Part 35 of my demon!Ghost AU. Soap is still on sick leave. Late-night conversations during smoke breaks aren’t available to Ghost, so Price starts his own tradition with him—conversations over five o'clock tea. During one of these, the captain tells the lieutenant some unexpected news.
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Domestic, fluff, family. 4723 words.
“Pack your things, Lieutenant, we're get out of here tonight.” Price said cheerfully and took a sip of tea from his cup with relish.
Ghost brought the tea, preparing it in the break room of 141’s residential block just the way Price liked it. He made a second cup for himself, just as Johnny had done. He entered the captain's office without knocking at exactly 5:00 p.m., walked over to the table and sat down, while Price himself took out an ashtray and lit a cigar.
“Rog.” Ghost replied, taking a straw from his pocket. “Do we have a new mission?”
He already understood that communication during the five o'clock tea with Price was informal, even if they were discussing work, so he didn't have to rush and get ready immediately. But it took the demon some time to understand this—at first, everything was quite awkward because of the mistakes he made. However, the captain patiently helped him correct them until the lieutenant began to do everything perfectly and derive genuine pleasure from the conversation.
“No, Simon.” Price shook his head. "This weekend in London, there will be a monthly meeting of the Royal Society of World War II History Enthusiasts, of which I am a member. It's a kind of interest group for anyone who is interested in the subject and can afford the very small membership fees. There are doctors of historical sciences and very young students, rich businessmen and people living on welfare, representatives of various political parties, military and civilians..." When Price first joined this Society, he was surprised by the number of military personnel there. He didn't understand why they were interested in war in their free time when they often faced its realities at work. Now he was more surprised by the motivation of the civilian members. Most of these people were fortunate enough to live peaceful and quiet lives, so why were they so eager to study war in all its ugly, inhuman and terrible details?
Part 34 of my demon!Ghost AU. On medical leave, Soap doesn't want to lose touch with Ghost, so he has to learn how to write paper letters. Ghost already knows how to do this because he continues to correspond with his family, but he also encounters certain difficulties.
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Letter, thoughts, mission. 4258 words.
‘Dear Johnny.’ Ghost wrote in his neat handwriting. ‘It's three o'clock in the morning, we just got back from a mission, but they still gave me your letter. General Strickland ordered his assistant, Lieutenant Hicks, to do so. To do this, he had to get up in the middle of the night and meet our helo.’
Ghost paused, frozen for a few seconds, staring at the lines he had written. Then he put down his pen, crumpled the sheet of paper, and threw it in the trash. This was his third attempt to start a letter to Johnny, and the lieutenant didn't like it any more than the previous two. He felt irritated because he was sure he had already mastered this method of communication. When Ghost agreed with Soap to keep in touch through correspondence, he couldn't even imagine that he would have any difficulties, because he hadn't had any problems with letters to Tommy and Jo for a long time. What annoyed him even more was that he couldn't even figure out what he was doing wrong.
Getting to his feet, the demon silently approached the open window and stared out at it. He was in Johnny's room because, unlike his own, it had a table. Before leaving for home, the sergeant had given him the keys, allowing him to come whenever he wanted. Ghost took advantage of his offer for the first time now and had to admit that being in his beloved human's room was pleasant. Everything here bore the imprint of his shining soul, and with his eyes closed, it was easy for the demon to imagine that Johnny was nearby.
Ghost came here when Price, Garrick, and Sanderson went to bed. Without turning on any unnecessary lights, he sat on the bed reading the letter given to him by the sleepy Lieutenant Hicks. Then he opened the window to let the cats in and took a seat at the table. He wanted to write a reply as soon as possible so he could send the envelope with the morning mail, but now he wasn't sure he would be able to.
Part 33 of my demon!Ghost AU. After Soap was injured during the mission, Ghost lost control. The enemies learned the full power of his demonic fury, and the hellish flames left only scorched earth behind, but that didn’t bring him peace. Racked with guilt for failing to protect Johnny and losing his temper, Ghost tries to accept with dignity the changes that await TF141 in the coming weeks.
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Injured Soap, sad Ghost. 4686 words.
Soap was wounded in a completely idiotic way, and this fact tormented him more than the injury itself. This bloody mission went wrong almost from the start, and when the situation finally got so bad that Price had to call for an emergency exfil, it happened. 141 had to run to the helicopter in a race against enemies who outnumbered them. In fact, it was impossible to count them, because in addition to the usual pursuers with assault rifles, numerous snipers made life difficult for the Special Forces. Most likely, they wouldn't have been able to reach the exfil in time if Ghost hadn't been with them. But all his demonic power couldn't save Soap.
