarded in base showers. It was pulled up high, just under your eyes, a mirror of how he wore his.
“Good to go,” you confirmed, voice muffled slightly through the cloth, but the steel behind it was clear.
Logan gave a quiet thumbs up, rifle already slung tight across his chest.
Hesh simply nodded, adjusting his gloves.
Alejandro cracked his neck. “Estamos listos.”
Rudy murmured, “Let’s bring it home.”
Soap twirled his knife once, catching it smoothly. “Let’s raise some hell.”
Ghost gave a quiet grunt of agreement, which, from him, meant absolutely.
Gaz looked at Price. “Just say the word.”
A brief silence. Then Price gave one slow nod, turning toward the vehicles. “Mount up,” he said. “We roll out now.”
A beat passed before boots shuffled against dirt and gravel. Then the others began to move, falling in behind Price as he strode toward the vehicles designated for your team. Doors creaked open. Engines coughed to life one by one, low rumbles vibrating through the ground.
You didn’t move just yet.
Still standing near the Ghosts—your family—you turned to them, eyes lingering on each of their faces. Logan, quiet but ever-watchful, adjusted the strap of his rifle across his chest. Hesh gave a subtle nod, jaw tight with focus. Keegan looked at you the longest, his gaze unreadable behind the shadow of his gaiter, but his eyes softened just slightly at the corners.
You held out a clenched fist, hovering it in the space between you all.
One by one, their fists rose to meet yours—Logan first, then Hesh, and finally Keegan, his hand lingering just a moment longer before pulling back.
“See you guys on stage,” you said, voice quiet but certain.
Keegan nodded, Hesh gave a soft snort, and Logan just dipped his head.
Without another word, you turned, your boots finally moving forward, gait steady as you joined the others already mounted up. You stepped up into the vehicle, the metal floor thudding beneath your boots as you climbed in. The space was cramped but well-packed, the hum of adrenaline already thick in the air. Price sat near the front, his eyes scanning a map while Alejandro leaned in to point something out. Gaz was tucked beside the window, bouncing one leg absentmindedly. Graves sat like he owned the damn place—legs spread, arms draped, head back against the seat.
You slid in next to him, shoulder bumping his as you muttered, “Move your ass.”
Graves clicked his tongue, cocking a grin without looking your way. But he shifted slightly, making space with the dramatic groan of a man acting like he just gave up half his real estate. “Damn, alright, alright, princess. Take your throne.”
You rolled your eyes and dropped into the seat, the weight of your rifle immediately familiar as you settled it across your lap. Your gloved hands found the barrel, resting there, steady, still. The metal caught the faint light from outside, glinting silver-blue like the calm before lightning.
Your hands clenched once, twice, then slowly released, like you were prepping to throw hands with whatever, whoever came next.
“Just another stage,” you muttered, half to yourself.
From the front seat, Price's voice came low, calling your name.
You lifted your eyes slowly, expression carved in stone, face unreadable.
He turned slightly in his seat to meet your gaze. “How long d’you think Makarov will take to get out of the Gulag?”
A beat passed.
Then another.
You shrugged faintly. “Not sure. But with the way he can pull strings even while locked in a steel box, and the way he’s probably keeping tabs on me too . . .” Your voice trailed off, cold and matter-of-fact. “It won’t take him long. I bet he’s just taking his time sitting around when he could have already broken out a couple of years ago.”
Price's jaw tensed at your words, his fingers tapping lightly on his thigh.
You looked down at the rifle in your lap, then back up—eyes steady now. “He’ll come after me first before any of you. He hates disobedient people.” Your lips curled, humorless. “And he hates traitors.”
Price huffed through his nose, eyes still on you. “Yeah . . . I can see that.” His voice held no sarcasm, just the weight of understanding, like he’d seen that kind of hatred before and knew exactly how dangerous it could be.
You let the silence wrap around you like armor, a dull shield for the ache still pulsing beneath your skin. Each jolt of the vehicle was a reminder of the fight, of the blood, of the weight of what was coming. You tapped the rifle lightly against your lap, rhythm steady, like a heartbeat you could control.
Beside you, Graves shifted his leg slightly—probably feeling your subtle nudge—but said nothing, maybe catching on. Maybe respecting the moment for once.
