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The rain in Las Almas doesn’t just fall; it heavy-pours, slicking the cobblestones with a greasy, reflective sheen that mirrors the flashing emergency lights in the distance. John "Soap" MacTavish presses his spine hard against the crumbling stucco of a narrow alleyway, his breath rattling in his chest. He is twenty-six, highly trained, and currently entirely out of his depth. His left arm is a ruined, bloody mess, wrapped hastily in a torn strip of his own shirt that is already soaked through with dark, spreading crimson. He is unarmed, shivering, and reduced to scavenging—slipping binding wire, chemical components, and scraps of metal into his tactical vest like a stray dog looking for scraps.
Just beyond the mouth of the alley, a pair of Shadow Company mercenaries stalk through the downpour. Their flashlights cut through the dark, beams catching the heavy sheets of rain. "Check the courtyard," one of them barks, his voice harsh and mechanical through his comms. "Shepherd wants this entire sector locked down. Anyone breathes wrong, you drop 'em."
"Copy that. No sign of the Scot yet, but he’s bleeding out somewhere. Can’t have gone far."
Soap squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing the bile that rises in his throat. The raw ruthlessness in their casual chatter makes his stomach twist. They aren't just looking for a target; they are hunting him like an animal. He clutches a makeshift shiv—a sharpened piece of metal bound to a wooden block—tighter in his good hand, his knuckles turning white.
Then, the static in his earpiece crackles to life, low and steady, a lifeline cutting through the suffocating dread. "Johnny..." Simon’s voice is a low, gravelly rumble, completely untouched by the chaos of the city. Thirty-eight years old, decades of bloodshed under his belt, and sitting comfortably in the crow's nest of some distant rooftop with a high-caliber sniper rifle. "Town's full o' tunnels. One leads out across from the church. Be advised—the tunnel is flooded. Prepare for a cold swim."
Soap exhales a ragged, trembling breath, leaning his head back against the cold wall. "Can't wait," he mutters back, his Scottish brogue tight with pain.
"Still upright?" Ghost asks, the subtle, protective edge in his tone masked by his usual clinical detachment.
"So far, so good," Soap lies slightly, shifting his weight and wincing as his mangled arm throbs in protest.
"You get caught out there, they'll kill you slow..." Ghost’s voice drops an octave, a grim reminder of the reality waiting for him if he slips up.
Soap tries for a smirk, though there is nobody in the dark to see it. "Mercs or the Narcos?"
"Narcos..." There’s a brief pause, the faint click of a rifle safety being toggled on Ghost's end. "They'll take videos..."
"I'll give 'em your email so they know where to send them..." Soap fires back, his voice a strained whisper as he watches the flashlights of the patrol finally fade around a distant corner.
"I won't watch 'em..." Ghost replies smoothly. "More than once anyway..."
Soap lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, the absurdity of the banter grounding him against the terror gripping his chest. "Sick bastard..."
"And yet..." Ghost dangles the phrase, the unspoken weight of their shared history hanging in the air between them.
"And yet, I love you," Soap murmurs, the confession quiet, intimate, and entirely out of place in a warzone, but desperately necessary. It is the anchor keeping him tethered to the earth while his vision swims with blood loss.
Soap slips across the street, his boots splashing softly in the puddles. He ducks through the shattered doorway of a small, abandoned apartment building. The air inside smells of damp plaster and old dust. He needs resources. He needs an edge.
His flashlight beam sweeps across a small office in the back, catching the metallic glint of a heavy iron safe tucked under a mahogany desk. He approaches it, kneeling painfully on his good knee. His fingers are slippery with rain and blood as he wipes the grime off the dial. Remembering a scrap of paper he’d spotted in a previous room—a set of scribbled numbers next to a drawing of a target—he spins the dial carefully.
*37.* Click.
*60.* Click.
*80.* Click.
With a heavy, mechanical thud, the safe door swings open. Soap’s eyes widen slightly. Resting inside, gleaming under his flashlight, is a tactical crossbow, complete with a quiver of silent bolts. He pulls it out, checking the tension of the string. It’s silent, lethal, and exactly what he needs to even the odds. He slings it over his shoulder, feeling a fraction more secure as he creeps back toward the exit.
"You still standing, Johnny?" Ghost’s voice cuts through the quiet rustle of the rain.