In fact, it was an accident, and MacTavish wasn't to blame. He didn't disobey any orders, act recklessly, or show incompetence. He simply misplaced his foot while jumping into the helicopter and almost fell out of it during takeoff, losing his balance. Ghost managed to catch his sergeant, using his superpower at first and then his hand. And just as the lieutenant was pulling Soap into the troop compartment, a bullet caught up with him. The piece of lead passed through the sergeant's left side, miraculously missing anything too important, but still making his comrades worry because of the heavy bleeding. While Price and Sanderson administered first aid to the sergeant, the demon unleashed a true inferno on the enemies who were firing at the departing helicopter. Soap himself didn't see this, focusing only on staying conscious, but later Gaz told him that Ghost absolutely lost control in his rage. For the enemies, it turned into scorched earth. Literally, a fairly large area of forest simply burst into flames in an instant, and it was clearly not an ordinary fire. The firing at the helicopter stopped almost instantly, and it seemed that none of the enemies who had been caught in the blast zone had survived.
Part 32 of my demon!Ghost AU. Soap decides to show Ghost the place where he loved to play with his friends as a child. But as an adult, everything looks completely different and evokes not excitement, but a much more complex and wider range of emotions.
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Family, domestic, fluff. 4274 words.
“You probably want to ask where we're going.” Soap broke the silence and slowed down when he saw a sign that said ‘Lennoxtown’.
The drive from the MacTavish house to this town took about forty minutes. The final destination was a little further away, but Soap decided to stop for a coffee before continuing on their way. Only now, with the traffic jams of Glasgow behind them and the almost random route he had chosen proving to be the right one, did the sergeant decide to break the silence.
The lieutenant hadn't said a word since he got into the passenger seat of Mr. MacTavish's Wrangler. He didn't like talking in the car at all, but when he heard Johnny's words, he took his eyes off the road.
“Where are we going?” He asked, watching the sergeant park near a cozy bakery and coffee shop on the town's main street.
“I want to show you a place where I used to hang out with my friends when I was a kid.” Johnny turned off the engine and smiled. “At first we rode our bikes there, and then we took car of one of us who had it first. Of course, our parents didn't know anything about it.”
“Why?” Ghost asked without prompting this time.
“Oh, you'll understand when you see it.” Soap replied mysteriously and got out of the Wrangler to go buy coffee and pastries.
Soon they continued on their way. The sergeant turned off the main street, leaving Lennoxtown behind. They drove through fields and a farm, and then the road went through a forest. At one point, a soccer field and some buildings could be seen through the trees, after which the forest became denser. Soap slowed down, looking around, and then turned off the road, hoping that his father's Wrangler wouldn't get stuck in the mud. However, with Ghost, it wasn't so scary, because the demon was able to pull the car out with his superpowers.
When the sergeant turned off the engine, silence enveloped him and the lieutenant. They sat quietly for a few seconds. Then Johnny took the keys out of the ignition and was the first to get out of the car. When Ghost joined him, he locked Wrangler and turned on the alarm. He took the demon by his hand and pulled him toward a clearly very old corrugated fence that was visible through the trees. Walking along it, they found a gap large enough for not only Soap but also Ghost to squeeze through. “This is going to sound strange.” Johnny smiled slightly. “But tell me, Lt., do you believe in ghosts?”
The 31st part of my demon!Ghost AU. The rest of winter and almost all of March passed for TF141 in endless missions, but finally, they got their long-awaited rest. Price made it clear that no one should stay at the base, so Soap persuaded Ghost to go with him to Glasgow and visit his parents.
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Family, domestic, hot. 4281 words.
Soap watched his parents' three fluffy cats curl up around Ghost and couldn't help but smile. It wasn't easy to convince the demon to spend his leave at the MacTavish family home. Perhaps even more difficult than explaining to his mother and father why their son was coming home again, not alone, but accompanied by his creepy masked lieutenant. In the early days, everything was very weird and awkward, but now it seemed that Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish had grown accustomed to the presence of the gloomy giant in a skull mask in their home.
The lieutenant and sergeant sat on the patio in the backyard. Ghost and Johnny's father spent most of the day repairing the cover that was supposed to protect part of the property from the rain. Then Soap brought wicker chairs, a sofa, and a table out of the basement, and his mother laid out new soft cushions on the seats. The older MacTavishes decided it would be nice to have dinner on the renovated patio for the first time this year, and Douglas invited Ghost to join them. Neither he nor Isla had done so before, and Soap could understand why—it's awkward when someone at the table isn't eating.
It was already dark outside, and it had started to rain, but that didn't stop anyone. Mrs. MacTavish went to prepare dinner, and Mr. MacTavish went down to the basement to find the string of streetlights. Hooks had been screwed into the beams of the cover, and electricity had been run from the house.
“You know, these cats rarely leave the house, even in summer, unless my mom sends them out here to get some fresh air and warm up in the sun.” Soap said, watching Ghost take a bag of cat treats out of his hoodie pocket.
“I know.” The lieutenant nodded. “Your mother told me about it yesterday when I was helping her plant flowers here.”
The 30ty part of my demon!Ghost AU. While Soap, Sword, and Don Russo discuss the events of the previous night, Alejandro and Ghost attempt to resolve the complex moral dilemmas that arose during their successfully failed mission. Meanwhile, Price and Laswell deal with the real problems with the SIS, which promises them another ton of paperwork.
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Moral dilemmas, reflections, conversations. 4067 words.