The soundscape filled the space where words might’ve lived. The low rumble of the tires rolling over broken earth. The occasional clink of metal on metal. The soft hiss of Gaz adjusting his gear. Even the crackle of someone’s comm mic opening and closing like a breath no one dared release.
Gaz's eyes lingered on you a little longer, his jaw tight as if holding back words that didn’t know where to land. He watched how your hands stilled only when the ache caught up to your shoulders, how your jaw ticked, like you were biting down a scream. You weren’t breaking—you didn’t break, no, not the way others did—but you were bleeding. On the inside. Quietly.
Graves hadn’t said much earlier, but the shit he had said had stuck. Crawled into ears and made people think.
She knew, Graves had told them when you weren’t around. She knew they were watching, waiting. Planning to cut her loose if things went south. And she still stayed. Makes her either loyal or real damn reckless.
And maybe that was true. Perhaps you knew all along.
Gaz's grip tightened slightly on the side rail of the vehicle as he looked away, guilt gnawing at the back of his throat. What if they had misjudged you? What if you’d never been just another variable, just another tool they were ready to dispose of if Makarov’s game ran deeper than expected?
You were volatile. Dangerous. And yeah, maybe even a little unhinged when pushed too far. But you had people who knew you, truly knew you. Keegan, Logan, Hesh. They didn’t just tolerate you—they trusted you to lead, to fight, to live.
That was something the 141 hadn’t earned yet. And maybe never would.
He thought about that night. About Soap’s grin, your teasing fingers on his jaw, the way you shifted so quickly from amused to distant, like love and war had always existed in your bones in equal measure. Had you thought that night was all it was? Just a fuck? Just a moment?
Gaz hated that he couldn’t ask.
Because now wasn’t the time. Now there were bigger things. Bigger monsters.
But damn, did he hope you knew—he wasn’t using you. Not your body. Not your fire. Not your heart, even if it wasn’t his to begin with.
Graves fought the urge to gag dramatically and instead just exhaled through his nose, brows twitching in vague disgust.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ, he thought as he looked between Gaz and you again, then flicked his gaze to Price up front. What the hell is she? Some kind of war nymph? A chaos siren that spits out curses in Latin instead of singing a song to make men fall in love?
His leg bounced once—half nerves, half impatience—and he rubbed the back of his neck like the thought itself left a rash.
It wasn’t that Graves didn’t respect you. He did. Hell, you could probably break half the men in this vehicle without so much as cracking your neck. But goddamn, you were like catnip for these combat-sick bastards.
Keegan, that guy looked like he got off on being emotionally unavailable and shoving people into graves with precision. Ghost probably had a shrine to your chaos somewhere behind his masks and your terrible dad jokes (which he doubted you learned from Vladimir Makarov himself). And Soap? Jesus. That lunatic looked at detonation like it was holy scripture.
And then there was this guy. Garrick. Just . . . staring. Brooding. Weirdo. Thinking way too hard.
Graves bit back a scoff and leaned slightly away from you on the bench, muttering under his breath like an annoyed cat. “Should charge y’all rent. She’s takin’ up real estate in every one of your goddamn heads.”
Gaz’s eyes flicked at him, one brow raising. But Graves merely copied the way his brow arched, then Gaz rolled his eyes, and Graves, as though in a mirror, rolled his eyes. But even as he did, there was something a little wary—maybe even impressed—beneath it all.
Because he’d seen how you looked at the world when it burned. Not with awe, like Soap, or cold satisfaction, like Ghost. No, you looked at it like you belonged in it. Like fire and war and death weren’t consequences, they were your natural habitat.
And somehow, all these hardened, world-battered men? They followed you right into it.
Disgusting.
Graves' eyes locked with yours, and for a fleeting moment, he felt as though his very soul had just been ripped from his chest. His breath caught, heart racing, at the sheer intensity of your glare. The corner of your lips twitched downward, an expression that sent an unsettling chill down his spine, as though you were preparing to strangle him once more in the confines of this vehicle. He glanced over at the others, but there wasn’t a single hint of concern in their eyes. Hell, Alejandro might even cheer you on.
Straightening his posture, Graves’ frown deepened. His throat was dry as he managed to croak out a single word, “What?”
