Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Afghan Jalebi

The dusty streets of Kandahar hummed with the quiet intensity that comes before a storm. Task Force 141 had landed quietly under the cover of night, their mission clear: eliminate a high-ranking Taliban leader involved in human trafficking. Young women were being stolen from their homes and sold off like property. The Taliban were operating under the radar, keeping these atrocities hidden from the world. But intel had come through , a local freedom fighter, known only as "Afghan Jalebi," had infiltrated their inner circle and was ready to provide the Task Force with the information needed to take down the operation.

Captain John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, and the rest of Task Force 141 were crouched around a map in their temporary safehouse. The flickering lantern light gave their shadows an exaggerated length on the cracked walls.

"This Afghan Jalebi," Price said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully, "she's the key to this operation. She's deep inside their network."

Ghost, his skull mask hiding any trace of emotion, spoke up. "Can we trust her, though? Freedom fighter or not, sitting between the Taliban doesn't inspire confidence."

Price looked at him, his eyes sharp. "She's their nightmare in disguise. From what I hear, she's a pain in their ass. We go in, make contact, and she'll give us what we need."

Soap MacTavish added with a grin, "And I hear she's got a way with them. Enough to keep them dancing and distracted."

Ghost glanced at Soap, then back at Price. "Let's hope that works in our favour."

That evening, they moved through the city's back alleys, shadows blending into shadows, the sound of distant celebrations in the air. They were nearing the Taliban's hideout. It wasn't some dark, dingy compound; instead, it was a lavish villa where tonight's meeting was disguised as a grand party.

The place was alive with music ,drums, flutes, and the rhythmic beats of traditional Afghan instruments. Ghost's sharp eyes scanned the crowd as they approached the entrance. The guests were laughing, drinking, and watching the show.

There, in the middle of it all, sat Afghan Jalebi.

She was every bit as mesmerizing as the stories said. Draped casually in a shawl over her shoulders, she wore fitted jeans and a simple white shirt, the picture of modern rebellion against the strict dress codes the Taliban enforced. Her thick, dark hair flowed down her back, the firelight from the surrounding torches highlighting her bronze skin and striking green eyes. The men around her, high-ranking Taliban members, were entranced as she sat among them like a queen surrounded by subjects.

As they entered, Ghost's eyes locked on her immediately. She was breathtaking, sure, but it wasn't her beauty that held his attention. It was the sheer audacity of the situation. She sat there, laughing lightly, while the men around her fawned over her. She was a snake in their den, and they didn't even know it.

Women were belly dancing in front of them, their brightly colored skirts spinning as the men clapped and cheered. One of the Taliban commanders handed Afghan Jalebi a glass of tea, which she took with a gracious smile before setting it down untouched.

Price motioned to Ghost. "We need to get closer."

They weaved through the crowd, moving towards her. As they neared, one of the Taliban members gestured at Afghan Jalebi, clearly drunk. "Dance for us!" he slurred, raising his cup in a toast. The others roared in approval.

She smiled sweetly, but there was an edge to her eyes. "I'm here to fight, not dance," she said with a teasing smirk, her voice smooth and confident. "You wouldn't want me to break your hearts, would you?"

The men laughed, thinking it a joke. Ghost, however, didn't miss the way her hand casually brushed against the hidden knife strapped to her thigh under

her shawl. She was ready to strike at any moment. Ghost respected that. She wasn't just a pretty face; she was dangerous, and that made her an asset.