“Well, you guys really made a lot of shit.” Antonio Russo shook his head and then couldn't help but smile. “I think these meetings haven't been this much fun in ten years.”
Johnny couldn't help but laugh, throwing his head back, risking getting lost again in the incredibly realistic and deep starry sky printed on the photo wallpaper that covered the entire ceiling. No matter how hard the sergeant tried, he couldn't find a single seam or bubble that could spoil the whole view.
Ghost sat next to Soap, just as he had a few hours ago when they were questioning Sword about the various people present at the meeting, not yet knowing what madness their mission would turn into. And they didn't know about the sky on the ceiling then, because they were too busy even to look up. Now, when both targets of the mission had died without the intervention of the Special Forces, and the situation in the main banquet hall had been resolved without bloodshed, Johnny, Alejandro, and even Ghost allowed themselves to relax. The irrepressible sergeant not only noticed the amazing ceiling in this small library but also rummaged through the bookshelves, looking at antique folios and new editions of various art books.
“What about the second russian?” Vargas asked, dissatisfied with how comfortable he felt in the company of the mafia boss. “Is he still here?”
“He left at night, like everyone else.” Sword said, sitting at the table in a luxurious leather chair on wheels, smoking a thick joint. “He seemed to be planning to return home, but I don't think he'll come back to his fucking Russia alive.”
The mercenary took a deep drag, held his breath, and then slowly exhaled thick smoke toward the ceiling, causing light white clouds to float across the starry sky.
“What is your assumption based on?” The colonel wouldn't let up. “Do you have any information? Was this bastard also ordered?”
Sword didn't answer, took another drag, and closed his eyes. Alejandro frowned but didn't have time to ask anything else. “Sometimes he just knows.” Russo said quietly.
The 29th part of my demon!Ghost AU. Three Special Forces infiltrate a secret meeting of criminal bosses without any particular problems and begin their mission. However, it soon becomes clear that they aren't the only ones playing spy games here. If the Special Forces interests clash with those of one of the other participants in the meeting, chaos could reign in the castle, which may be impossible to stop.
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Johnny tried his best to focus on the mission, but he simply couldn't help being distracted by the castle's luxurious interiors. Everything was decorated in a medieval style, but without sacrificing modern convenience and comfort. Countless rooms, corridors, galleries, and staircases were furnished with furniture that looked antique, and perhaps at least some of them really were. All the technology that controlled the comfort and security inside the castle was carefully hidden; the rest, such as the large flat-screen TVs that were in almost every room, was styled to blend in with the interior. The rough stone walls were decorated with tapestries and paintings; in the most unexpected places, one could come across magnificent sculptures; as for knightly armor and various medieval weapons, there was an abundance of them here.
Laswell never found out who owned the castle, but Soap felt respect for this man, whoever he was. Judging by a series of photographs illustrating the entire restoration process—they were in one of the galleries—the owner had to invest a fabulous amount of money. Price wasn't exaggerating when he called this castle a ruin at the time of purchase; one must also take into account all the interior furnishings, which could well have cost much more than all the restoration work.
Alejandro, accompanied by Ghost and Soap, who diligently played the role of bodyguards, entered the next banquet hall and glanced around with a seemingly lazy look, actually counting the number of people there. The ISIS member wasn’t among them. Thanks to real-time video from a tiny spy camera built into Alejandro's jacket button broadcast to the monitors of the surveillance group's mobile command center, Laswell identified a beautiful woman in a luxurious dress, who was looking at one of the paintings while holding a glass of champagne.
“Chantal Durand.” Vargas and MacTavish heard it in their radio’s headphones; the former had it disguised as an expensive Bluetooth headset, while the latter simply hid it under a balaclava with a bright red skull mask attached to it. "Founder of several fraudulent investment funds. Also involved in the purchase and sale of antiques, often of dubious or stolen origin. In short, not our client."
The 28th part of my demon!Ghost AU. Some members of TF141 are suffering from acclimatization after returning from hot Angola to the cold British winter. But Laswell has received information about another criminal plan, so while part of the unit is suffering, the rest are already planning a new secret mission together with an old ally for Soap and a new one for Ghost.
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Pre-mission, love, gifts. 5171 words.
It was cold on board the C-17, which caused suffering for the members of 141, who were already accustomed to the African heat. They were the only passengers, and most of the large compartment of the plane was filled with containers and boxes. Four people huddled around their unusual comrade, who, having recovered his supernatural powers, generously shared his warmth with them.
Soap sprawled across the seats, resting his head on Ghost's lap, and slept soundly. On the other side, Price sat next to the lieutenant, leaning against his shoulder and also dozing off from time to time. Garrick and Sanderson settled down on the boxes as close to the rest as possible and lazily played cards, occasionally exchanging a few words.
Opening his eyes once again, Price realized that this time he had slept more soundly and longer, resting his head on Ghost's strong shoulder. Coughing, the captain straightened up, stretched his neck, looked at Gaz and Roach, who were also asleep, lying on the boxes, and then glanced at his watch.
