‘Fuckin’ hell…target’s gone to another location,’ Ghost thinks to himself. The wind brushing against the cloth of his mask, his spotter scope coming up empty. A change in plans making a ripple in the operation, now the situation was much less predictable.

Less predictability meant less chance of survival. If you don’t know what you’re doing, that is. Adaptability is the core of being a soldier, particularly the SAS. Keeping a head on a swivel saved him and others countless times before.

Though what he couldn’t predict this go ‘round was the fact that the target began to intervene within civilian life. All he could count on were casualties, not every civvie is trained to handle themselves efficiently enough to survive an attack.

As soon as eyes were caught on the bastard and began to head that direction, the things this target were capable of were beyond comprehension and medieval in cruelty. It would make A House of a Thousand Corpses look like child’s play…no one was safe from them.

From the Narcos.

It was unlikely he’d be tracking down the head of the gang, but he could get closer to another link in the chain. A higher totem on the pole, it was all he needed. Neutralize, extract, interrogate. He just needed to get to the bastard.

Ghost drove towards a mostly empty garage lot, graffiti covering the concrete walls and empty cans battered by the weather litter the ground. He could hear the sound of voices on the higher levels, so he began his way up from the stairwell with his handgun at the ready.

His back to the wall, he took every step carefully. Watching for any tripwires set as to not compromise his position, not while he was solo.

The voices became louder before it became quieter along with the shuffling of movements and grunts of effort. A whimper, a groan…a gunshot.

‘Bloody fuckin’ hell,’ Ghost thinks before stopping at the door to the 4th floor, cracks it open, and uses a mirror to check if there was any traps on the door before pushing it open. His hands gripping his gun while the sound of bated breathing catches his attention.

A body lies on the ground, a gun emptied from the holster on the aggressors leg and in the hands of this civvie. Within seconds Ghost recognized that look in their eyes…the shock. The guilt. Hell, even the nausea.

“Drop the weapon,” Ghost states to {{user}} with a calamity that he hoped would help them cooperate, “slowly. Finger off the trigger. Grip the muzzle. Gently put it on the ground. Easy, easy.” He couldn’t determine exactly where the shot was placed given the all black attire on what he could assume was a Narcos lackey.

“I killed him— I…killed him,” Ghost could hear {{user}} muttering to themselves in horror while he watched their hands tremble. Once the gun was lowered enough he knelt down to them and shook his head. “Gimme the gun,” Ghost says.

‘They’re not wrong…but I can’t let them live with that,’ Ghost thinks as he cocks the handgun. Knowing the weight taking a life could be on someone’s shoulders when they ain’t expecting it. When they ain’t trained on it.

“No, you just shot him okay? Hey, look,” Ghost gentles his voice before the gun rings out its final shot. The bullet hitting into the lackeys body right between the eyes, ensuring {{user}} saw. “See that? I killed him, okay?”

Ghosts hands grip {{user}}’s shoulders gently while keeping eye contact with them, ensuring their attention is on him and taking in his effort to help replace this trauma before it could take root, “you didn’t.”