Chapter Text
GRACIE
The briefing room is brighter than I expected. Floor to ceiling windows make up the left side wall, and in the middle of the room stands a long sleek table. Hovering around the marble tile stand three men.
The single most protected weapon of the military. Task force 141. Although, technically, there should be four men in this room.
I can't help but notice the clear boredom edging on impatience in their posture as I walk in. My heart kicks up in my chest and I fight the urge to straighten my uniform and flip my braid over my shoulder. This might be the most lethal team of men to exist, but they are still just men after all. Even if they are practically legends among the ranks. No reason to get self-conscious.
I open my mouth, intending to make my introduction to the room, when I suddenly catch sight of the fourth member of Task Force 141 and the words die on my lips.
He's leaning against the closest wall near the edge of the room, half in shadow. How he happened to find the smallest sliver of darkness in this brightass room, I cannot fathom.
Against my will, my gaze follows the gigantic arms folded across his broad chest which is fully decked in tactical gear. Huge shoulders. All the way up to a thick neck and a face that makes my breath catch in my lungs. Well, I say a face...really, a lack thereof.
The man standing in the corner wears a skull mask — matte black with weathered bone-white markings. The kind that looks hand-painted, not made in a factory.
It is expressionless, yet somehow it watches everything. Sees everything.
Simon Riley. Better known as, 'Ghost.'
I don't even get the chance to say 'hello' before the window wall shatters.
The world seems to tilt on its axis and I watch in slow motion as the men of Task Force 141 hit the ground. The sound of gunshots snap me out of my shocked trance and I fly to the floor just as a giant shard of glass embeds into the door behind me with a sickening thunk.
Get out.
And just like that, my instincts from years of training take over and my arms move of their own volition, pulling my weight across the floor and out of the door in an army crawl.
“What the fuck was that?” A man’s voice bellows from behind me. His Scottish accent tells me it’s John McTavish speaking. Or, ‘Soap’, as the rest of the task force calls him.
Pulling myself up onto the wall outside, I check myself for injuries. My ears are ringing and my head pounds, but nothing substantial. I breathe a sigh of relief just as Soap stumbles out of the meeting room, gun pointed around the corner.
I raise my hands as my eyes meet the barrel. “You alright, Officer?”
“Yes.” I wave him off and stand up shakily. “You?”
“Fucking great. Nothing like almost getting blown to pieces to brighten my day.”
Captain John Price barrels through the doorway. “All units, fallback!” He barks into the comm at his shoulder. “Briefing has been compromised. We need an extraction in two — rendezvous point, Zulu.”
He swivels around and takes in me and Soap standing there. “What are you idiots still doing out here? Let’s go!”
You don’t have to tell me twice. I toss my braid over my shoulder and grab the pistol strapped to my thigh. “Lead the way, Captain.”
He doesn’t waste a second and takes off down the long hallway. Thankfully, it doesn’t have windows.
I fall in step after Soap, guarding low while he goes high.
My mind is a blur. Why did we get attacked? It was just a briefing. I was supposed to be introduced to Task Force 141 and we were to get our new mission together. A mission in which I have no idea what entails yet. I’m not used to field work. Well, I have been in the military for almost seven years, and I’ve seen my fair share of training, but my specialty is putting together criminal profiles and psychological warfare.
As we climb three flights of stairs, I’m immediately aware of two men behind me, but a quick glance back assures me it's just Ghost and Kyle Garrick. At least the unit I’ve been assigned to is still intact.
We weave our way through the hallways of the compound. Truthfully, I have no idea where we are. I was brought here in a black SUV with windows so tinted I couldn’t see out of them. ‘For your safety,’ the driver had said.
Yeah, I’m in over my head.
“Bird at the ready.” A woman’s voice crackles over one of the men’s radios.
“Good.” Captain confirms, “We’re coming out.”
I hear the chopper before I see it. Bright light temporarily blinds me as we burst through a rooftop access door and into the chilly air. A pair of MH-6 Little Bird helicopters hover low across the compound roof, blades slicing dangerously across the sunset. It would be sort of beautiful if we weren’t in such a life or death situation.
Soap is the first to the ropes hanging down to the ground. “Go! Civvie traffic’s blocking’ the streets — we’ve gotta go vertical.”
