I Feel It In My Bones (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Double Crossed: Part Three

Ghost's POV:

It was dark when a crackle came from the comms link. 'Fuck... Where are you, Ghost?'

Finally.

Ghost's hand shot to his radio. 'Soap - This is Ghost, how copy?'

Silence.

'Johnny...?' He repeated.

More silence.

'Johnny, how copy?'

Ghost released his radio with a stifled sighed, and leaned back to look through the scope of his rifle.

He had settled inside a church, taking advantage of its height and guarded walls to observe the figures stalking below. Graves had Shadows everywhere, had set them loose with one mission: to hunt them down and kill them. When Ghost had finally emerged from his blind run through the forest and found himself in the middle of a Russian town, they had come at him, knives and guns drawn.

He'd raced through alleys and buildings, killing anyone in Shadow uniform that tried to get in his way, until he had shaken them off his tail and climbed over the metal railing protecting the bleak churchyard.

His flight from the base had been frantic, fuelled by survival instinct and that alone. It was only when he had slowed to a stop inside the church that rationalisation had broken through the fog of denial clouding his mind.

Soap was alone, lost in the dark, and injured.

And you were dead.

With heavy breaths, Ghost had pushed away that sickening thought, focused on slowing the uneven tempo of his heartbeat, and unslung his sniper rifle from his back. He had set it up in one of the towers of the church in a window that faced the town centre, the most hidden vantage point he had access to. Part of him wanted to go back to the base, to find Graves and murder him slowly. But he couldn't do that. He was exhausted, numb, and losing the fight against his grief. He wouldn't make it further than those damned gates again, would do something reckless and irrational, and get himself killed for nothing.

Your death would not be for nothing.

There was a wheeze over the earpiece, followed by a familiar, strained voice. 'Solid.'

Ghost couldn't deny the feeling of relief that swept through him. 'Thought we lost you. You injured?'

'I'm not a medic,' Soap groaned.

There was a painful silence. Ghost tightened his grip on the rifle, the metal smooth under his gloves. 'Tell me something I don't know,' he finally grunted. It felt like there were daggers at his throat, the tips of them digging into his trachea with every syllable.

'I'm sorry,' Soap breathed. There was another silence, tension crackling through the comms link. 'I can't believe Bones is–'

Ghost's voice was hoarse as he interrupted, as rough as the stone architecture of the run-down church. 'Soap. Not now.' He couldn't stand to hear the words. If he thought about it too much, he would break down, and they couldn't afford that. 'Are you injured?'

Another pause. 'I'm good, L.T.'

'Let's find out how good you are,' Ghost replied. He rolled his tense shoulders. 'Keep your blood in, you'll need every drop.'

There was an audible groan over the radio followed by the clinking of gear as Soap pushed himself from the ground. 'Thanks for the tip. Where are you?'

'In a church. You?'

'Some back alley of a town. Think I passed out for a while.' Soap spoke through quiet breaths. 'Did you come through here?'