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“You two are clear on your covers?” Price glances at you and Ghost through the rear-view mirror.
“Affirm.”
“Good to go, Captain.”
“Repeat ‘em,” Price raises an eyebrow as he receives two longsuffering sighs in return, “for my own peace of mind, chrissake.”
“Veronica Sawyer,” you recite your lines effortlessly, “Robbie and I moved to Stafford after getting married last month, I’m a freelance photographer and he’s a pharmacist at Rowley.”
Ghost adjusts his surgical mask, pulling it snug, and tugs the black beanie lower over his ears, obscuring the earpiece. “Robert Sawyer. She’s twenty-eight and from the states, I’m thirty-one from Bolton. No kids, no pets, and we live off Weston.”
“Good. Aliases probably won’t even be necessary for this op, so just think of it as practice.” Price pulls the sedan into a side street several blocks south of the site. “You know the drill - wait for the drop then bag ‘im.”
Ghost exits the car with a muttered, “Rog,” and your lips twist wryly as his movement jostles the dinky car.
You offer a perfunctory nod to Price, slipping out while smoothing your hair and scarf, ensuring your wiretap is well hidden.
Ghost looks you up and down when you spread your arms demonstratively and do a three-sixty. “Good?”
He examines you for another moment, and you begin to feel a bit like a bug under a microscope before he finally says, “Good.”
It’s happily refreshing to see him dressed so entirely civilian, but you hoard these thoughts close to your chest.
The two of you make your way to the marketplace, and were it not for your reactivity training, you would’ve wrenched your hand away from the feeling of warm fingers slipping between yours.
Your expression remains carefully composed despite the somersaults your stomach is doing.
This is tactical hand-holding, you remind yourself. Purely business.
You’re trying not to focalize the feel of rough callouses and a strong grip against your skin as you approach the city center. The pair of you look every bit like the newlyweds you’re playing as.
“Got eyes on. By the table with the green umbrella.” Ghost’s baritone voice resonates directly into your ear.
And there he is - the man of the hour.
“Stay on ‘im.” Price’s voice filters through.
You make a point not to stare, flicking your gaze between the various storefronts and stalls.
You’d like this, you think, if you had never enlisted; if you remained the civilian your friends and family so desperately wanted you to be. Meandering through a quaint little marketplace, hand-in-hand with your partner, is quickly becoming dangerously comfortable.
But it’s not real, and the harder you lean into someone, the harder you fall when they disappear.
You drill that fact into your mind over and over but the quiet strength of his grip on your hand is eroding your pragmatism and you can’t be bothered to stop it.
The mark weaves through the steady stream of shoppers and takes a seat on a wrought metal bench, slouching and crossing an ankle over his knee.
His fingers slip through the bars, pausing momentarily before returning to his pocket. Conspicuous, you’ll give him that, but not enough to evade your trained eye.
“He stuck something to the underside of the bench near the flower stand.” You murmur into your scarf, admiring the bouquets.
“Copy. Gaz’ll pick it up. Keep on ‘im.”
The acrid scent of smoke wrinkles your nose.
“And he’s having a cigarette break.”
“Cheeky bastard. Hope he enjoys it; it’ll be his last.” Price chuckles darkly and Ghost looks like he’s physically restraining an eye roll.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” You divert your gaze to the old woman seated on a stool next to the cart.
Ah, what the hell.
“They’re beautiful.” You smile pleasantly.
“Oh, we don’t hear accents like yours much ‘round here. Whereabouts are you from, dear?”
Compared to the usual hustle and bustle of your daily life, this conversation is so perfectly pedestrian that it fills you with inexplicable warmth.
You bend down to examine a particularly unique flower. “I’m from Oakland.”
The woman purses her lips.
“San Francisco.”
“Oh!” Her face brightens in recognition. “I know that one - what a place to live! And you, lad?”
Ghost certainly didn’t anticipate being drawn into the conversation, but he’s quick on the uptake as usual. “Bolton. We moved here just after our wedding.”
You’ll be damned if those words don’t send a thrill up your spine.
“What a fine couple the pair of you make!” She claps her hands, delighted.
Okay, you officially love this lady.
“However did you meet?” She leans forward, thoroughly enraptured.
“At a bar, when she was studying abroad.” Ghost squeezes your hand, and you’re not sure it was entirely for the benefit of the facade.
The novelty of the situation sparks something mischievous within you. “He’s quite the sloppy drunk,” you stage-whisper conspiratorially, “couldn’t get him to leave me alone!”
The woman chuckles good-naturedly. “With your looks, love, I reckon he was scaring away competition all night!”
You both look to Ghost expectantly, and he picks up the script seamlessly. “I was.” He pulls you closer to his side. “Took me a while to wear her down, but I got ‘er to marry me in the end.”
The woman beams at both of you, and you latch onto Ghost’s arm like a limpet, emboldened by his brazen words.
Seemingly without thought, he leans over to press his mask-covered lips to the top of your head, suspending the air in your lungs.
It’s tactical, tactical, tactical.
The mark moves in your periphery, and you excuse yourself and your husband with a wave that the woman returns heartily.
