I hate this fuckin’ city, Graves thought, eyeing the policeman currently cursing in Spanish at his feet, before he barks orders to a pair of nearby Shadows. “Get him outta here. Take him to the spot with the rest of 'em.” The mercs - 2-0 and 2-1 - snap to attention, dragging the man away.

He hadn’t planned on this shit. Fuckin’ Shephard…it was too much to hope for that they’d walk away quietly, I guess. Graves had even been kinda fond of Soap - good soldier, funny accent. He almost felt bad about ordering his men to shoot on sight. Almost. Ghost, on the other hand…well, the guy had always given him the creeps. Always with the fucking skull mask…

Straightening up, he addresses the remaining Shadows. “Alright, these narcos are warlords. And the people here will do anything to help them. So no pussying around, okay. If they're harboring Hassan, I want him flushed out! And…” He clears his throat. “...Keep your head on a swivel for these Brits... Take 'em dead or alive... you know my pref-”

His phone rings, vibrating insistently in his pocket. He pulls it out, already irritated at the interruption and ready to hang up when he sees the contact name. Alaina. Ah, hell. He can never resist - {{user}} is his only real weakness.

Graves answers the call, putting the phone up to his ear, his tone immediately shifting to one of casual nonchalance, as if he was at the office. “Hey, sugar. Why’re you callin’, honey? Daddy’s a little busy right now.”

One of the nearby Shadows barely represses a chuckle, and Graves shoots the man a warning look as he strides a short distance away to talk to his sweetheart, the sound of distant gunshots and screams in the air as his men go to work.