"Think I'm clear..." Soap whispers, slipping out of the building and back into the shadow of an overhanging balcony.
"Good. Stay sharp and meet me at the church."
The trek through the next two blocks is a blur of adrenaline and agonizing caution. Soap moves from shadow to shadow, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His arm is burning, a white-hot spike of agony that radiates up into his shoulder every time he takes a misstep. He is losing too much blood, his movements growing heavier by the minute.
Just as the silence threatens to swallow him whole, the radio clicks. "Soap—you makin' progress?"
"Aye," Soap grunts, stepping over a pile of rubble and pressing himself into a doorway to check the street ahead. "Gettin' there..."
"Two goldfish are in a tank...?" Ghost says out of nowhere, his tone deadpan, utterly serious.
Soap blinks, a bewildered smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the pain. "Go on..."
"One turns to the other and says..." Ghost pauses for dramatic effect, the sound of the rain filtering through his open comms. "'You know how to drive this thing?' Little army humor."
Soap lets out a soft scoff, shaking his head in the dark. "Very little..."
"Another?" Ghost offers, entirely unbothered by the poor review.
"I got one for you..." Soap counters, wanting to keep the ghost of Simon’s voice in his ear, needing the distraction to keep his mind off the thumping ache in his flesh.
"Let's hear it..."
Soap racks his brain, sorting through old jokes, trying to find something light enough to cut through the heavy air of Las Almas. The one about the shrimp timeshare? No, too long. He settles on a simpler one. "Why was the strawberry crying?"
"Why?" Ghost asks, his voice low, attentive.
"Because he was in a jam."
A beat of pure silence passes over the radio. Soap can almost picture the faint, reluctant twitch of a smile beneath Ghost’s skull mask.
"Not bad..." Ghost finally admits, his tone softening just a fraction, the harsh soldier melting away to reveal the man underneath. "We can do this all night..."
"Just keep talking to me," Soap whispers, his voice suddenly cracking with a rare flash of vulnerability. He is tired. He is so incredibly tired, and the church still feels miles away.
"I'm right here, Johnny. Not going anywhere," Ghost promises, the steady assurance in his voice acting as a invisible hand guiding Soap through the dark.
Twenty minutes later, after avoiding two more patrols and dragging himself through a crumbling courtyard, Soap slips through the back entrance of an abandoned, dimly lit bar. The air smells of spilled beer, stale smoke, and limes. The neon signs are dark, but the faint glow of the city lights filters through the cracked windows, illuminating overturned stools and shattered bottles. Soap collapses against the heavy wooden bar top, sliding down until his back hits the floor. He lets out a long, ragged exhale, his good hand pressing hard against his bleeding arm.
"L.T.—I'm at the bar," he breathes into the mic, his eyes fluttering shut.
"You still like tequila?" Ghost’s voice returns instantly, a comforting presence in the eerie quiet of the tavern.
Soap lets out a weak laugh, his head lolling to the side. "Fuck, could use one right about now."
"I'd murder for a whiskey."
"You mean Scotch?" Soap teases gently, his Scottish pride flaring up even on the brink of exhaustion.
"I drink bourbon," Ghost corrects, a hint of playful defiance in his gravelly tone.
"Like a good ol' boy..." Soap murmurs, a genuine smile finally breaking through his mask of pain.
"I love Kentucky."
Soap shakes his head, his chest swelling with a warmth that has nothing to do with the fever burning in his blood. "You're out o' your mind, L.T."
"That's for sure," Ghost replies, his voice dropping into a soft, intensely intimate register that is meant for Soap's ears alone. "Be careful, baby."
The term of endearment, spoken so softly amidst the ruins of a hostile city, gives Soap the final surge of strength he needs. He grips his makeshift weapon, pushes himself up from the floor, and looks toward the exit. The church is close. Ghost is waiting. And Soap has every intention of making it out alive to buy that man a bourbon. The interior of the abandoned bar is a graveyard of broken glass and sour tequila, but to John "Soap" MacTavish, it is a sanctuary—however temporary. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird, as he forces himself to stand. The blood loss is making the edges of his vision vignette, a dangerous, soft fuzziness creeping into his conscious mind.