You can keep reading here or on the A03
“If the flight is going according to plan, ETA should be in 40.” The captain said in a hoarse voice after sleeping.
“Affirmative.” The lieutenant nodded. “One of the crew members was here recently. He reported that there is fog over Mildenhall, but not so thick that we need to change the flight plan.”
“Good.” Price said and leaned back in his seat.
At Royal Air Force Mildenhall, TF141 was to transfer to a helicopter that would take them to General Strickland's base, where they could finally rest. At least, Price hoped so. It wasn't that the three weeks in Luanda had been particularly exhausting for his unit, but it hadn't been a proper rest either. MacTavish had been feeling unwell; they were constantly being dragged into endless conversations and interrogations, both individually and together; in addition, the captain knew that Garrick and Sanderson usually didn't tolerate sudden climate changes very well. To be honest, Price often felt unwell too when transitioning from hot summer to harsh winter. He joked bitterly that this was probably the first sign of inevitable old age, because it had never happened to him before.
Price glanced at his watch again and decided it was time to wake his men; then they would have time to drink coffee and recover a little before landing. Of course, no thermos could keep the drink warm for more than nine hours—the duration of the flight—but, fortunately for 141, there was someone among them who could help with that. Handing the thermos to Ghost, the captain stood up and accidentally knocked into the bag standing at the demon's feet. And, unexpectedly, something stirred inside in response.
“What the hell?” Price frowned in confusion, turning to the lieutenant.
The latter looked down and, bending over, unzipped the bag, from which two cat heads cautiously peeked out. The captain was silent for a few seconds, unable to find the words, and then rolled his eyes and looked up, apparently asking himself once again why he had to go through all this.
“I don't want to hear or even know about it.” He said.
“Yes, Captain.” Ghost nodded, gently stroked the cats between their ears, and zipped up the bag.
The first thing the captain did upon arriving at Strickland's base was to take care of Sergeants Sanderson and Garrick. He ordered that they be given extra heaters and also picked up vitamins from the hospital to help them acclimatize more quickly. Soap brought their lunch portions to their rooms, and after making sure his friends didn't need anything else, he went to one of his acquaintances at the base. This guy was supposed to receive a package for MacTavish.
Ghost also had a few things waiting for him back. These were documents related to the supply of food and other necessary items for cats at the base—he had to sign reports on items already delivered and submit a request for future purchases. There were also three somewhat irregular statements in the folder that Strickland's assistant, Lieutenant Hicks, had given him. It turned out that some soldiers wanted to take local cats home with them, and while this used to be possible without any problems, now the animals were registered with the base. Not wanting to deal with additional bureaucratic problems, the general ordered these guys to write statements addressed to Lieutenant Ryan and wait for his return. Not needing rest after a long journey, Ghost immediately took up this matter.
When Soap returned to 141’s residential block with the package he had received, he was surprised to find the lieutenant in the break room accompanied by three local soldiers. They turned out to be two privates and a corporal, who sat at the table opposite Ghost and answered his questions with obvious tension.
“May I come in, Lt.?” Soap asked, peeking into the room, and, receiving an affirmative answer, walked over to the coffee machine and began making himself a cup of coffee, listening to the conversation.
“Do you promise to get medical checkups and all the necessary vaccinations on time?” Ghost asked sternly, turning his attention back to the three soldiers.
“Yes, sir!” They replied in unison.
“Corporal Campbell, you want to take one of the kittens.” Ghost turned his eerie gaze to the young red-haired woman, who tensed and swallowed nervously. “In two, maximum three months, they will all need to be spayed or neutered. Can I be sure you will do that?”
“Yes, sir!” The corporal replied. “My family or I will take care of it, and I will provide you with a certificate from the veterinary clinic.”
Ghost slowly looked at all three of them, making them shiver with fear, then took a pen and signed their statements to adopt cats from the base one by one. According to General Strickland's instructions, each contained a detailed description of the desired animal, so the demon easily understood which of his charges was being referred to.
“You're dismissed.” He said, looking at the soldiers again. “You can pick up the cats here in ten before leaving the base.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Corporal Campbell replied for all of them, and all three quickly disappeared from the break room with obvious relief.
All this time, Soap had been trying hard to hide his smile, and only when he was alone with Ghost, he allowed himself to laugh. It wasn't the situation itself that he found funny; on the contrary, he was delighted by how diligently the demon cared for his little friends. But the way he questioned those three unfortunate soldiers and how they reacted... Soap could have sworn that the cats they planned to take in would be the happiest cats in all of Britain, otherwise Ghost would appear to their new owners in their nightmares and incinerate them with his terrifying gaze.
“Hey, Lt., do you know what it is?” The sergeant asked, putting his package on the table and sitting down opposite the lieutenant with a cup of coffee.
“Negative.” Ghost replied, putting the signed statements back in the folder to be handed over to General Strickland later.
“It's the self-timer lever and tripod we ordered a week ago!” Soap blurted out. “I gave the delivery details to a guy who lives in town, and he picked up the package when he was off duty. Now we can take pictures together!”
