The Destiny of Ghost and Me

The Prelude

I still carry the old picture of my squad with me. I refuse to forget them, and I don't want to either. What happened during that mission has forever changed me. I took out the picture and gazed at it, capturing a moment frozen in time. There I was, in the center of the group, smiling and filled with pride. I even looked younger in the photo. Beside me stood Zion, his arm resting proudly on my shoulder, his weapon held high.

On the other side of me was Ashley, the strategist of our group. She was not only beside me also a woman in our squad, but also my best friend. Before us stood the twins, mischievous and always finding ways to inject humor and sparks of mischief into our team. They were the ones who made the atmosphere livelier, even if it meant stirring up friendly arguments.

As I gazed at the picture, memories flooded my mind. The camaraderie we shared, the trust that ran deep, and the unbreakable bond forged in the crucible of war. Each member of my squad played a vital role, contributing their unique strengths to our collective purpose.

But that mission, that tragic turning point, shattered our unity and took them away from me. The loss still reverberates within my soul, a constant reminder of the sacrifices we made and the price we paid.

As I hold onto this picture, I carry the weight of their memory with me. It serves as a reminder of who we were, the ideals we fought for, and the unyielding spirit that defined us. In their absence, I draw strength and determination to continue our mission, to seek justice and avenge the fallen.

On the night the mission was set to begin, my squad gathered in a briefing room to strategize our approach. The objective was clear: capture Vladimir Makarov alive, the despicable leader of an ultranationalist terrorist organization. It was a daunting task, considering the difficulty of apprehending someone of his caliber without resorting to a bullet in the head.Ashley studied the map, as our informant had recently discovered Makarov's location—a hotel where he was meeting with other Russian leaders. I turned to Ashley and asked, "Any ideas on how we can get to him?"

Furrowing her brow, she replied, "It's hard to say and even harder to execute."

The twins, Spencer and Thompson, couldn't resist injecting their trademark humor into the tense situation. Spencer, always the joker, couldn't help himself and quipped, "How about shoving a stick up his arse?"
Thompson burst into laughter, and I rolled my eyes, familiar with their antics.

Meanwhile, Zion stood in the corner of the room, meticulously cleaning his weapon. He had an unwavering affection for that gun, as if it were his beloved partner.

As we continued our discussion, each member of the squad offered their insights and expertise. Ideas were debated, plans were refined, and tensions ran high. We knew the stakes were immense, and failure was not an option.In the midst of the intense preparations, the weight of our mission bore down on us. Each of us carried our own personal motivations, scars from past encounters, and a burning desire to put an end to Makarov's reign of terror.

Despite the levity injected by the twins' crude humor, the gravity of the situation was palpable. We were about to embark on a perilous journey, one that could forever alter the course of our lives.
As we gathered our gear and steeled ourselves for the mission ahead, we knew that every decision we made could mean the difference between success and failure, life and death.

Little did we know that this night would be etched into our memories as the beginning of a fateful chain of events that would shape our destinies and test the limits of our resolve. The darkness of the night was a fitting backdrop for the impending storm that awaited us.

The hotel we were targeting was a luxurious five-star establishment. Makarov had secluded himself in a VIP lounge, seemingly untouchable. Zion, our skilled sniper, positioned himself far away from us, his Sako TRG-30 at the ready. Through our walkie-talkies, he initiated contact, his voice coming through crisp and clear, "Bravo 3 here."

I responded swiftly, "Any issues?"

Zion's reply was reassuring, "Negative."

Thompson, Spencer, Ashley, and I formed the assault team. Ashley and I disguised ourselves as hotel staff, both of us concealing knives discreetly strapped to our thighs. Carrying firearms would have been too risky. Our role was to deliver food and cater to the guests, ensuring we remained inconspicuous. Spencer was assigned to the bar, while Thompson took charge of security.

The atmosphere was tense as we synchronized our movements, each of us acutely aware of the gravity of the situation. Our steps were deliberate, our eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger. The hotel exuded opulence, the epitome of luxury, but beneath the façade lay a hidden world of treachery and menace.

As Ashley and I approached the lounge, a nerve-wracking anticipation settled upon us. We had to execute our roles flawlessly, seamlessly blending into the backdrop of refined elegance. The guests' unawareness of our true intentions was crucial to the success of our mission.
Spencer, stationed at the bar, maintained a watchful eye, ready to provide assistance if the situation called for it. Thompson's security duties required him to discreetly patrol the area, ensuring no threats could disrupt our plans.

Inside the VIP lounge, Makarov sat surrounded by his cohorts, his presence commanding and malevolent. We navigated the room with practiced grace, serving the guests and attending to their needs while carefully observing Makarov's every move.
As Ashley and I took our positions, the game was set in motion. We entered the VIP lounge, and there, for the first time, I laid eyes on Makarov in the flesh—repulsive, with features that betrayed his treacherous nature. Ashley collected the drinks from Spencer, who was serving at the bar, while I proceeded to serve Makarov and his companions. Among the bodyguards in the room stood Thompson, unaware of the impending danger. The four of us were gathered in that room, with Zion stationed outside. What could possibly go wrong?

Makarov turned his gaze toward me, and in that instant, I knew something was amiss. His eyes bore into mine, as if he recognized me. And in the next moment, he raised his finger, forming a gesture resembling two pistols pointed at Thompson and Spencer. Before I could comprehend what was happening, two shots echoed through the room, their echoes piercing through the heads of my comrades. Ashley and I locked eyes, frozen in our places. In shock, I heard Ashley murmur, "Zion..."

Attempting to seize the initiative, I reached for my hidden knife, but before I could react, three bodyguards rushed at me, overpowering me and pinning me to the ground. Makarov, with a chilling smile on his face, aimed his weapon at Ashley, and with a resounding bang, her lifeless body collapsed onto the floor, her dead eyes staring back at me.

In a heart-wrenching scream, I cried out, "NOOOOO!" Struggling with all my might, I fought against the overwhelming force that held me captive. Makarov chuckled callously, taunting me, "Oh, my apologies. My finger accidentally touched the trigger."

I lashed out at him, unleashing my fury, "You vile bastard!" Tears streamed down my face as the reality sunk in. Zion, the one I had trusted, had betrayed us all. I had lost my squad, my comrades, faster than a lightning strike.