He stumbles behind the heavy mahogany counter, his boots crunching loudly over the debris. His good hand sweeps over the shelves, brushing past sticky bottles and overturned registers until his fingers hit the cold, painted metal of a first-aid lockbox fixed to the wall. He yanks it open with a sharp grunt. Inside, resting against the sterile white plastic, is a single, pristine tactical medical kit containing an Adrenaline/Stim pen.
Soap doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the cap off with his teeth, positions the needle over his thigh, and slams it home through his combat trousers. The reaction is instantaneous. A white-hot jolt of synthetic fire courses through his veins, forcing a ragged, gasping breath from his lungs. The sluggish, heavy fog in his brain evaporates, replaced by a hyper-focused, vibrating clarity. The agony in his mangled left arm dulls to a distant, thumping roar. His pupils dilate, taking in the dark corners of the room with renewed acuity. He remembers the layout of the sectors Simon had detailed over the radio hours before—the safe zones, the sightlines, the dead ends. He needs to move, and he needs to gear up.
Stepping away from the bar, his eyes lock onto a faded dartboard hanging on the wood-paneled wall. Embedded deeply in the double-twenty slot is a sleek, black steel throwing knife. He wraps his fingers around the hilt, wrenching it free with a wet *thwack*. He tests its balance—perfectly weighted.
He slips into the damp kitchen and storage area in the back of the tavern, his movements swifter now, fueled by the chemical rush. The shelves are looted, but his scavenging eye finds what the civilians missed: a canister of household chemicals, a roll of thick tape, and several small pouches of aluminum powder. Components for smoke bombs. He sweeps them into his tactical vest, his mind already calculating the ignition time.
Then, on a low shelf beneath a grease-stained prep table, something catches the glint of the moonlight. Soap reaches down and pulls out a Desert Eagle. The massive, unsuppressed .50 caliber pistol feels incredibly heavy in his right hand, a brutal hunk of hand-cannoned iron. He slides the magazine out to check the brass; seven rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Only a single shot has ever been fired from it. It is practically pristine, an absolute lifeline for emergency, high-damage headshots if memory serves him well. It lacks a suppressor, meaning any shot fired will alert the entire district, but the sheer stopping power offers a grim sort of comfort.
Holding his breath, wincing as the residual pain of his arm flares past the adrenaline, he tightens his grip on the massive handgun. He creeps up the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor of the bar, navigating the shadows until he reaches a set of warped balcony doors.
He presses his shoulder against the frame, peeling the door open just a fraction of an inch. The cool, rainy night air hits his face, but what he sees below makes his blood turn to ice. In the flooded courtyard below, an innocent civilian—a local mechanic by the looks of his grease-stained jumpsuit—is on his knees, hands clasped behind his head. Standing over him are three heavily armored Shadow Company guards, their ballistic plates slicked with rain.
"We don't have time to process locals," one of the Shadows growls, raising his rifle without an ounce of hesitation. "Clear the sector."
A sharp crack echoes through the alleyway, and the civilian slumps forward into the muddy water. Soap forces his eyes shut, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth grind together. Every fiber of his being screams at him to raise the Deagle and obliterate the executioner's skull, but the tactical reality binds his hands. He has to remain silent. There are armored guards flanking the entire perimeter right outside the exit path. If he fights now, he dies.
Spotting a heavy glass beer bottle resting on the balcony railing, Soap picks it up. He looks past the guards toward a far iron gate at the opposite end of the alley. With a smooth, calculated throw, he launches the bottle high into the night air. It smashes against the far gate with a loud, echoing shatter.
"Movement by the gate! Move, move!" the lead Shadow barks, his flashlight beam instantly whipping toward the noise.
The guards move in a tight formation away from the bar’s exit, their heavy boots splashing through the puddles. Taking his cue, Soap slips over the balcony railing, dropping down to the wet pavement below with a muffled, practiced roll. He immediately drops into a low crouch, slipping into the tall, overgrown grass flanking the building. Hunkering low, using the rhythmic downpour to mask the rustle of the blades, he slides like a ghost into a dark alcove beside El Maistro, the local auto repair shop garage.
