Reliant ~ [John Soap MacTavish]

XLVII. Makeshift Tourniquets

It's something with an F...

My mind works overtime trying to figure out the name of the leading tech guy who created the disablers. But because there's too much pressure on trying to remember that specific name, it refuses to come to mind.

"Fuck," I hiss, growing more frustrated by the second.

"It's fine," Ghost says, clearly aware of my frustration. "You'll probably remember when you see a name card or something."

I don't respond, knowing there's some truth in that statement. It had happened before, and Carter managed to remember Cal's name that specific way too.

It's worth a try.

We get down to the basement level where the tech department is located. It's bigger than the entirety of the building combined, with endless hallways of offices surrounding the middle of the factory part that holds some glass walls, some white ones.

"Eyes open," I tell Ghost. "Some parts of these walls are glass and there have to be people in the factory."

"Got it."

We sneak past some more offices, and I pay attention to the name tags on all of them.

Harris, Allen, Roberts, Miller...

None of these names ring a bell.

Then, my eye flickers over to a door that has an abnormal amount of damage. It's an office, though parts of the wood have splintered, and it looks like the lock is just barely holding on.

I press down on the handle and it moves, though it sticks, still refusing to open.

"Let me," Ghost says from behind me, and so I step out of the way.

A second later, he barges through the door, his shoulder used as a literal ram. He turns around, looking down at me with a hint of pride in his eyes.

"Thanks," I mumble, a small smile growing on my lips that I refuse to show him before I enter the office.

There's no one in the office but us, though the decorations still hang on the walls. The desk looks intact but damaged too, and I immediately think back to the struggle I had with Canmoore in his office. The scene reminds me of it, though there's no blood to be found here.

When I walk around the desk, I find a fallen-over nameplate, and as I lift it, I immediately know it's the name we've been looking for.

"Fraser," I whisper. "This is the guy I'm looking for."

"I don't see a guy."

"Christ," I shoot him a glare, before shoving over the nameplate in his direction. "Here."

"Fraser," he repeats the name, and it's clear that he hasn't heard of him before.

Just as he sets down the nameplate again, something sounds from the hallway. My head snaps towards Ghost, raising two fingers into the air. He immediately nods, and we both take a strategic position in the office, the door slightly ajar.

The footsteps quickly get near, and I push the gun that hangs beside my hip a bit more to the back. My jaw clenches before the two men appear by the door. Without hesitation, Ghost and I grab them from behind and pull them into the office, their voices stifled by our hands.

I lock my arm around the man's throat, grabbing him in a chokehold and tightening my grip. I've never seen the man, though it's clear that he has not been chipped. Or at least, isn't being manipulated by one. He struggles in my grip, clawing at the arm I've got wrapped around his neck.