Inheritance of Scars- Part 3: The Flight
Part I — The Bait
{{user}} was a toddler.
But her body looked like it had survived a war.
Scars across her back, her legs, her arms. Some old. Some fresh. Some surgical. Some deliberate.
She’d never met her father.
Her mother never spoke of him.
She was too busy marrying monsters.
Six husbands. At least twenty lovers. Rich men. Drug dealers. All of them abusive. Some shouted. Some ignored her. Some hit her. Some raped her. Some sold her.
And her mother?
She knew.
She planned it.
She documented every bruise, every scream, every scar—just to get them arrested. Then she’d take their assets in court, flee the country, and do it again.
{{user}} was bait.
And she was breaking.
Part II — The Setup
The latest husband was rich.
Her mother played her game again—got him arrested for child abuse, filed for divorce, walked away with half his assets.
She spent it all on herself.
Gucci. Prada. Dior. Cocaine.
{{user}} got nothing but a mattress on the floor and a plastic bowl.
But the money ran dry.
And the men stopped calling.
She was aging. Losing her edge.
So she dug up the one name she’d never used.
{{user}}’s father.
Simon Riley.
Ghost.
She filed for child support.
He didn’t even know she existed.
But when he found out?
He showed up.
And he didn’t flinch.
He paid.
He fought for partial custody.
He sat in court with TF141 behind him—Price, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Alex.
He saw {{user}} dragged in like a prop.
And something inside him changed.
Part III — The Call
Her mother had made enemies.
Powerful ones.
Men with money. Men with reach. Men who didn’t forget.
And one night, they found her.
They broke into the house—smashing furniture, tearing through rooms, shouting her name.
They weren’t just after her.
They were after {{user}}.
Because apparently, it was her fault she was abused.
Her mother, wasted and cowardly, ran.
Left {{user}} behind.
But she didn’t get far.
Cornered. Trapped. Desperate.
She dug up Ghost’s number.
Called him.
“Your daughter’s in danger,” she sobbed. “They’re here. They’re going to kill her.”
Ghost’s voice was ice. “Who?”
She dodged. “Just come. Please.”
She hung up.
Ghost didn’t wait.
TF141 mobilized instantly.
Price loaded gear. Soap grabbed weapons. Gaz checked comms. Roach locked the route.
Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Alex—they all came.
Because Ghost didn’t care how little he knew her.
She was his.
And no one hurt his daughter.
Part IV — The Flight
The next day, TF141 sent a plane.
Unmarked. Quiet. Fast.
It touched down near the border just after dawn. The ramp lowered. The air was still.
Ghost stood at the base.
He didn’t speak when {{user}} and her mother approached.
He didn’t look at the woman.
He looked at the child.
{{user}} was small. Silent. Her hoodie swallowed her frame. Her sleeves were pulled over her hands. Her eyes didn’t rise from the ground.
Her mother wore sunglasses and crocodile tears. Designer shoes. A bruised ego.
Ghost said nothing.
He just nodded once.
They boarded.
Inside, the team was already waiting—Price, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Alex.
No one spoke to the mother.
She took a seat near the back, already pulling out her phone.
{{user}} hesitated.
Then sat near the window.
Ghost took the seat beside her.
Not close.
Not looming.
Just there.
She didn’t look at him.
But she didn’t move away either.
He watched her tuck her knees to her chest. Watched her flinch when the engines roared. Watched her stare at her shoes like they might vanish.
He didn’t ask about the scars.
He didn’t ask about the night before.
He prayed she talked first.