He stays deep in the cover, his boots sinking into the softening earth as the industrial concrete of the city center gradually gives way to overgrown drainage ditches and wild foliage. The air grows thicker, smelling of mud and river water. Finally, the concrete mouth of a massive drainage culvert looms ahead—the flooded tunnel leading directly to the other side of the sector where Simon is waiting. Soap slides down the muddy bank, wading directly into the chest-deep, freezing water. The sudden chill cuts right through the adrenaline shot, making his lungs seize. He fumbles for his radio switch with a shivering hand.
"Simon..." he breathes, his voice a ragged whisper against the rush of the water.
The response is instantaneous, the tight, suffocating tension in Ghost’s voice breaking just enough to reveal his profound relief. "Talk to me, Johnny..."
"I found the tunnel," Soap pants, holding the Deagle high above the waterline with his good arm.
"The church plaza is on the other end of the tunnel," Ghost guides him, his tone returning to that steady, unshakeable bedrock Soap so desperately needs. "Push through, you're nearly here."
Soap wades through the pitch-black culvert, the water churning around his chest, his boots slipping on the slick, mossy concrete beneath. As he nears the grated exit of the tunnel where the streetlights filter through the iron bars, the harsh sound of American voices cuts through the rain. Another patrol of Shadows. He freezes, submerging himself up to his chin beneath a rusted pipe.
"Where the hell are they?!" one of the mercenaries, designated Shadow 3-1, snarls, his boots clomping on the metal grating directly above Soap's head.
"Maybe they're both dead," Shadow 3-2 replies, his voice dripping with bored indifference. "The Scot was leaking pretty bad."
"Graves wants proof," 3-1 counters, the heavy clink of tactical gear shifting as he leans against the rail. "Commander said no body, no paycheck."
"Just cut the mask off the big one," 3-2 laughs, a cruel, mocking sound. "That’ll prove it."
"Do I get a bonus for that...?"
"Not if I beat you to it."
Shadow 3-1 spits into the water below, the droplet landing barely a foot from Soap’s face. "I'll kill the Irish one myself."
"The kid's Scottish, not Irish," 3-2 corrects with a heavy sigh.
"It's the same fuckin' thing...!"
In the darkness of the tunnel, fear spikes sharp and cold in Soap’s gut. He looks up through the grating, his eyes adjusting to the silhouettes. "Ghost," he whispers into his throat mic, his voice trembling slightly. "I got Shadows wearing full body armor out here."
"You'll have to get in close and find the gaps," Ghost responds, his tone grim, calculating the physics of ballistic plates. "Neck, groin, underarms. Or hit them with enough force to shatter the helmet."
"Rog," Soap murmurs.
Working strictly by touch beneath the waterline, Soap pulls the chemical components from his vest. With practiced, rapid finger movements, he crafts two improvised smoke bombs, securing the fuses with electrical tape. A safety net. He glides silently out of the flooded tunnel exit, keeping his body low and hugging the dark, shadowed left side of the cobblestone street. The rain is a saving grace now, blurring the vision of the sentries. Using a row of abandoned civilian vehicles—a rusted sedan and two heavy pickup trucks—as solid cover, he blocks the guards' primary lines of sight, moving from rear bumper to front fender like a shadow.
But as he clears the final pickup, his heart stops. An exceptionally large, heavily armored Shadow guard is standing dead center in the exact narrow alleyway Soap needs to traverse to reach the plaza. There is no way around him. Soap holds his breath, his knuckles whitening around the makeshift smoke bomb. He pulls the ignition string and hurls it directly at the guard's feet.
Puff. A thick, violent plume of dense, grey-white chemical smoke erupts instantly, swallowing the guard whole. The mercenary lets out a startled, choking gasp, blindingly flailing his arms as the acrid smoke fills his lungs, sending him into a violent coughing fit. Soap seizes the second, sprinting right past the blinded guard, his boots flying over the wet asphalt. He can see the towering iron gates of the church courtyard right at the end of the street—barely fifty yards away.
Suddenly, a solitary armored guard steps out from behind a concrete barrier, his flashlight beam catching Soap dead in the chest. "Target—!" the guard shouts, his hand instantly reaching down toward his belt.
Soap can't tell if the man is pulling a sidearm or reaching for his radio to alert the entire grid, but either option means instant death. Time seems to dilate. The world slows to the rhythmic thumping of Soap's own pulse in his ears. He raises the heavy Desert Eagle with his right hand, his muscles locking into place. Immense focus. In the fraction of a second he has left, his mind flashes back to Hereford—to the grueling kill-house training courses Simon had put him through day after day, forcing him to shoot until his shoulders ached and his ears rang. Align the sights. Breathe out. Squeeze.
