Chamber of Reflection - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OC

Chapter Four: The Smoking Gun

Bang! Bang! Bang! What better way was there to spend a Wednesday afternoon than at the gun range? The acrid scent of gunpowder permeated the air, the fumes woven into their uniforms with the promise of distant memories to linger in the back of their minds. Grey wisps of smoke twirled upwards, dancing a forbidden tango in the air. Shot after shot reverberated around the range, as bullets twisted through the air, embedding themselves into their target.

At the centre of it all was Simon Riley— Ghost —, standing tall and proud in his lane with nimble fingers clasped tight around his P890. The handgun was small in his hands, lightweight. Calculated, dark eyes set an unyielding stare fixated upon the target before him. Reflected in those earthy, brown hues was an object of hatred, something that needed to be destroyed, blown apart into tiny little pieces. A pop echoed as he pulled the trigger.

"Your file says that you're a sniper, right Smoke?" Price questioned.

Ghost's gaze trickled over to the rest of the team, huddled around the gun wall and their new teammate. He could faintly make out their reflections cast in the gunmetal. They, Gaz and Soap, fawned over the woman in a way that made his stomach turn. The two soldiers were acting like lovestruck puppies, rivalling for her to send so much as a glance in their direction.

Her voice pulled him out of reverie. "Yes, sir."

"What's your specialty?"

"The MCPR-800. But, I also use the Signal 50 and SPX-80."

"What about the LA-B 330?" Soap asked with a wide grin.

Nothing was more attractive than a woman who spoke his language— guns. The more Smoke raved about firearms, the more Soap's eyes contorted heart-shaped.

Her face scrunched up. "It gets the job done, yes, but is nothing compared to the MCPR."

"Aye, it's good for a one-shot though."

She plucked her sniper off the wall. "Correct, they're on pace in terms of mobility however it handles more like a marksman rifle than a sniper. You'd have better luck with a SA-B 50."

"What else are you good at?" Price cut in.

She visibly tensed, eyes averting to her gun. "You've read my file."

"If you had to put it in your own words."

Smoke ran a finger down her gun with the same expression most women reserved for chocolate. Her sleeve soon followed and polished it, treating it with care, as though the soulless clunk of metal were living and breathing.

"Sniping, hand-to-hand combat, short-range weapons... I'm okay with rifles and submachine guns." Her voice descended to a whisper. "I don't use them too often, I'm usually up in trees or on rooftops."

"Aye? Ever wore a ghillie suit before?" Soap piped up.

"Yes."

He could just imagine her hiding in the treetops, pieces of her ghillie suit swaying in tune with the surrounding foliage, as she held a scope of a sniper close to her eye.

"Let's have a look then." Price nodded towards the lane beside Ghost.

Smoke slipped in beside him, meeting his eyes for a moment before turning her attention to the target up ahead. The gun grew heavy in her hands. Her finger dropped from the stock and entered the trigger guard as she drew a deep breath. Focused on the T-junction of the target, a sniper's sweet spot, she eased the breath out and pulled the trigger.

A deafening crack sounded out. A clean, headshot. The smoke wafted through the air, sifting into her nostrils and entering her bloodstream. It was a high like no other. She squeezed the trigger, again and again, bullets tearing through space and time as they whizzed through the air before implanting themselves into the head of the target.