My stomach tightens into a knot as I stare at the rope. Before I can wonder what to do, a dark-skinned arm is grabbing my vest and clipping it to a rappel harness rigged to the bird’s skid. Kyle Garrick.
“You ever fast-rope?” He asks. His voice is urgent, but kind. I shake my head dumbly. “You’re about to.” He replies before clipping in behind me. “Hold on.”
The rope lifts me into the air as our helicopter starts to take off. A zing of excitement and adrenaline sings through my spine as my feet start to dangle high above the compound. When the bird is close enough, Garrick helps me up inside the small cab. I scramble for balance as the bird banks hard to clear the rooftops, wind screaming through the open frame.
Soap grabs headphones for himself, then tosses each of us a pair. I didn’t realize how deafening the chopper blades were until the foam slides over my ears and makes the world muted. Voices carry through the headphones and I realize the two bird pilots are talking to each other as we head to a rendezvous point. Gripping the side of the chopper, I catch something about a safe house as I stare down at the city lights blinking below us.
What the hell have I got myself into? About twenty minutes later, the chopper touches down behind a small farmhouse in the countryside. It's dark now, the only light coming from the chopper's headlights. Even so, I can barely make out trees surrounding the little house and old fencing lining the estate. It looks sort of...nice.
I guess after years of sleeping in the military barracks, you start to see everything else as a little bit luxurious.
"A local asset has already been there." A woman's voice comes through the comms in my headphones. It's the same woman from before, so it must be Kate Laswell. She is director of ground operations for Task Force 141. I found her signature on my mission papers, so I assume she sent me here. I just don't know why yet. That's what I was supposed to find out until our fucking briefing was blown up.
"They dropped off clean radios and encrypted laptops," she continues, "do another sweep just to be sure."
"Roger." The Captain says and whips off his headphones.
No one says much as we disembark, check weapons, swap out comms, and secure the perimeter. Inside, the safe house smells like dust and cold stone. Crates line one wall, full of emergency rations, spare I.D's, and a number of other odds and ends. I'm sure there are weapons hidden somewhere here. This is surreal.
I’ve always envied my comrades out in the field and wondered if it would ever be my turn. But a twenty five year old woman with only seven years of military service, and a background as a computer analyst nerd, I guess nobody saw fit to push me towards it.
And yet, here I am. Now, I just need to figure out why.
"Well, that was a bloody shitshow." A deep British voice rumbles through the room. Although I've never heard his voice before, I immediately know who it belongs to. Ghost doesn't sound harried or confused, his tone almost bored.
I cut a glance over to him and it's a mistake because fuckkkkk he's intimidating.
But double fuck because....hot.
He's leaning against the stone fireplace, his mask half dipped in shadow thanks to a small solar lantern recently found by Gaz.
I've always had a thing for masked men. Don't ask me why. Probably daddy issues or some shit. But, I'm not scared. Because I know that underneath all of that is just a man. A real, breathing, living man with probably a lot of trauma.
I work with soldiers with PTSD sometimes, or, I used to. Before I became a criminal psychologist and profiler. And I recognize everything about him.
He's hiding something.
This impenetrable act he's putting on is to try and scare the world in order to hide a sinkhole of vulnerability. His eyes are shrouded in darkness behind black eye holes but I don't need to see them to know they are resting on me. I feel them like a physical, tangible thing.
The rest of his body is fucking lethal. I mean, talk about a weapon. Not to mention the dozen various knives, guns, and grenades strapped to him in various places, his body itself seems like the most dangerous one. Suddenly, I realize I'm gawking and the moment turns awkward as hell.
"See something you like, Shrink?" Ghost's voice grits through the thin air between us, traveling up my spine and sending a wave of goosebumps down my arms. Well, that's just embarrassing.
"What did you just call me?" I cross my arms over my chest, copying his. It's called distancing body language.
Well, technically speaking, what I just did is called mirror body language....but, that's irrelevant in my circumstance...
"My name is Gracie Fort. What's yours?" Even I can hear the challenge in my voice. I'm already daring him to tell me his real name and not just that nickname he goes by. I'm daring him, for the first time, to be real with me. And he sees it.
Lord, he sees it and he unfolds himself from the wall, coming to stop right in front of me. I might get a crick in my neck having to stare up at him like this.
At 5'9, I'm not exactly a short girl, but he's got me clocked at at least 6'3. Maybe more with those combat boots. God, he's huge. I wonder if all of him is huge...
