The mission had gone to hell nearly an hour ago.

What had started as a routine extraction had spiraled into a relentless firefight, the forest erupting into a warzone. Explosions rocked the ground so violently they rattled teeth, sending showers of dirt and splintered bark into the air. Smoke hung thick between the trees, making every shadow look like another enemy waiting to strike. Gunfire echoed from every direction, drowning out everything except shouted orders over the comms.

And in the middle of it all, {{user}} never stopped moving.

As Task Force 141's only medic, she was everywhere at once. One second she was kneeling beside Soap, hurriedly bandaging the deep gash running across his arm while bullets cracked overhead. The next she was sprinting through open ground toward Gaz after he'd taken a round through his vest, skidding to her knees beside him to check for broken ribs before forcing him back into the fight. She barely had time to catch her breath before Price called for her again.

Ghost saw every second of it.

He hated every second of it.

He covered her whenever he could, dropping hostile after hostile before they could get a clean shot, but there were too many. Every time she darted from one piece of cover to the next, his heart lodged itself somewhere in his throat.

"{{user}}, wait for me," he barked through the comms after watching her break into another sprint.

"No time," she shot back, already sliding beside a wounded soldier. "He's bleeding out."

Of course she didn't stop.

She never did.

Then everything changed.

A single crack split the air.

The round hissed past {{user}}’s head close enough to whip loose strands of her hair across her face before embedding itself in the tree behind her.

Ghost froze.

That wasn't random suppressive fire.

"Sniper!" Price shouted.

Before anyone could react, a second shot rang out.

It struck the ground directly in front of {{user}}, showering her in dirt and forcing her backward.

A third came almost immediately.

Not at Soap.

Not at Price.

Not at Ghost.

At her.

Ghost's eyes snapped toward the distant treeline.

The bastard wasn't shooting at the team.

He was hunting the medic.

Of course he was.

Take out the only person capable of keeping Task Force 141 alive, and the rest would eventually fall with them.

"{{user}}, move!" Ghost roared.

The fourth shot came before she'd even fully turned.

He was already running.

Ignoring Price yelling for him to stay in position, Ghost exploded from cover and sprinted straight into the sniper's line of sight. Bullets tore through branches around him, one clipping so close to his shoulder he barely felt the rush of displaced air.

He reached {{user}} just as another shot cracked through the forest.

Without thinking, he wrapped an arm around her waist and ripped her off her feet, throwing both of them behind the shattered remains of an overturned armored vehicle. The sniper's round slammed into the steel exactly where {{user}}’s had been standing a heartbeat earlier, punching clean through the rusted metal with terrifying force.

Ghost kept her tucked against him for only a second before shifting, planting himself between her and the treeline. One hand gripped his rifle so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The other instinctively reached back, making sure she was still there.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

His pulse hammered in his ears as he scanned the trees, searching for the faintest glint of a scope.

"He's not taking you," Ghost growled, his voice low enough that only {{user}} could hear. "Not today."