𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 {𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 '𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭' 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲}

1 | hijack

- LASWELL -
a few days before
—

"Officials are saying a power surge is to blame for an explosion over downtown Chicago last night due to severe winds leaving thousands of residents in the dark. Electricity is expected to be restored by this evening. In other news..."

"CIA shit," Price groans, dropping two glasses of liquor down next to us. I grab the glass, "Creative writing."

He kisses his teeth, leaning over to me, "I'll never tell."

I turn to him, smiling before I zone out, thinking about all the shit that has happened until this point in time, "AQ... Iran..."

"Cartels... Russians..." He adds on.

"Shepard... Shadow..." I start up again before sighing, looking down at the dark liquor that I cradled in my hands. The sound of chatter filled my ears, gentle electric guitar coming over the speakers.

"They got past us."

"Well, they had a head start."

He inhales, then holds up his glass, looking over at me, "To cutting heads off snakes."

We click our glasses together, then take a swig. He sets his down with a smack of his lips and a satisfied sigh.

"Any sign of Shepard?" He asks.

I stare blankly at the contents in the glass, shaking my head slightly, "Totally off the grid."

"Well, we'll find him."

"No," I start, "We've got bigger fish... I've done some digging on the Russians."

"Well, that's a dirty job."

"Ultra-nationalists ambushed that convoy, John."

He purses his lips, shaking his head in protest, "Kate, this is over."

"No, it's not," I say, raising my voice. None of this was over, "They're working with someone new."

"Who?"

I open my green vest, pulling out a picture before sliding it face down to John Price.

He carefully slides it into his fingers, then stares at it with a peculiar look in his eye.

"We don't know his name."

"He's not new," He says, picking his eyes up then looking at me. He slides it across the table to Gaz who picks it up and immediately looks at me.

He hands it over to Soap, who pinches his brows together, a concerned look across his face.

Lastly, Soap hands it to Ghost, who stares at it momentarily before everyone turns their head back toward John and I.

"Who is he?" I ask.

John leans over in a secretive manner, "Makarov."

—
BLAKE
—

"Planes down!" I yell over comms, the explosion blanketing the surrounding areas in flames. König and I lay with our snipers out, readying to fire.

There was in no way anyone could have survived that, but no one was stupid as to who had caused it.

"Those Russians will pay," König growls. His accent was always more prominent when he was angry.

Fire and smoke coated the distance as we sat upon the water tower not too far away, "Keep your eyes on the impact zone."

Our order was to enter the flames and smoke to pull out any bodies we suspected to be Russian. If it was possible, identify them as well.