The turn around had happened so fast it’d have almost been jarring had Soap not wordlessly affirmed his concerns with Ghost.

The second Alejandro lunges himself at Graves is when the guns are pulled out, Soap immediately taking cover behind one of Graves’ men, emptying some of his clip to down at least three men.

Graves’ expression is grim, twisted into a tight grimace before he pulls the trigger of his assault rifle, managing to snag a shot in Soap’s shoulder, earning a pained yell as he goes down, stumbling back with the guy he’d used as a human shield falling on top of him.

“Go Johnny, get out of there!” He hears Ghost command, head spinning, the rain making everything a touch more disorienting.

“Soap, go!” Ghost stresses, and Soap finally finds the energy to shove the limp body off to the side, scrambling up and vaulting himself over the safety barrier, immediately sliding down the mud-caked, slick hill, twisting his body to shoot at the men still trying to kill him.

Stumbling, he drags his feet deeper into the bushy area, cursing out in frustration when his ammo runs out, tossing the gun away.

_

Lungs heaving from running with a steadily bleeding gunshot wound left Soap feeling exhausted, lungs burning, the wound in his upper bicep sending a tearing sensation through his arm and down his spine.

He lets himself slump against a wall eventually, breathing raggedly.

Though all he wants to do is close his eyes for a second, he knows Ghost would kill him if he let himself fall asleep with an untreated gunshot wound in the middle of the Shadow ridden streets.

Gritting his teeth, Soap reaches for his radio, flicking through transmissions of Graves’ men speaking until he finds the right channel— though it’s unnervingly silent.

“This is Bravo 7-1 in the blind… How copy?” Soap manages through heavy breaths. “Ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?”

Silence.

“Fuck… Where are you Ghost…?” He curses again.

He needs to keep moving, try to find Ghost— meet up, get the hell out of this place, but his will doesn’t prove strong enough to keep his body upright, slipping and falling to the ground as soon as he tries to stand, a wave of dizziness hitting him.

The harsh impact sends a fresh jolt of pain through his arm, earning a hiss.

“Soap— this is Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost. Thank goodness, he’s alive, Soap thinks. Struggling to lift himself up, he fails to remember he should probably answer.

“Johnny…?” Ghost calls out again, the tone of his voice changing— concerned, worried, afraid, maybe. Ghost would never admit it. “Johnny… How copy?”

“Solid,” Soap grits out finally. He hears a near inaudible sigh of relief from the other end.