"Ghost," Price barks, summoning him over to the group.
I snap out of it. Finally.
Shaking my head and stepping back, I stick out my hand in a friendly offer of a handshake. I am supposed to be professional with these men after all. Ghost just stares down at my hand like it has offended him somehow, and then steps past me, his chest leaning away before his legs follow.
Dick.
I shake my head and follow him over to the long wooden table where the rest of the force is gathered. All the men have taken off their tactical vests and stripped off their weapons. They all look...younger somehow. Even though every one of them is at least early to mid-thirties.
"I realize," Price starts, "That after our little...incident...earlier, we never got around to doing formal introductions. Gentlemen, meet Officer Gracie Fort. Psychoanalyst, specialty in psychological warfare and criminal profiling." He turns to me. "I'm Captain John Price. You can call me Price or Captain, whichever you prefer."
This garners a couple of stifled snickers from the room but I pretend I don't hear. I shake his hand. Of course, I already know their names...I've heard campfire stories of their wildest missions, but I don't want to come across like an enthralled fangirl.
So, I opt for a professional, "Captain."
Price points to his left where Garrick sits on a wooden chair, his boots propped up on the table, sipping from a mug of what smells like coffee. How he already has coffee brewing when we barely just got here, I don't know. But I like it.
"Sergeant Kyle Garrick. We call him Gaz. Expert in demolitions, weapon tactics, and surveillance."
After I shake Gaz's hand, Price moves on. "Sergeant John McTavish. 'Soap', as well call him."
A flicker catches my eye and I turn to watch Soap strike and drop a match into the fireplace. The dry wood lights easily and he travels back to the table, giving me a terse nod on the way.
"And, of course," Price continues, "Lieutenant Simon Riley. Otherwise known as Ghost."
I offer my hand to Ghost again and this time he takes it. Looking down at our connected hands, I marvel at the fact that even his gloves have bones painted over them. Not one inch of skin on this man is showing. His wounds must run deep.
He withdraws quickly as if hearing my thoughts and I shoot him a triumphant look. He's clearly only shaking my hand because of Price, but it feels like I won a little battle all the same.
"You done much field work, Fort?" Price asks. He's leaning on his hands over the table, forearms flexed, eyes downcast on some papers in front of him.
"No, sir.” I respond. “But I've excelled in every team building field exercise, and I'm a quick learner."
Someone scoffs. I'd bet money on who it was.
"L.T," Captain Price barks in Ghost's direction, "You got a problem with our psychological warfare expert?"
The room hushes. Even Garrick stops stirring his coffee to avoid a clinking noise. The two of them share a look that I can't decipher, and that is saying something for me, but from what I can tell it looks like some kind of warning of shared knowledge.
"No, sir." Ghost grunts.
Interesting.
These men can read each other well after all the years they've been doing missions together. Suddenly, I feel very transparent. I wasn't embarrassed about my lack of experience in the field before, but now that these seasoned veterans are expected to do a mission with me, I'm determined not to be a dead weight.
"Sorry, Sir," I speak up, breaking the tension, "what exactly is our mission?"
"Glad you asked." Price says, pushing off the table to run a hand through his salt and pepper hair.
He lays down a single printed photograph on the table. The face is grainy, but the sharp cheekbones, grey stubble, and calculating eyes are clear enough. "Elias Shaw. Former psychological warfare operative. Trained in profiling, interrogation, deep recon...and Ghost's—“
"That‘ll do!" Ghost interrupts.
Over the table, Soap catches my eye and shakes his head imperceptibly. The firelight gleams off his short cropped beard as his lips set in a grim line.
There's more to this story. And I'm going to figure it out.
Captain taps the photo, bringing our gazes back to him. "Six months ago, Shaw disappeared during an intelligence sweep in Yemen. Burned all records, scrubbed his digital footprint. Since then, he's popped up twice - both times tied to misinformation campaigns targeting special ops units. Most recently, a video was made showcasing an esteemed Captain in our forces brutally executing innocent civilians. It is obvious to us that he was being used as a guinea pig for Shaw's new mind control tactics. Thing is — it wasn't just sent around in house, he also sent it to new channels around the world. The effect — as you all know — has been crippling, leading to the rebellion we now see not only in civilians but even in our own ranks."
