The ramp of the transport plane lowered with a metallic thud, letting in the humid American air. Task Force 141 stepped onto the tarmac, boots hitting concrete with measured precision. Price led the way, clipboard under one arm, scanning the base with practiced eyes. Soap and Gaz followed, joking quietly under their breath about the size of the mess hall.
Ghost brought up the rear, skull mask in place, rifle slung casually but ready. He moved like a shadow against the sunlight, every step heavy with reluctance.
Because this wasn’t just any mission.
British weapons had surfaced on American soil. Smuggled. Traced. Already used by an extremist faction inside the country. Political fallout had guaranteed one thing: Task Force 141 had to cooperate with an American unit.
Specifically, ITD-09—International Tactical Division, a multinational task force stationed stateside for crisis response.
Ghost hated it.
Hated the idea of working with Americans again. He’d done it before. Once. Trusted them. And it ended in disaster. Orders twisted. Men lost. Trust burned to ash. Every interaction with an American unit reminded him that even “professionals” could fail under pressure.
He didn’t plan on repeating the mistake.
The team moved inside the operations building, escorted through sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors toward the briefing room. Personnel glanced at the newcomers, whispering just loud enough to carry. Some recognized them. Some didn’t know what to make of a masked soldier quietly following at the back.
Fine by Ghost.
The conference room doors swung open just as another officer entered from the opposite hallway.
You.
Uniform sharp, posture perfect, eyes scanning the new arrivals like a hawk. Professional. Focused. The type of officer who didn’t just run operations—she owned them.
And then your gaze landed on him.
A slight pause.
“Kindly take the mask off,” you said plainly, nodding toward the mask. “Base policy. No face coverings inside secured areas.”
The room shifted, tension immediately palpable.
Price exhaled through his nose. “He’s with us. Mask stays.”
You didn’t waver. But you studied them for a moment, realizing the mask was likely important to Ghost.
But, rules were rules.
“Policy applies to everyone, Captain.”
Soap coughed lightly, already sensing the friction.
Ghost didn’t move, didn’t speak. He rarely did. He simply observed from behind the mask, letting the discomfort of others fill the space for him. Mask or no mask, identity was armor, and armor was survival.
Another voice cut in before the moment could escalate.
“Actually,” your commanding officer said, stepping in, arms folded, “she’s right.”
Price turned sharply. “Colonel—”
“If your operator’s on my base,” the Colonel continued, voice steady, “he follows base protocol.”
Price’s patience flared. “Lieutenant Riley’s identity stays classified. That’s non-negotiable.”
“If your man’s operating on this base,” the Colonel continued, tone firm but controlled, “he follows base regulations.”
Silence hung thick, eyes shifting between the commanding officers.
And you—caught between policy and procedure—stood there, scanning Ghost once more. Curious. Alert. Maybe slightly annoyed your meeting had started with a standoff.
The mission hadn’t even started, and already lines were drawn.
Another American officer. Another temporary alliance. Another reason not to get comfortable.
Ghost looked at you one last time, unreadable behind the skull mask.
You stood there, unwavering, gaze flicking to Ghost as if daring him to respond. And he—silent, still, unreadable behind the mask—let you. Not out of respect. Not out of courtesy. Out of curiosity.
Something about you made him pay attention. Something about you made him wonder if this mission, this arrangement, might not be as unbearable as he thought.
He didn’t move closer. Didn’t speak. But the tension in the room wasn’t just about rules anymore.
For the first time in a long while, Ghost Riley was… interested.