BOOM. The unsuppressed .50 caliber round detonates into the night with a deafening, thunderous roar. The massive slug strikes the guard’s tactical helmet dead center, the sheer kinetic energy popping the ballistic helmet clean off his head in a spray of fiberglass and metal rivets. The guard staggers back, his bare face exposed, dazed but still alive. Before the man can even register the impact, Soap adjusts for the brutal recoil, re-aligning the iron sights with absolute, lethal precision.
BOOM. The second headshot tears through the center of the guard's forehead, killing him instantly before he can fire a single round or speak a word into his radio. The heavy body drops like stone into the mud.
The sheer volume of the unsuppressed gunshots leaves Soap's ears ringing with a high-pitched whine. A sudden wave of intense nausea hits him, the raw, brutal reality of the close-quarters execution turning his stomach. He swallows back the bitter bile, forcing himself to breathe through his nose as he pushes past the corpse and emerges out onto the open street where the ancient stone facade of the church can finally be seen towering into the rainy sky.
"You giving 'em hell, Johnny?" Ghost’s voice crackles through the static of his earpiece, a low, prideful growl. "We're almost there."
"Shit," Soap pants, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from his eyes, his legs trembling from the fading adrenaline. "I'm trying, Simon."
Seeking a moment of cover to reload the massive pistol, Soap ducks into a small, abandoned souvenir shop flanking the plaza. The interior is dark, shelves lined with colorful ceramic skulls and woven blankets. He moves to the rear of the shop, encountering a heavy wooden door marked *Privado*. It's securely locked. Sucking air through his teeth, Soap pulls an improvised metal prying tool from his vest. He jams the pry-bar into the gap between the frame and the lock, throwing his entire body weight against it. With a loud, splintering CRACK, the latch gives way.
But the door doesn't just open—it is violently yanked from the other side. A massive Shadow Company operator stands in the doorway, his assault rifle already raised. His tactical goggles lock onto Soap's face.
"Fuck—!" Soap gasps.
Before he can raise the Deagle, the Shadow brings the heavy composite butt of his rifle swinging around in a brutal arc. It catches Soap squarely across the temple with a sickening, heavy thud. White pain explodes behind Soap's eyes. The force of the blow knocks him clean off his feet, his vision spinning violently as he crashes hard onto the concrete floor, his pistol skittering away across the tiles. He lays there, dazed, gasping for air as a dark trail of blood begins to leak from his hairline.
The Shadow steps over him, planting a heavy combat boot firmly onto Soap's chest, pinning him to the floor. He raises his rifle, aiming it directly between Soap's eyes while his left hand slaps his tactical radio. "What the... GET DOWN—!" the guard barks down at Soap, before shouting into his comms. "All Shadow stations, got one near the church! It's MacTavish!"
The radio speaker on the guard's shoulder crackles to life, the cold, detached voice of Phillip Graves cutting through the static with chilling finality. "Kill him."
The Shadow tightens his finger on the trigger. Soap stares up at the barrel, his breath catching in his throat, completely helpless. CRACK. A sharp, high-velocity sniper round tears through the shop's glass window, shattering the display cases into a million pieces. The heavy round strikes the Shadow directly through the side of his skull, the kinetic force lifting him off his feet and throwing his limp body against the wall before he can pull the trigger.
"Moving targets, zeroed," Ghost’s voice echoes calmly in Soap's ear, completely detached from the sudden violence.
Outside the shop windows, the headlights of an advancing tactical vehicle illuminate the rain. Two more Shadows rush toward the shop entrance, weapons raised. CRACK. CRACK. Two more thunderous reports from Ghost's sniper rifle ring out from the distant rooftops. The first Shadow is struck in the chest, his body armor failing against the high-caliber armor-piercing round; the second is dropped instantly with a throat shot, collapsing into the street.
The adrenaline surges back into Soap’s system like an electric shock. He rolls violently to the side, ignoring the splitting agony in his head, and dips into a thick patch of tall decorative grass just outside the shop's broken window, dragging his body into the shadows to hide from the gathering chaos.