Seeing how genuinely cheerful Johnny was, Ghost felt his lips stretch into an uncertain smile under his mask. His human was happy, and that made him happy too, especially since he himself wanted to have photos with Soap. He was planning to print the photos from the previous roll of film according to the orders of his comrades-in-arms, so if he and Johnny finished the roll that was currently in the camera, he would be able to print everything in one go. Ghost even wanted to take the initiative and suggest doing it right now, but at that moment, Price entered the recreation room accompanied by another, unfamiliar demon man.
“Good thing you're both here, lads.” The captain said in a tired voice. “There's something we need to discuss.”
Soap, who was sitting with his back to the door, stood up and, seeing the captain's companion, laughed cheerfully, approached, and hugged the man, who also smiled and patted the sergeant on the back. Ghost also stood up, realizing that unlike him, his comrades were familiar with the newcomer, and tilted his head slightly to one side, showing interest.
“Lieutenant, this is Colonel Alejandro Vargas from the Mexican Special Forces.” Price introduced him and fell onto the sofa, throwing a thick folder onto the table. “Alejandro, this is the new member of 141, Lieutenant Thomas Ryan. We call him Ghost.”
The soldiers shook hands and sat down as well. Soap, realizing that Price obviously didn't have a moment to rest, went back to the coffee machine to pour him and the colonel some coffee.
“So, we have a new mission?” The sergeant asked, glancing curiously at the folder the captain had brought.
“Yes.” He nodded, taking a cigar from the cigar case Ghost had given him for Christmas. “This time it will just be the three of us, Colonel Vargas and Laswell, who will join us just before the mission begins.”
Soap placed two cups on the table and sat down next to Ghost. Price took a big sip of coffee, puffed on his cigar, and began to speak.
"Ever since the days of Al Capone, the richest and most powerful crime bosses have started a tradition of annual meetings. During them, they exchange news, divide spheres of influence, make deals, and just have fun. To enter this circle, you have to make a very large financial contribution, but that's not the only condition." Price paused, exhaling smoke from his cigar, and then continued speaking. “Members of this so-called elite club must not be directly involved in politics or support any radical organizations, including religious ones. No intelligence department in the world has ever been able to identify the location of even one of these meetings in time, but this year we were lucky.”
Price paused, glancing at Vargas, who stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and continued the story.
"A few days ago, we managed to capture the leader of a large international drug cartel, Diego Jimenez. Everything he had done would have been enough for at least a dozen life sentences, but this bastard didn't want to go to prison, so he offered a deal." With that, Alejandro grimaced, clearly struggling to refrain from expressing everything he thought about this turn of events. “He said he was a member of that criminal club and could tell everything he knew about this year's meeting in exchange for his freedom and the opportunity to leave Mexico unhindered.”
“The Mexican government didn't want to agree to such conditions, but then the CIA intervened.” Price continued. "It turned out that they had been monitoring another member of the club for a long time—a Saudi Arabian native named Abdullah bin Khaled al-Muithari. He pretends to be the leader of the local mafia, which is involved in underground casinos, but in reality he is an active member of ISIS. At this year's meeting, he plans to negotiate the supply of a large shipment of weapons, ammunition, and explosives, which ISIS intends to use for a series of terrorist attacks around the world. According to Jimenez, there will be several weapon dealers at the meeting, and it is unknown with whom Abdullah intends to negotiate. Finding that out is the goal of our mission.”
“Just find out?” Soap frowned. ”Not taking out?”
“No.” The captain shook his head. ”Others will take care of the taking out after the meeting."
Everyone was silent for a few seconds. Price and Vargas waited to see if there were any more questions; MacTavish thoughtfully picked at a stain on the table with his finger; Ghost remained motionless and silent, waiting for the continuation.
“According to Jimenez, this year's meeting will take place in a week in Switzerland, in one of the small private castles. Its owner is unknown, but this man bought what was almost a ruin and invested a lot of money in its restoration.” Finally, Price spoke. “Jimenez's arrest is being kept secret, so they will be waiting for him there. Fortunately for us, this bastard looks very similar to Alejandro, and, wanting to remain free, he gave us his invitation and even the money he had prepared to make the so-called club contribution.”
“So, this will be an undercover mission?” Soap perked up.
“That's right, son.” Price smiled involuntarily. "Alejandro will go to the meeting posing as Diego Jimenez, and you and Ghost will play the role of his bodyguards. Laswell and I will be in constant contact with you. According to Jimenez, the meeting locations are considered safe, so the participants are only bringing security for status. You won't need to stay close to Alejandro all the time, and you'll be able to talk to the other bodyguards, who may also know something."
Colonel Vargas had to start preparing for the mission. He had to watch a lot of videos featuring Diego Jimenez and learn to copy his gait, gestures, and manner of speaking. As for Ghost and Soap, their preparation was much simpler. They were required to look cool and similar, so tomorrow they would both fly to town to buy MacTavish a suit. The captain also ordered them to buy or make a mask for Soap in the one style as Ghost's one. Finally, he said that the lieutenant and sergeant could spend the night in town and return the next evening.