But you remained silent. Instead, your gaze shifted downward, the weight of your boots in your peripheral vision. That only seemed to frustrate him more. He made a face, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he curled them in disgust, like he had just stepped in something foul.
You weren’t normal. A weird, twisted thing, like a damn machine with a mind of its own. But then again, you had been raised by a psycho, hadn't you? That would explain it.
Finally, you muttered a low, “Thank you.”
Graves stared at you, still completely silent, his lips slightly parted in a mix of shock and bafflement. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to make sense of the situation, but no clarity came. His brain was running in circles—what the hell had just happened?
You could feel the tension stretching between you both, like a taut wire ready to snap. Maybe a minute passed in utter stillness, the air thick with the unspoken. Finally, he broke it with an incredulous question, "Are you on some sort of drugs?"
Without a word, you lifted your leg and kicked his shin hard. The force of it made him flinch, a sharp, almost startled grunt slipping from his mouth. You didn’t even give him a second to respond before you snapped, “Just take the fucking thank you, motherfucker!”
“Well, fuck, with your personality, I wouldn’t even question things if you were possessed by some demon!” He barked back, moving away from the range of your foot and hands. “But thanking me? What the fuck is wrong with you.”
A grimace made its way to your face. “You talk as if I haven’t thanked you before.”
He rubbed his shin with a grunt. “It’s just so rare.”
You heaved a sigh. “You deserve it.”
He raised a brow. “Getting kicked on the shin?”
You rolled your eyes. “The ‘thank you’, you fucking idiot.”
“Yep, you’re still light-headed.”
Then, from the corner of your eye, you caught Gaz shifting slightly, the sunglasses perched on his nose reflecting the sunlight sneaking through the cracks of the vehicle. He sat there, unmoving—well, a little rattled by the jerky movements of the ride—but made no comment. His head moved subtly back and forth between you and Graves, tracking the exchange like he was trying to piece together some bizarre puzzle.
Gaz had seen you bicker before. He’d seen you snap at Soap over the stupidest shit, throw half-hearted insults Ghost's way while slipping in terrible dad jokes just to piss him off. Hell, he’d even seen you argue with Graves once or twice, usually ending with someone (probably you) needing to be dragged away before it turned into a real fight.
But this wasn’t the same.
The way you and Graves talked—it wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t pure hatred either. It wasn't the same easy brotherhood you had with the Walkers, your found brothers who you would bleed for without question. It wasn’t the rough-edged but familiar camaraderie you had with the rest of 141. No, this was something else. Somewhere between you’re the worst and I’d maybe stab someone else for you. But not in the way you would call Keegan the worst asshole in the world while burning the world for him.
Graves . . . You'd punch him, kick his balls, but still drag him out of the bullet's path, because he was the stupidest man you had ever met.
Well, all men are stupid. But he's another kind of stupid.
Maybe Soap and Ghost had already caught glimpses of this weird, volatile . . . whatever it was during your mission here in Las Almas. But to Gaz, sitting there and watching you two arguing, kicking, and cursing, but still talking like this—it felt strange. Like he was witnessing a private battle nobody had invited him to.
Graves nursed his shin for a moment longer, then straightened with an obnoxious groan like he’d just survived a life-threatening wound. His gaze flicked over you with a smirk twisting his lips, like he was waiting to drop something on you.
"Y'know," he drawled, voice smug, "heard somewhere that Keegan’s your husband."
You blinked once. Then frowned, hard. “. . . Husband?” you repeated. Your eyes snapped to Graves, sharp. "Where the fuck did you hear that?"
Graves opened his mouth, all too eager, but you cut him off with a sharp wave of your hand.
"Nevermind," you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. "I already know who it is."
You slumped back against your seat with a groan, muttering curses under your breath.
"Ain’t no way it's Logan," you grumbled. "Keegan wouldn't just go around proclaiming things like that either. If anything, I'd be the one to say I'm his wife, but—” You stabbed a finger into the air for emphasis. "Hesh. That stupid motherfucker is the only one who would say something like that, and somehow cockblock me at the same time. I swear, I can't count how many times he have cockblocked me and Keegan."
Graves barked a laugh, genuinely amused now, leaning back with an obnoxious grin that made you want to kick him again.