“On the move.” Ghost mutters into the mic, receiving Price’s prompt acknowledgement.
You’re gently tugged along when your target picks up his pace and begins throwing glances behind him.
You’re neatly hidden among the crowd but you squeeze Ghost’s hand. “Think he’s getting suspicious.”
The man veers away from the marketplace, stealing one last peek over his shoulder before disappearing around a corner onto a quiet side street.
When you and Ghost turn the corner, he’s gone.
“Shit,” you hiss through your teeth.
Releasing Ghost’s hand, you nod towards the alleyway several yards down, “I’ll check the first one; you take that one,”
He hesitates, flexing the hand you just let go. Indecision flickers in his eyes, but he eventually stalks away with a grumbled, “Be careful.”
The dingy alleyway is eerily still, heightening your senses as you absorb every detail.
The ground squelches under your leather boots and you shudder to think about what you might be stepping on.
There’s the faintest metallic clink from your right, and you’re instantly whipping out the pistol tucked into your waistband and pivoting.
“Got somethin’, Ghost.” Your eyes flick from the grimy dumpster to the fire escape ladder to the bags of…something, barely allowing yourself time to process what you’re seeing.
“On my way.”
A rustle of fabric from directly behind you surprises a gasp out of you. You whirl around again, raising your gun into position when a fist catches you squarely in the nose.
Your head snaps back, and you stumble backward before you can regain your balance, losing your grip on the pistol.
There’s an arm locking around your throat and hauling you against a chest. You blink furiously, trying to clear your double vision and claw at the arm constricting your airway.
You’re yanked upright as a familiar coppery tang hits your tongue, but the deluge coming from your broken nose is arbitrary compared to the sharp prick of a needle against your neck.
“Hold it right there, ya big bastard.” A voice warns from directly next to your ear.
You see Ghost, backlit by the light leaking into the alley, stiffen and lower his gun. The man’s hand anchors into your hair, wrenching your head to the side to expose more of your throat.
His thumb hovers over the plunger, the needle sitting just under your skin. Even from this distance, you can see Ghost’s jaw clench.
“Easy,” He sounds downright predatory, “let’s not do something you’ll regret, hm?”
The needle is driven deeper and you suck in a breath. Ghost’s trigger finger twitches.
“I wanna know who fuckin’ sent you!” The man spits, and you can’t even cringe away. The hand in your hair tightens as a plan crystallizes in your mind.
You make pointed eye contact with Ghost but he’s already looking at you. Your gaze flicks downward and his follows, settling on the foot you’re subtly inching backward.
“Put away the syringe and let’s talk like adults.” Ghost keeps the man’s attention as you slide your boot behind his splayed ankle. Another look at Ghost, and he nods imperceptibly.
“Oh, you wanna talk, huh? Well, how about-“
You hook your boot behind the mark’s ankle and pull, sending him careening backward and the syringe flying out of his grasp.
You scramble away, spinning around to deliver the beatdown of the guy’s lifetime, but Ghost beats you to the punch. Literally.
He’s already on top of the target, pummeling him into the filthy cobblestone.
“Keep” (punch) “your” (punch) “fuckin’” (punch) “hands” (punch) “off my wife!”
It’s truly a sight to behold. You’re in no hurry to intervene, mulling over the implications of ‘my wife’ when Price barks into your ears.
“We’re almost there, fuck’s sake, Ghost, don’t kill him!”
Ghost stills with his fist drawn back, practically bathed in red. He clears his throat and stands, wiping his knuckles on his pant legs nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just beat a man within an inch of his life.
You avoid looking at the target’s face, or what’s left of it, and instead look at his chest. It takes a few seconds, but it rises and falls all the same.
He’s alive, then - no harm done.
The car peels to a stop at the mouth of the alley as Ghost strides over and gently takes hold of your chin. He angles your face into the light, eyes raking over the unnatural bend in your nose and the tiny puncture on your neck.
“Solid?” He sweeps his thumb over the little drop of blood beading at the surface, and the quiet rasp in his voice makes you shiver.
“Solid.” You smile up at him despite the intensifying pain radiating across your face.
Price and Gaz hustle down the alley while Ghost ushers you toward the car.
“She needs medical.”
The two others take in your bloodied face and Price nods permissively. You look back at Gaz’s grimace as he approaches the crumpled mess on the ground.
“Just a broken nose, Ghost, we both know I’ve had worse.”
He opens the door and you climb inside, scooting across the bench seat while he ducks in after you.
The car jostles as Price and Gaz heave the target into the trunk.
“We don’t know what was in that syringe or on that needle.” Ghost levels you with a gaze that’s entirely too serious for his next words. “We’ve hardly been married a month, don’t turn me into a widower already.”
You search what little you can see of his expression before batting him playfully on the shoulder.
“I married a comedian.”
“That you did.”
The others pile into the front and Price twists around to level you two with an indecipherable look. He reaches up, removes his earpiece, pockets it, and turns back around.
The sedan merges into traffic as a warm hand covers yours where it rests on the car seat. You entwine your fingers with his and turn towards the window, hiding the smile you can’t fight back.