“Get some rest there, lads.” The captain instructed.
The sergeant nodded vigorously, and the lieutenant looked at Alejandro and spoke for the first time since the Mexican had entered the room.
“You seem upset that you have to let Jimenez go, Colonel Vargas.” He said and then shook his head. "Don't be. By making a deal with you, he betrayed some very rich and powerful people. When they find out, the traitor's death will be inevitable and very painful. And for justice to be served more quickly, all you need to do after our mission is over is give a couple of interviews about how and, most importantly, when you arrested Jimenez. The rest will be understood by these rich and powerful people themselves.”
"That won't be justice; it will be reprisal." Alejandro said gloomily.
“It doesn't matter what you call it.” Ghost retorted. “The only thing that matters is that this bastard won't be doing any more harm.”
Vargas sighed heavily and remained silent; Price and MacTavish also refrained from commenting on the lieutenant's words. All four left the break room and dispersed in silence.
Soap handed Ghost the package with the photographic equipment and, clearly excited by some idea, said he would come to him, but first he would take something from his room. The lieutenant nodded, and a minute later he was sitting in his luxurious armchair, staring straight ahead. He thought about the mask Soap needed for the mission and couldn't help but admit that he felt a vague but generally pleasant excitement. It was as if there was something personal about Johnny putting a skull mask on his face, something more than just the need to look the same during the mission. After all, for Ghost, his mask—part of his demonic armor—was not just a thing. It was a part of him, a replacement for his face, which had been disfigured by a postmortem transformation.
Ghost couldn't put all these fragments of thoughts and feelings into something that made sense, so he forced himself to stop thinking about it and focused on what was more understandable. Namely, how to make a mask for Johnny. He could smelt a skull-shaped faceplate using his demonic power; he even had a suitable piece of light and durable duralumin. Ghost found it behind the hangar where helicopters were repaired. There was a whole pile of various scrap metal there, and after rummaging through it, the demon found and brought to his room several pieces and fragments of the strongest steels and alloys. But making the skull was only half the job; then he would have to attach it to the balaclava somehow, and Ghost had no idea how to do that. His own mask had no joints, staples, or glue, so he couldn't use it as a model. Maybe he could come up with a solution if he saw something similar, something made by human hands, but the demon didn't know where to look for such things either. In the end, he decided to discuss it all with Johnny, then got up, unpacked the package, and began preparing for the photo shoot.
“Here I am!” Soap exclaimed, bursting into Ghost's room and plopping down in his armchair, watching with interest as he set up the tripod.
“I thought you wanted to take something?” The lieutenant asked, glancing at him and noticing that he had nothing with him.
“Oh, right.” The sergeant clearly couldn't sit still, so he jumped up and started pacing around the room. “You see, I've been thinking about what the captain said—that we should look in one style. He probably thinks that all I need to do is buy any black suit, but that's not the case!”
Ghost looked at him again, then turned on the overhead light, pointed the camera at the armchair, and began to adjust it.
“Your suit is handmade, sewn from expensive, high-quality materials.” Soap continued to explain. “It would be impossible to find anything even remotely similar in this town. And rich people, whether law-abiding or criminal, are very knowledgeable about such things and will immediately notice the difference.”
“So what do you suggest?” Ghost asked, looking up from his camera viewfinder.
“I was thinking, maybe Mr. Schneider would agree to make me a suit just like yours?” Soap said, a little uncertainly. "He gave us his business card, which I was looking for. We could call him and ask."
The lieutenant supported this idea, and the sergeant, instantly dispelling all his doubts, took out his phone and the tailor's business card and dialed his number. He turned on the speakerphone, and after a few rings, both he and Ghost heard a familiar voice greet them politely and inform them that they had called Schneider's tailor manufacture.
"Greetings, Mr. Schneider. This is Sergeant John MacTavish.” Soap introduced himself, thought for a second, and added. ”Lieutenant Ghost’s assistance human.”
“Ah, Sergeant, greetings!” The tailor immediately understood who he was talking to. ”Can I be of any assistance to you or Mr. Ghost?"
Soap, feeling somewhat embarrassed, explained the problem and his request. Schneider was silent for a few seconds, probably thinking about what he had heard, and then his voice came back over the phone.
“I don't sew clothes for humans.” He said solemnly, and then his voice changed and took on a cheerful tone. “But an assistance human is a different matter altogether. So, when and where would you like to meet, gentlemen?”
Agreeing to meet tomorrow morning in the town closest to the base, Soap said goodbye to the tailor and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. Now that the unresolved problem was no longer hanging over him, he relaxed and was ready to be photographed. Ghost sat him down on the armrest, set the timer, and quickly sat down in the armchair. Johnny smiled sincerely and put his hand on the demon's shoulder so that it looked like a normal friendly hug. The camera clicked, and Ghost stood up to reset the timer. He decided to take several photos so he would have a choice, and during the final shot, Johnny turned at the last moment and touched the lieutenant's cheek with his lips.