Ahead, Alejandro and Price frowned at the sudden use of inappropriate words.
Graves glanced at you again, a sly look brewing in his eyes. "So how long have you been in a thing with Russ?" he asked, casual, but with that annoying little smirk of his.
You leaned your head back against the seat, exhaling through your nose. "If I count the time I left . . . well, we’re over two years now."
Graves’ brow ticked up slightly at your words. "Oh, so it’s only recently."
You patted the rifle sitting across your lap, metal clinking lightly under your fingers. "Yep."
Graves leaned back too now, hands resting over his stomach like he was settling in for a show. "You’ve been with the Stalkers for years, though," he said, voice almost teasing. "Figured you’d have easily gotten him. He seems whipped."
You let out a short snort. "Keegan and I had a bad start. A really bad one."
That made Graves grin widely, like he just cracked open a particularly juicy beer. "Yeah? Do tell."
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, dragging another sigh out of your chest. "Long story short?" You lifted a finger lazily. "We tried to kill each other so many times they had to keep us separate."
Graves’ grin only grew.
Gaz shifted again, arms crossed now as he listened.
"We actually have scars we bear that came from each other," you added dryly. "But I think it got better once we kept getting assigned to work together. Like . . . respect, y'know? Ability recognizes ability."
You scratched your head a little awkwardly. "And Dad—uh, Captain Walker—he started to see that we worked well, even if we hated each other’s guts. Then, he kept putting us on missions together." You shrugged. "Of course, we couldn't fight during ops, so we just decked each other after missions. Or during training. I don't know how many times we've made each other bleed.”
Graves threw his head back with a bark of laughter, clapping a hand against his thigh. "Romantic," he said between laughs. "Real storybook shit.”
Graves wiped at his eyes from laughing, then leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Alright, alright," he said, still chuckling. "But seriously—who made the first move?"
You tilted your head back, thinking. Brows furrowed, you squinted at the ceiling of the vehicle as if the answer was scribbled up there somewhere. You didn't know who exactly made the first move. It was a stormy night, and both of you were nearly dying. You slammed Keegan against a wall of an abandoned building, yelling curses at him for the stupidest thing he had done, and all was a haze after. You couldn’t remember how and where he had you folded over.
"I don’t exactly remember," you finally muttered.
Graves blinked. "You don't remember?" In his mind, he was betting on you making the first move, probably by punching the guy who could rival headlights with his eyes and then calling it flirting. He let out a scoff, sitting up again. "What, were you two drunk off your asses?"
You immediately shook your head, waving a hand dismissively. "No. We didn’t even touch alcohol for months around that time."
Graves squinted at you, as if trying to see through the bullshit. "Bullshit.”
"Shut it," you replied firmly, glaring at him. "We were too busy with missions. No time to even breathe, let alone get wasted and get laid.”
Graves leaned back again, arms crossing over his chest with an incredulous grin. "So lemme get this straight—you soberly stumbled your way into hooking up with the guy you used to actively try to murder?"
You shrugged, grinning a little to yourself. "Yeah, pretty much. And it’s not a hookup.”
"And you don’t know who cracked first?"
Another shrug. "We were too far gone to even care at that point. Might've just . . . happened."
Graves whistled lowly. "Damn. I need to take notes.” He adjusted the rifle on his lap. “I don't know what kind of rizz you got in your bones to get people wrapped around your fingers.”
You scoffed, lifting your chin a bit, and painted a smug smirk on your lips. “I'm born this way, bitch.” Then, you kicked his leg again. “And you've got your Shadows wrapped around your fingers.”
“Could you stop kicking me?” He grunted, scooting even farther away from you.
“Eh, I don't know, I like seeing you get hurt.” You pulled up a smile.
He pointed at you. “You fucking sadist.”
You dropped into the tunnel right after Colonel Vargas, the thud of your boots swallowed by the narrow concrete walls. Your hands gripped your rifle tightly, eyes narrowed, and you scanned every inch of the tight corridor as the Colonel moved ahead. The air was damp and metallic, the scent of oil and dust thick as you passed clusters of pipes lining the walls—some thick and rusted, others narrow and hissing faintly. Stray wires looped and coiled like vines along the ceiling, where flickering bulbs cast stuttering shadows across the ground.
