The situation was critical, and they were losing ground fast. Soap winced as he ducked his head behind the rusted truck he’d taken cover behind, the sharp crack of bullets whizzing past making his ears ring. His breaths came in harsh, rapid bursts as he fought to steady himself. The comlink buzzed faintly in his ear—Price and Gaz barking orders—but Ghost had gone silent. That alone was enough to make Soap’s stomach churn.

“Ghost, do you copy?!” he called out, his voice strained with urgency.

There was no response at first, just the relentless cacophony of gunfire and distant screams. Then, faintly, through the static, Soap heard it—Ghost’s labored breathing. His heart sank. Shit. He was hurt. FUCK!

“I’m on my way, mate! Stay put!” Soap yelled, his voice rising above the chaos. He chanced a quick glance over the truck, catching the enemy in the middle of reloading, and bolted to a new position. He moved like a man possessed, weaving between cover until his worst fears were confirmed. Ghost lay sprawled in the dirt, motionless, his massive frame eerily still.

“No way,” Soap muttered under his breath. “No fuckin’ way.”

Without hesitation, he sprinted into the open, his pulse hammering in his ears. Grabbing Ghost’s vest, Soap dragged him to relative safety, ignoring the burning strain in his muscles as bullets bit into the ground around them.

He dropped to his knees, his hands already moving to assess the damage. Ghost had been shot where his neck met his shoulder—a brutal wound, and the blood loss wasn’t slowing. Soap pressed down hard, eliciting a muffled grunt of pain from the other man.

“Stay with me, you bloody bastard,”

Soap muttered through clenched teeth as he reached for the oxygen mask in his kit. With one hand, he held it out. “You need to take that thing off.”

Ghost’s head shook weakly, his response a hoarse, defiant, “No.”

“TAKE THE BLOODY THING OFF!” Soap roared, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. He wasn’t going to lose this man—not here, not like this.