"Holy hell..." Soap breathes, clutching his chest as he tries to steady his blurred vision. "Ghost—was that you?"
"Who else...?" Ghost replies, his tone tight, the faint sound of a heavy bolt action cycling over the comms. "Now go... before they pin us down."
Soap forces himself to his feet, slipping out of the back of the shattered shop. He abandons all pretense of stealth, breaking into a ragged, limping run across the wide, cobblestone streets toward the massive stone entrance of the church. But the gunfire has drawn the swarm. Headlights cut through the downpour as a flatbed truck loaded with mercenaries tears around the corner.
"Target spotted by the steps! Open fire!" A hail of automatic gunfire erupts, supersonic rounds snapping through the air around Soap's head, chipping the ancient stone pillars and kicking up sparks from the cobblestones at his heels.
"Gimme a bloody break..." Soap screams into his mic, ducking his head as a stray round grazes his shoulder blade. "Ghost, how do you copy?!"
"Johnny, got company in the church, and they're not here for forgiveness...!" Ghost’s voice rises, losing its clinical calm, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency as he fires shot after shot to suppress the line. "Get to the steps, I'll be there!"
"Copy, L.T., baby!" Soap yells back, his lungs burning.
He continues running blindly through the sheets of rain, the grand stone steps of the Iglesia finally within arm's reach. He twists his body around, raising his heavy Deagle with a trembling hand, returning fire into the blinding headlights of his pursuers as he fights for every single inch of ground.
The heavy rain beats a frantic rhythm against the ancient stone of the church plaza, but John "Soap" MacTavish barely hears it over the roaring waterfall of blood in his ears. His boots slide over the slick cobblestones, each step a monument of pure, unadulterated willpower. The adrenaline shot is finally wearing thin, its synthetic fire turning into a hollow, freezing ache that leaves his muscles trembling violently. Shadows open fire from the street corner, their muzzle flashes illuminating the sheets of downpour, but Soap keeps his head down, pushing his battered body toward the grand archway.
"Simon!" Soap screams, his voice cracked and raw, his lungs burning as he breaks past the final set of stone pillars.
"Johnny!"
Out of the deep, cavernous shadows of the church sanctuary, a massive figure erupts into the rain. Simon "Ghost" Riley moves with a terrifying, fluid lethality. The skull mask painted onto his ballistic facepiece catches the dim light of the plaza as he raises his modified assault rifle. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Two precise bursts of gunfire echo through the courtyard, and the two closest pursuing Shadows drop instantly into the rising puddles. Ghost doesn't waste a breath. He vaults over the low decorative iron gates of the church courtyard, landing heavily on the asphalt of the main street right beside Soap. His large, gloved hand instantly catches Soap by the tactical vest, steadying his smaller boyfriend whose knees are dangerously close to buckling.
"We need a vehicle, on me—!" Ghost orders, his deep baritone cutting through the din of the storm. He scans the perimeter, his rifle up and married to his shoulder. "Stay sharp, they know we're here and they know it's us. They'll send more."
As if on cue, the harsh beams of tactical headlights round the far bend of the street. Heavy tactical boots splash against the pavement.
"Contact—!" Soap shouts, raising his massive Desert Eagle with a shaking right hand. "Dead ahead!"
"I see 'em," Ghost growls, stepping slightly in front of Soap to take the brunt of any incoming fire. "Watch the alley!"
The two men push through the narrow streets in a brutal, synchronized dance of survival. Ghost dominates the open lanes, his heavy rifle dropping Shadows before they can fully establish a line of sight, while Soap uses the last of his strength to clear the flanking corners. Every shadow that steps into their path is violently cut down.
"Johnny, stay close," Ghost commands, his voice tight with an urgency he rarely shows to anyone else. "Heads up for a vehicle we can take."
They cut through a narrow passageway between two commercial storefronts, emerging onto a slightly wider avenue. There, idling near a shattered storefront with its hazard lights blinking lazily through the rain, sits a rugged, four-door pickup truck.
"Soap, pickup truck ahead. Lights on," Ghost barks, his hand mapping out the path.
"See it!" Soap pants, his chest heaving.
"I'll drive, Johnny—take shotgun!"