Alejandro pressed a hand to his earpiece, whispering a quick update to Rodolfo and the second team. His voice was low, controlled, all business. A beat later, he gave a sharp nod and turned his head just enough for the rest of you to hear him. "Weapons hot, hermanos."
You tightened your grip, pulse steady, and fell in behind him. Kyle was at your back, quiet as ever, and Graves took position behind him, with Price bringing up the rear. The team’s movements were a synchronized rhythm, years of experience humming through every step, every breath.
Alejandro ducked, dipping under a low-hanging pipe. You mirrored him without hesitation, your body moving on instinct more than thought. Just a few steps ahead, he came to a halt and crouched low beside a large vertical pipe. His hand raised in a silent signal, fingers slicing through the air.
You halted, too, dropping into a crouch beside him.
Then you heard it—a faint, high-pitched sizzle. Not from machinery. From something active.
Your eyes locked on a small, round button embedded in the wall a few meters ahead, glowing with a dull red light.
“Laser grid,” you muttered, just loud enough for Alejandro to hear. You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing.
Kyle stepped beside you, raising a brow. “Trip one of those, and we’re Swiss cheese.”
Price leaned in from the back, voice calm but sharp. “Power source up ahead.”
You scanned the corridor—pipes tangled like metal veins, junction boxes tucked behind grime-coated steel, and wires looped like nooses above your heads. You clicked your tongue and reached for the smoke bomb secured in your rig, fingers moving on autopilot.
“Couldn’t they hide the switches better?” you muttered, pulling the pin with a flick of your thumb. “Amateurs.”
Without hesitation, you lobbed the bomb forward. It hit the ground with a hollow clack, rolled, and hissed as it expelled a dense cloud of smoke. A second later, the corridor ahead bloomed in eerie green.
Rows of lasers blinked into view—ankle height, knee, chest, head. A deathtrap layered with military precision. Some of the beams stayed static, like tripwires waiting to punish a misstep. Others swayed with slow, deliberate motion, scanning the area like the eye of a predator.
Kyle let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell.”
Price stepped up, squinting into the haze. “Options?”
Your eyes were still on the lasers. You tilted your head, calculating the pattern, foot tapping lightly on the concrete in sync with the moving beams. “Gotta dance through this.”
Graves sighed under his breath. “You just love this kind of shit, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, Makarov would put me in a room full of lasers while I’d try to hit targets when I was ten.”
The others fell into a tense silence at your words, the glow of the laser grid painting your features in a stark green hue. You took one breath, then another—slow, steady, controlled. Then, you moved.
Each step was precise. Your boots brushed the concrete with featherlight taps as you ducked beneath a laser sweeping chest-level, paused for the one that jittered unpredictably at your knees, then dropped into a low crawl beneath a set of tightly clustered beams near the floor. Your body moved like it remembered before your brain did—practice turned to instinct.
You weaved around one, bent backward just enough to avoid another brushing your nose, then rolled fluidly beneath a diagonal cross-pattern that would’ve shredded you if timed wrong. The others watched from behind as your silhouette ghosted through the smoke and green shimmer.
Then you reached it—the junction box, humming faintly, red light blinking like a heartbeat. Without pause, you raised your fist and slammed it down. The casing cracked with a crisp crunch, and the lasers fizzled out in a cascade of dying light.
You turned over your shoulder and gave a quick nod. “Clear.”
Alejandro’s brow furrowed as he passed through. “What kind of father would put his daughter through that kind of thing?”
You exhaled through your nose, tossing another smoke bomb forward into the next corridor. It rolled and hissed again, painting the second trap in ghostly green. You repeated the movements like choreography—step, slide, duck, twist, breathe.
“He wanted me to be like him,” you said between motions, voice steady despite the strain on your limbs. “Well—news flash—I am better than him.”
You reached the second power source, slammed your palm into the breaker, and the lasers vanished again.
Alejandro stepped forward beside you, his voice echoing slightly off the narrow walls. “My men use this tunnel. We practice escape and evasion down here.”
You gave a small nod of acknowledgment, already pulling another smoke from your belt and flicking it forward with practiced ease. The bomb hissed as it rolled, flooding the next stretch of corridor with thick smoke and illuminating another set of lasers winding through the cramped space.