There were still a few frames left on the roll, which Ghost initially planned to sacrifice in order to develop it faster. However, after an informal briefing in the break room and Johnny's conversation with the tailor, he changed his plans.
“I'll make a faceplate for your mask just like I made your knife.” Ghost said, removing the camera from the tripod. “And tomorrow we'll show it to Mr. Schneider; maybe he'll figure out how to attach it to the balaclava.”
Johnny was thrilled by what he heard and really wanted to watch the demon work with metal, but Ghost didn't agree. He sent the sergeant to rest, promising to show him the results of his work during their usual late evening smoke break. Hearing this, Soap cheered up a little, hugged the lieutenant tightly, and went to his room. Left alone, Ghost locked the door, took a piece of duralumin out of the closet, and sat down in his armchair. Under the gaze of his eerie black eyes, the metal in his hands began to heat up and soften. When it reached the desired condition, Ghost closed his eyes and began to slowly shape it.
There was very little time left before dinner, so Soap was just going to lie down for a while, scroll through his social media, and maybe chat with his family and friends. But despite sleeping long and soundly during the flight from Luanda to Mildenhall, he felt himself drifting off as soon as he lay down on his bed. Soap decided not to fight the fatigue and even to skip dinner for a couple of hours of rest. Yawning, he set an alarm on his phone so he wouldn't oversleep his evening smoke break with Ghost and quickly fell asleep.
Johnny took longer than usual to get ready for the smoke break. Waking up with difficulty to the nasty alarm, he felt cold and couldn't decide what to wear for a long time. Soap spent a few more minutes making himself some coffee, then put a hat on his head, which he didn't usually do when going out for a smoke with Ghost, pulled up his hood, and finally left the residential block. Holding his cup with both hands, the sergeant walked very quickly, wanting to get as close as possible to the warm demon, within the radius of its warming aura. However, once he reached the smoking area, Soap realized that he was the first one there today. Sighing sadly, he sat down on a bench and huddled, raising the cup to his face. However, he didn't have to suffer for long; Ghost appeared in just a few minutes, and his warm embrace drove away the cold almost instantly.
The lieutenant waited until the sergeant stopped shivering and relaxed his shoulders, the tension in which he could feel with his hand even through several layers of clothing. A gentle warmth, even if its nature was hellish, enveloped Soap; he cheered up, made a couple of sips of his coffee, and took out a cigarette. Only when he lit it up, Ghost reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a shiny skull-shaped faceplate for a mask.
Putting his cup on the edge of the bench, Johnny took the demon's creation and began to examine it with fascination. The metal skull was the same shape as the one on Ghost's mask; it was also rounded in the forehead and temples, curved at the cheekbones, had the same nose hole, and had no lower jaw. However, it wasn't an exact copy of the lieutenant's. Its eye sockets had a different, less natural and more predatory shape, which was emphasized by more pronounced brow ridges. If Ghost's mask had an expression of cold, terrifying detachment, then the faceplate for Soap rather depicted a crazy, wild, and completely sincere cheerfulness with slight notes of mockery and self-satisfaction. The same cheerfulness that appeared on the sergeant's face when he detonated his bombs, made an accurate shot, or simply rushed into battle side by side with his lieutenant.
“Simon, it's incredible!” Johnny finally exhaled, looked at the demon with eyes shining with excitement, and put the metal plate to his face. “And it fits perfectly—it doesn't pinch anywhere, doesn't reduce the field of view, and doesn't press on the nose.”
“I made it for your face and your skull shape.” Ghost shrugged. “Of course it fits you.”
“Thank you, luv.” Johnny raised his hand, touched Ghost's mask, and then smiled slyly. "It's fucking beautiful, and when I paint it, it will be truly perfect. But you know, I don't want it to be white. White, black, and gray—all these colors suit you and your personality, but I need something brighter, something explosive! And I'm giving you the right to choose the color for my mask."
“Me?” Ghost asked with surprise, which, however, didn't affect his voice; it sounded as emotionless as ever. “Why?”
“Because you managed to capture my character and my mood during the battle and engrave them in metal.” Soap said seriously. "You even managed to transfer my facial features onto this skull! At first glance, this mask is almost identical to yours; to the eyes of a stranger or someone who isn't paying close attention, they probably look the same. But anyone familiar with me will immediately see how much this skull resembles my face. You don't just make things out of metal, Simon; you're a true artist. This is evident in each of the three amazing creations you made for me and, of course, in your photographs.”
"I just take pictures of different things." Ghost interrupted his beloved human’s inspired speech. “Nowadays, literally everyone with a modern smartphone does that.”
“That's not the same thing at all!” Johnny instantly objected.
He usually listened to what his demon said, respecting and trusting his experience, but now they were talking about art, which was something the sergeant knew much more about. Yes, he didn't know how to work with molten metal, and his photography was pretty mediocre, but he understood what made a particular thing art and how to distinguish an artist from a craftsman. The latter can make surprisingly beautiful, high-quality, functional, and pleasant things, take beautiful photographs, or even paint, write songs or prose, but there will be no soul in his works. An artist's creations may be imperfect, fragile, unfinished, and destructive; they don't necessarily have to depict something objectively beautiful and attractive. On the contrary, they may show something scary, sad, ugly, and disgusting, but it will be impossible to take your eyes off them, because the artist puts his soul into every creation. You just need to be able to see it.