Ghost yanks the driver's side door open, tossing his rifle into the center console as he slides behind the wheel. Soap drags his battered body up into the passenger seat, slamming the heavy door shut just as a hail of bullets begins to chip away at the truck's side mirrors. Ghost punches the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a comforting, mechanical rumble. He quickly looks over his shoulder, his masked face turning to check on the pale, bleeding Scotsman beside him.
"Alright, Johnny—You made it..." Ghost breathes, the rare crack of raw emotion slipping through his gruff exterior.
Soap lets out a ragged, breathless laugh, leaning his head back against the headrest as he clutches his mangled arm. "We made it, L.T."
The brief moment of relief is violently shattered as a volley of automatic gunfire punches through the back windshield, spraying safety glass across the cab. Two Shadows have positioned themselves directly behind the truck, weapons raised.
"Hold fast...!" Ghost roars.
Instead of shifting into drive, Ghost slams his hand onto the gear shift, throwing the pickup truck into a violent reverse. He stomps on the accelerator. The tires shriek against the wet asphalt before catching traction, sending the heavy truck hurtling backward. Thud-crunch. The truck shudders as it rams directly into the two mercenaries, running them over completely and crushing their weapons beneath the heavy chassis.
"That's one way o' doin' it!" Soap yells over the engine's roar. As Ghost shifts back into drive, Soap's eyes dart to the left window. A third Shadow has appeared from an alleyway, aiming a shot straight at Ghost’s exposed side through the driver's window. "Get back!" Soap screams.
With his reflexes firing on pure instinct, Soap reaches over, snatches Ghost's sidearm—a standard-issue X12 pistol—from its chest holster, and fires three rapid shots through the shattered driver's side window. The rounds take the Shadow directly in the chest, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt. Ghost cuts the wheel sharply, stepping on the gas to swing the truck around.
"Thanks, honeypuff," he mutters over the radio frequency, the absurd, domestic term of endearment contrasting wildly with the blood on the windshield.
"Drive, Walla—I'll cover us!" Soap fires back, leaning against the door frame to watch their rear.
Ghost slams his boot to the floorboards. The pickup truck accelerates into full speed, the heavy steel bumper ramming straight through a makeshift plastic and wire blockade at the edge of the town center. The truck bounces violently over the debris, breaking out of the tight, suffocating grid of Las Almas and onto the open, dark highway of the Mexican countryside.
The rhythmic, hypnotic thumping of the tires against the asphalt combined with the humming heater inside the cab acts like a heavy sedative. Now that the immediate threat of gunfire has faded, the massive toll of the night catches up to Soap. His eyes grow heavy. The severe blood loss and sheer physical exhaustion drag him down into a dark, heavy sleep. He falls unconscious against the passenger door, his chin slumping to his chest, running entirely on empty fumes.
Looking over, Simon notes the dangerous paleness of Johnny's skin and the dark, wet stain fully saturating the makeshift bandages on his arm. His chest tightens.
Finding a secluded, heavily wooded turnout beneath an overhanging cliffside, Simon pulls the truck over, leaving the engine idling. He works quickly and silently in the dim glow of the cabin light. He cuts away the ruined sleeve, cleans the ragged wound with sterile saline, and administers a proper, heavy dose of battlefield first aid—packing the gouge with hemostatic gauze and wrapping it tightly with a clean, compressing pressure dressing. He injects a broad-spectrum antibiotic into Johnny's shoulder, checking his pulse until it stabilizes into a steady, sleeping rhythm.
Satisfied that his boyfriend isn't going to bleed out in the passenger seat, Simon puts the truck back in gear and continues driving through the long, lonely hours of the night, his eyes scanning the horizon until the darkness begins to soften.
— — —
Early in the morning, the harsh desert storm finally gives way to a soft, golden sunrise. The first light of dawn bleeds across the landscape, painting the rugged hills in shades of amber and dusty rose. The truck slows down, turning off the main road and navigating a dirt path that leads toward an old, rustic stables building tucked away in the quiet Mexican countryside. Simon cuts the engine, the sudden quiet of the rural valley filling the cabin. He turns in his seat, the harsh soldier entirely melting away as he looks at Johnny’s sleeping face. He reaches out with a bare hand—having pulled his tactical glove off—and gently brushes a stray, sweat-matted lock of dark hair away from Soap's bruised temple. His touch is incredibly tender, a quiet reassurance.
