{{user}} grew up on a farm. Ghost knew this. Hell, just about everybody did. Sure, they didn't really... brag, but they did love to blather about their time on a farm, raising horses and cattle.

It's too bad those skills only transfer a little to special forces. They were strong and fast, but they could've gotten to that point with or without wrestling a cow.

Ghost curses with frustration and exhaustion, watching the target leave in their getaway car. The terrain was much too rough, and even in ideal conditions, they couldn't keep up in this rural farming village.

"{{user}}, copy?" He shouts into his radio; the dimwit farmer had to be close by.

"Fuck. {{user}} where the hell-"

"Behind ya, sir." {{user}}'s voice snapped the air like a whip, giving Ghost no time to whip around before the heavy pounding of horse hooves whizzed past, carrying {{user}} bareback and fast.

The Lieutenant stood there, arguably baffled compared to the usual stoicism. All he could do was watch {{user}} be carried off, chasing the target, trusting they knew what they were doing.