“It is a complicated tunnel,” you said, eyes narrowing as the beams lit up. “I would have fun training in here.”
Alejandro chuckled lowly, his tone holding both amusement and a bit of admiration. “You seem to be a woman who likes challenges, from what I’ve seen. I’m sure you would have liked being in Los Vaqueros.”
A scoff escaped your lips before a sly smirk followed. You didn’t look at him as you stepped forward again, shoulders relaxed but alert. “I know.”
Graves rolled his eyes at your cockiness, muttering, “Of course you do.” He adjusted his rifle as he kept walking, then added with a small scoff, “She used to throw all kinds of challenges at my Shadows—the real Shadows, by the way—to the point that my men started begging me to stop her.”
You pshawed, waving a dismissive hand. “If they thought that was rough, they’d cry if they ever got the Ghosts treatment. Dad—I mean, Captain Elias used to throw us into the most ridiculous shit imaginable. One time, I had to wrestle a fucking crocodile in this goddamn murky, mangrove swamp in Louisiana, and fucking Keegan just stood there, watching me get dragged.”
You shook your head with the exhaustion of memory, voice sharp with disbelief. “After I finally shooed that overgrown lizard away, I decked Keegan and dragged his smug ass into the swamp with me.”
A beat passed as you heaved a sigh, your voice turning dry. “God, I still remember how annoyed I was. He had the audacity to eat a damn sandwich in front of me while I stood there soaked, reeking like I took a bath with frogs.”
The group walked in tense silence for a few steps, the sound of boots on concrete echoing in the tunnel. Then Kyle spoke, hesitation threading through his voice. “Can I, uh . . . ask you something?”
You didn’t miss a beat. “You did just now.”
Graves shifted his eyes away, barely containing his laugh, his shoulders twitching. Alejandro’s eyes flicked your way with interest, a tiny smirk at the corner of his lips. Kyle stayed quiet, blinking in surprise. Even Price's gaze turned to his sergeant, brows slightly raised.
“Well, go on,” you croaked, “Ask.”
Kyle cleared his throat, still thrown off by your bluntness, but pushed on. “I’ve never heard of Task Force: Stalkers or Ghosts . . . until now.”
You continued walking behind Alejandro, eyes fixed forward. “Well, they’re not even supposed to be in this timeline. The author just loves the Ghosts and Keegan very much.”
Kyle frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. “What?”
Graves spoke at the same time, incredulous, “Did you just break the fourth wall?”
You ignored him and pressed on, voice smooth. “You’ve got a pretty normal reaction, honestly.” You glanced over your shoulder at Gaz. “The Stalkers are covert. So covert that most people think they’re just a myth, soldiers tell each other to scare rookies.”
You caught Graves rolling his eyes, but he said nothing. You kept talking. “Just like he said before, the Stalkers did eliminate five hundred enemy soldiers—but that was when they were a group of sixty Tier One operators. Outnumbered, outgunned. The group was cut down to fifteen. One of them volunteered to evacuate the civilians.”
You paused as you stepped over a stray pipe, adjusting your grip on your rifle.
“The remaining fourteen stayed behind. Beneath the bodies of their fallen brothers, shrouded in blood and dirt, like phantoms the enemies couldn’t fend against. When they ran out of bullets, they used blades. When their blades broke, they used their fists.”
You turned your head slightly, voice quiet but firm. “By the end, only one enemy soldier survived. And from that day forward . . . they were called the Ghosts.”
Silence blanketed the tunnel, save for the steady rhythm of boots and the quiet hum of distant power.
Alejandro finally broke it, voice low. “Tough guys.”
Graves added with a scoff, “This Keegan guy sounds young, though.”
You snorted. “Compared to the rest of the originals, yeah, he is. Became a Ghost at twenty-one. Guy’s skills are so damn sharp I couldn’t even deny it—no matter how many times I wanted to push him off a cliff.” You sighed, a flicker of something unreadable in your voice. “Hesh and Logan, too. They’re naturals. It’s in their blood, I guess. Elias was their father.”
Gaz cleared his throat lightly, voice more sincere now as he spoke up from behind you. “You’re good too, y’know.”
