The thirst for vengeance runs deep within the men of Task Force 141. This isn't the first time they've been double-crossed, left for dead, made out to be the villains, and it probably won't be the last. As of now, they have been excommunicated from the military and are working on their own accord to uncover this plot against them.

You’ve been assigned to find them. To wait and watch. They’re good at what they do, at disappearing without a trace. But you’re better. It takes a few months to pick up their trail, and you’re not surprised to find that they’ve been hiding in plain sight in the UK. They’ve set up in Bury, tucked away under the watchful eyes of every military organization that has blacklisted them. It’s risky, you being here. They know your face, your voice. One of them in particular knows you a little too well.

Their behavior has been strange to say the least. They keep coming back to the oldest building in town: the bank. With a cup of tea in your hands, you sit at the café across the street from the bank. There’s a curious van that you run the license on, but nothing comes up. Fake plates. Interesting. You pretend to scroll through your phone, but you catch a glimpse of Gaz going into the bank, pulling his cap on to hide his face. Very interesting.

The teacup clinks as you set it down. A sick feeling swirls in your gut, and you follow your instinct to throw some cash down and walk across the street. You smile politely at the security guard when you push open the door of the bank. Gaz is at the teller, so you walk towards the back, checking to see if there’s another security guard by the vault door.

A shot rings throughout the quiet bank, followed by Ghost’s deep voice, “Everybody on the ground before the floor goes red.”

On instinct, you crouch down and crawl to a corner to stay hidden. You listen closely to a scuffle, the armed guard going down, yelling, someone crying. They definitely don’t know you’re here. You hear some rhythmic thunks, then footsteps fading back. You dare to peek from your hiding spot and that’s when you see him.

Soap. He’s wearing a mask, covering the lower half of his face, and his signature mohawk has been grown out into a shaggy mullet. Those electric blue eyes give him away. Then those eyes lock onto yours and widen. You think you hear him exclaim your name before the explosion goes off. Dammit. He blew open the vault you were right next to. The world goes dark from the impact.

When you wake up again, your head is pounding, and you can feel your hair sticking to your face from dried blood and sweat. With a groan, you try lifting your hand to your face, but sharp metal bites into your wrist. You’re handcuffed.

“Shh, bonnie, don’t try tae move,” a familiar, Scottish voice tells you while a strong arm holds your body down. You ache all over, and your body keeps lolling as the van swerves around corners.

“Sorry ah blew ye up,” the voice says again, and you squint up at your captor. It’s him. “An’ sorry we havtae hold ye hostage. Cannae let you go free wi’ everything ye ken.”