He leans across the console, his lips pressing softly yet with a deep, passionate warmth against Johnny's lips, slowly coaxing him back into consciousness. Soap stirs with a low, groggy groan, his eyelids fluttering open as the warmth of the kiss registers in his hazy mind.
He blinks against the morning light, his voice thick with sleep. "Where are we, Koala Bear?"
"Alejandro's safehouse," Ghost murmurs, his thumb tracing Johnny's cheekbone. "Gave me the location just in case things went sideways in the city."
Soap frowns slightly, a faint touch of his usual stubbornness returning to his eyes. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"It was need to know," Ghost replies simply.
"What if I needed to know—?"
"—Shhh," Simon interrupts gently, leaning back in to capture Johnny’s lips a second time, effectively cutting off the argument before it can even start.
The kiss is longer this time, filled with the quiet, profound relief of two men who know exactly how close they came to losing each other. When they finally part, they gather their meager belongings and step out into the crisp morning air. They walk up the dirt path toward the main house. Simon walks a half-step behind, fondly watching the way Johnny's eyes track the vast, sweeping mountainous region surrounding them.
"We must be close to the Texas border," Soap notes, noting the specific silhouette of the ridges in the distance.
"Aye," Ghost agrees.
As they step onto the wooden porch of the safehouse, Johnny’s combat training clicks back into place. He stops dead, his eyes locking onto a specific spot on the floorboards. A piece of weathered cardboard has been laid out carelessly across the center of the porch.
"Pressure plate..." Soap observes, pointing with his good hand.
"Alejandro rigged it," Ghost notes, stepping carefully around the perimeter of the hidden explosive.
"Smart bastard."
"There," Ghost says, gesturing with his chin toward an unlatched, high-set window leading directly into the building's kitchen area.
Wanting to clear the interior first, Soap manages to hoist his weight up, jumping through the window frame first and landing quietly on the dusty floorboards inside. Ghost climbs through right behind him, his massive frame silhouetted against the morning light. Inside, the safehouse is pitched in deep, heavy shadows. Suddenly, a faint, high-pitched hum cuts through the quiet, and a bright red laser dot snaps onto the center of Soap’s chest. A hidden figure steps out from the darkness of the hallway, a tactical rifle leveled directly at them.
"Don't move," Ghost barks.
With lightning-fast precision, Ghost sweeps his hand to his vest, drawing a throwing knife and hurling it across the room. He purposely misses the hidden figure's throat, the blade embedding itself with a loud, vibrating *thunk* into the wooden doorframe right next to the person's ear. At the exact same fraction of a second, Soap raises his recovered rifle, aiming it dead center at the stranger's silhouette.
"¿Quién está ahí?" a familiar, frantic voice shouts from the shadows.
Soap’s eyes widen as he recognizes the voice. He instantly lowers his rifle barrel. "Rodolfo!"
The hidden figure peeks out from the darkness, the morning light catching the tired, strained face of the Mexican Special Forces sergeant. Rodolfo looks at the two heavily geared SAS soldiers, his jaw dropping in absolute disbelief.
"Soap! Ghost! You're alive!"
"Affirmative," Ghost grunts, his posture finally relaxing.
Rodolfo reaches out, yanking Ghost's throwing knife out of the wooden board with a shake of his head. He walks over to the two men, a massive, brilliant smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Good to see you, amigos."
Soap offers a genuine, warm smile, nodding gratefully. "Igual, amigo."
Rodolfo steps up to Ghost, flipping the throwing knife in his hand and presenting the hilt first. "Nice throw. Where were you guys?"
"On the run," Ghost answers laconically, taking the blade back and sliding it into his sheath.
Soap glances sideways at Simon, his eyes softening with an immense, unspoken gratitude. "I was on the run. Ghost waited for me."
Ghost shifts his weight, his masked head tilting slightly as he looks down at the younger man. "How could I not?"
Rodolfo watches the quiet, intense understanding pass between the two soldiers, a fond, knowing smile tugging at his lips. He turns his back to give them a brief moment of privacy as Johnny leans up, pressing a quick, fierce kiss to Simon's lips—a celebration of survival.
Rodolfo gestures toward the warm, rustic kitchen in the back. "Come on inside. Let's get you some grub. And some whiskey."