You huffed, brushing the compliment off with a wave of your hand. “I am bound to be good. When you’ve been trained your whole life, it’s less of a surprise and more of an expectation.” Your voice softened, though only slightly, as the memory surfaced—distant, but still sharp. “Although . . . ” you added, “I still remember the time my father complimented me.”
The group listened as you pressed forward, eyes forward but mind somewhere else.
“I fired a gun for the first time. Hit several bullseyes. Center chest, clean shots—on the first round.” You let out a quiet exhale. “And he just stood there, quiet, then said, Prevoskhodnyy. That was it. But it . . . meant a lot to me that time.”
(Prevoskhodnyy, in English, means Excellent)
“Compliments from parents work wonders, don’t they?” the Colonel murmured, voice low and reflective as he came to a halt. He motioned with a quick flick of his hand to the right.
You followed his line of sight and spotted two Shadows up ahead, murmuring to each other, unaware.
Your expression tightened with focus. Slowly, you crept forward and pressed your back to a rusted pillar. The metal was cold against your shoulder as you quietly lowered your rifle to the ground with a soft clink.
“Indeed,” you whispered, tone colder now, calculated.
Your fingers curled around the hilt of your knife. You unsheathed it without a sound, the metal glinting faintly in the dim light. Then, with practiced precision, you padded across the floor, footsteps silent. In one swift, silent strike, your arm moved like a whisper of death—your knife driving straight into the man’s throat. His gasp was wet, choked, brief. You held him steady as he slumped, eyes already glassy.
The first Shadow collapsed in your grasp with barely a thud, body hitting the cold concrete like discarded cloth. You gave your blade a swift, practiced flick to shake off the blood, eyes already zeroing in on the second one just a few feet ahead—oblivious, still chatting softly to himself.
Before you could make another move, a shadow passed your peripheral vision.
Alejandro.
He gave you a subtle nod, his expression unreadable but steady. No words were needed—this was muscle memory for both of you. The Colonel moved like a ghost despite his size, keeping low, stepping on your opposite flank.
The second Shadow turned just in time to catch the blur of movement. His eyes widened, mouth parting to call out—too late.
Alejandro lunged forward and clamped one hand around the man’s mouth, silencing him, and drove his combat knife up beneath the jaw and into the skull with brutal efficiency. The man went limp instantly.
Alejandro lowered the body gently to the ground, his gloved hand still over the now lifeless mouth.
He looked over at you, calm as ever. “Dos menos,” he murmured.
You gave him a quick grin, nodding once. “Clean work, Colonel.”
Boots shifted behind you—Gaz muttering under his breath, “These tunnels are a bloody maze…”
Alejandro let out an amused huff, cocking a brow at the Brit. “Good thing you’ve got me, no?” He motioned forward with a tilt of his chin. “Come. This way.”
The squad followed, steel clicking under boots and breaths staying low. You turned the next corner and found it—an old steel ladder bolted to the concrete wall, rust creeping around the edges but still solid. The kind of ladder that looked like it led into either salvation… or a horror movie.
Alejandro stepped forward, looking up, then gave a small nod to the rest of you. Without a word, he grabbed the sides and began to climb.
You took a few steps back, away from the ladder, and motioned lazily to the guys. “Gentlemen first.”
Graves paused, halfway raising a brow. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Ladies first’?”
You didn’t even blink. “I don’t want anyone staring up my ass.”
That earned a bark of laughter from him as he stepped up to the ladder. “Just say you wanna stare at our asses instead.”
You rolled your eyes so hard that it almost echoed. “I’d rather poke my eyes out than look at yours, bitch.”
Graves, knowing your habits already during the time he worked with you knew that you rolled your eyes and so did he. “Fair warning, though—I did leg day.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Phillip,” you muttered, arms crossed. “No one here is impressed by your chicken legs.”
He feigned offense as he climbed. “Hey, these are tactical legs!”
Price just gave a grunt as he passed, completely ignoring the banter like the dad who’s been stuck on this road trip too long.
Once everyone else was up, you adjusted your gear, then grabbed the ladder and started your ascent, muttering under your breath, “Gotta babysit a whole damn circus . . .”
From above, Alejandro’s voice echoed faintly. “I heard that.”