Fuck. I know about this. I had no idea I was being brought on to handle something of this velocity.
Captain Price sighs heavily. "Recently, we have cause to believe Shaw's trying to destabilize Task force 141, specifically. And more importantly, is trying to use his new found tactics on soldiers who can leak sensitive information, and sell said information to the enemy."
The breath whooshes from my lungs. This is way bigger than I was expecting. But then again, what did I expect getting hauled off to a covert ops unit?
"So, that's our overall mission." Soap clarifies from the seat on my left."But, if we could get out alive too, that would be great."
"What's our next step?" I urge the Captain to continue.
Price pulls another photo out from the papers. It's a grainy satellite photo of three men outside a warehouse. One of them is circled in red.
"This is Anton Vargo. Arms broker. Surveillance suggests he's been in contact with Shaw's network. Doing some dirty work such as smuggling prototype tech and data drives. Intel says Vargo has knowledge of Shaw's current location."
Soap leans in. "So, we bag Vargo, get him talking, and follow that rat's trail to Shaw?"
"Exactly." Price nods. "But there's a catch. Vargo's protected. He's got ties to Cerberus — a paramilitary group we've tangled with before. They won't go down easy, and Varga won't come quietly."
He pulls a map out from the folder this time, laying it next to the photo. "The target is allegedly holed up in a fortified compound on the outskirts of Belgrade. Semi-civilian zone. No air support. This is a soft grab, so, silent in, silent out. No bodies if we can help it. But, you know. Shit has already gone sideways on this mission before we even officially got briefed on it."
Garrick whistles under his breath before taking another swig of his coffee. "And if he doesn't want to talk?"
Price looks directly at Ghost. "Then, we make him."
That sends a shiver down my spine. I'm not against the use of torture, but I've seen the impact it's had on soldiers for years. I get it, you need answers and all, and it's the enemy, but still. I stay quiet and filter in all this new information.
"And that brings us to you." Price levels me with his gaze. "Shaw knows how we move, how we think - hell, he trained half the damn playbook. You have skills that will be extremely valuable here, Fort. We need you because this war can't be won with just sheer force. If that's all it took, Shaw would be six feet under by now."
He tips his head towards Ghost but Ghost just stares straight ahead. "Trust me, he would have seen to that."
"I'll need a full writeup on all Shaw's recent movements.” I say with a nod. “A full history. I know about this story, but it's so confidential I've never so much as seen a file with these names on them. "
Price nods once. "You'll have it tonight. Anything else?"
I steal a glance up at the masked monster beside me. "And...I'll need to ask you some questions about him."
His answer comes immediately even though he's not looking at me. "Negative."
"L.T." Price barks. "You'll answer any and all questions Fort has for you pertaining this mission. That's an order."
"Yes, sir." Ghost responds, "After we go get Vargo."
"Negative." Price responds, dipping his head to his papers again."She's coming with us."
I swear you could hear a pin drop in this room. God, the tension these guys carry around is something else. They all need massages. Or blow jobs. Or something.
"She stays here." Ghost rebuts, pounding a gloved hand on the wooden table. "She's inexperienced. It'll be another bloody shit show."
Price shakes his head. "It's too risky. There's a good chance the attack this morning was meant to disable our new expert, here. She can't be left alone, and we can't afford anyone to stay behind. We need everyone on this mission."
My hackles rise just a bit. Price is almost making it sound like I need a babysitter or something but I'm not about to question authority. I can tell that's not the way to do things here.
Instead, I try a different tactic.
"I know I don't have a lot of experience in the covert ops field..." All eyes turn towards me and I weigh my next words carefully, praying I don't come off as an overeager rookie. But, God, I want to go with them. "But I received high marks in close combat encounters during training as well as ops planning and evasions. I think I would be an asset to the mission."
"It's settled then." Price says, and I think I see a glimmer of approval in his eye. "Get some rest. We go at midnight tomorrow. And L.T.? You're answering her questions. Tonight."
Ghost's mask slowly turns towards me until he's facing me head on, then his mask tilts, just a little, and his eyes hit the light. God, they are merciless. Deep amber in the firelight, twinkling and glowing with a deadly promise as he sizes me up.
The message is clear. This won't be easy.
He wants a fight? I've never backed down from one, and I'm not about to start now.
Fucking bring it on.