You grinned. “Good.”
Finally, you climbed up after Gaz, every step thudding against the rungs, metal groaning under your weight. When you reached the top, the hatch swung open with a creak—and sunlight slammed into your face like a goddamn flashbang.
“Fucking hell,” you muttered, squinting hard as your hand shot up to shield your eyes. The heat clung to your skin instantly, searing and dry, the kind of sun that didn’t just shine—it punished.
You pulled yourself out, boots hitting the concrete roof with a sharp clack, dust kicking up to cling to your sleeves. You didn’t wait to catch your breath. The others were already moving.
Down below, Gaz and Alejandro were in motion—silent, brutal, efficient. Three soldiers lay crumpled near a helipad, weapons still warm. One of them hadn’t even gotten the chance to shout before Gaz slit his throat and let him drop like a sack of meat. Alejandro cleared the other two with clean headshots, calm as ever.
They were prepping a chopper—black, compact, blades twitching as if impatient.
Alejandro threw a hand signal at you, then at Price and the pilot he'd brought—one of his own Vaqueros. “Bird’s all yours.”
The pilot gave a sharp nod to his commander and jogged up the ramp, slipping inside the cockpit like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You and Price moved in behind him, boots echoing off metal as you climbed aboard. You slid into the seat across from the ramp, rifle in your lap, hand steady on your belt as the engines whined to life.
Price settled beside you, face unreadable behind his cap and beard, but you caught the subtle shift in his jaw—tense. Focused.
Over the roar of the blades spinning up, Graves climbed in last, tapping the side twice. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
The helicopter jolted as it lifted off—sunlight gleaming off the rotors, the compound shrinking below you into nothing but dust and heat haze.
Then the bird tilted hard to the right, banking over the gates of the base. You could see movement below—dust trails, figures in tactical gear sweeping across the arid land. The cavalry had arrived.
The rest of Task Force 141—Ghost and Soap—were advancing alongside the Ghosts: Keegan, Logan, and Hesh. Alejandro’s men weren’t far behind—Rodolfo and the rest of the Vaqueros, tight formation, hungry for blood.
The comms crackled in your ear. Ghost’s voice came through, rough and unbothered. “Target marked.”
Price didn’t hesitate—he pointed a sharp hand signal to the pilot.
The chopper dipped low, engines screaming. You felt the floor lurch beneath your boots as the bird aligned. The pilot pressed a button. A hollow thunk echoed through the hull—then boom.
The gates erupted.
Fire bloomed across the outpost’s front line—metal twisted, bodies scattered, and a pulse of smoke climbed into the sky like a black sun.
Through the haze, the jeeps surged forward. Tires kicked up ash, engines growling like hellhounds. Shadows—Shepherd’s men—scrambled in panic, only to get mowed down or crushed under rubber and steel. No mercy. No brakes.
You leaned out of the open side door, one gloved hand gripping the edge as your eyes tracked the chaos below. Fire danced, debris flew, and screams cut through the radio static like background music.
You let out a long, low whistle.
“Damn,” you muttered, smirking as the heat licked your face. “Would’ve been fun if I were down there.”
Graves rolled his eyes behind you. “Of course you find this fun.”
You clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and glared at him. “It’s fucking called gaslighting yourself, idiot.”
“Of course, only mentally ill people would gaslight themselves like that.”
“Can we stop?” Price barked at the two of you, making you both and the American look at him.
A beat passed, you and Graves glanced at each other, before shifting your eyes back at the Captain.
Then, Graves lifted a hand, mock-saluting. “Go on, Cap.”
You shrugged, peering down at the carnage below. “Yeah, we can touch down and join the fight.”
Price closed his eyes for a long second. You could see the regret forming behind them. His gloved fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, then dragged down the length of his face with a groan. “Fucking . . . Christ,” he muttered. He turned to the pilot, hand bracing against the headrest as the other grabbed his walkie. “Ready for gun run, Soap.”
The reply came laced with static and giddy Scottish bloodlust. “We see you. Light 'em up.”
Graves extended his hand toward you with a knowing grin.
You slapped it, smirking right back.
The two of you getting along? A rare, chaotic occurrence—and usually a warning sign for everyone else involved.