“Nowadays, it's really easy to photograph anything you want, but most of these photos are the same, even though they are taken by different people.” Soap said, trying to explain to Ghost things that were analyzed mostly by feelings rather than logic, and not wanting to talk about soul. "The same angles, the same objects, the same poses and facial expressions. And that's not a bad thing, because such photos help a person preserve the memory of the good moments in his life. However, such pictures are only valuable to the person who took them and perhaps to a few members of his family or his friends. It's not art."
Ghost listened attentively, trying to understand what Johnny wanted to explain to him. There was nothing related to art in his memories of his human life. Obviously, he didn't understand it when he was alive, so could he be expected to understand it now? Johnny seemed to believe he could, so he continued talking, squeezing Ghost's hand in his.
“Art is when your creation has value for many people. Regardless of whether they know you or not, regardless of their principles, morals, and all that shit.” Finally, Soap formulated his opinion, looking Ghost in the eye. “When it comes to photography, to make it art, you must first see ordinary things in an extraordinary way, and second, be able to photograph them so that others can see what you see. And that's what you do, Simon. And that's fucking beautiful.”
Johnny continued to look at the demon, who, as always, sat motionless and stared back with his eerie eyes. It was impossible to tell whether he understood the human's rather confused explanations, was trying to analyze everything he had heard, or was thinking about something else entirely. Soap knew that there was no point in asking any questions now; he had dumped too much information on Ghost, and now he needed time to sort it all out. Only when he had done that and thought carefully about everything he had heard would it be possible to continue this conversation. So Johnny just kept quiet, stroking the demon's hand, and thought about how wonderful it would be to organize an exhibition of his photographs. There he could see with his own eyes the people who would come to see and perhaps buy some of his pictures, who would praise the quality of his works and admire his extraordinary vision.
The sudden dream that popped into the sergeant's head unexpectedly turned into a plan that was still completely vague, but it didn't matter. Because if John MacTavish had planned something, he would definitely do it, no matter how difficult the task might be. Soap had already begun to recall all his numerous friends and acquaintances and think about which of them could help when suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by Ghost's emotionless voice.
“Hell yeah!” Johnny agreed and smiled, imagining how bright his mask would look. "The guys in the repair hangar have high-quality, durable paint that they use to make various markings on the helos. However, it won't have time to dry if we do it tomorrow before takeoff.”
“Then I’ll do it tonight.” Ghost said, taking the shiny faceplate from Soap's hands and standing up. “You go to bed, Johnny. It's too late."
The sergeant nodded and followed the lieutenant to the entrance of the residential block, but both were forced to stop so as not to be seen by the patrol, which was making sure that no one was wandering around the base after lights out. Waiting for the soldiers to pass and move to a safe distance, Soap hugged Ghost, pressing his whole body against him. He stood on tiptoe, wrapping his arms around his neck, and the lieutenant, surprising even himself, tilted his head, lifted the edge of his mask, and covered the sergeant's soft, warm lips with his own.
“Go, Johnny.” He said, adjusting his mask after hearing the patrol move away and reluctantly breaking the kiss.
“Will you come to me when you're done? I'll be waiting.” Soap exhaled passionately, touched his lips with his fingers, and disappeared inside the building.
Ghost watched him go, then, blending into the shadows, walked to the repair hangar.
The 27th part of my demon!Ghost AU. The members of TF141 are forced to remain in Luanda until all the controversial issues surrounding their latest mission are resolved. Captain Price defends the decisions made by him and Lieutenant Silva. Soap recovers from his injury, while Ghost tries to devote all his time to caring for him. He analyzes everything that happened during and after the mission, and with each passing day, more and more doubts arise in the depths of his sold soul.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26
Caretaking, conversations, doubts. 3696 words.
Ghost silently entered the room, approached the bed, and froze, staring at Johnny. It was quite late, but he was still asleep, and in his condition, that was a good thing. Fortunately, the concussion he had suffered during the last mission turned out to be quite mild, and he was able to be here instead of in the hospital. But Soap received permission to do so along with a long list of recommendations from his doctor, compliance with which was taken under control by Ghost.
That crazy mission in which everything didn't go according to plan and turned into pure improvisation had been over for five days, but 141 was still in Angola. There were two reasons for this. First, due to his injury, Soap couldn't travel by plane. Second, few local authorities, both military and civilian, had many questions about the mission. And since Lieutenant Silva couldn't answer, all this fell on the heads of Price and Laswell, who even flew to Angola for this purpose.
You can keep reading here or on the Ao3
All the participants in this madness who were lucky enough to survive were taken to Luanda. The wounded were given the necessary aid; the Angolan Special Forces were placed in a military unit, and the British ones were housed in government accommodation, where Laswell joined them. It was a fairly nice house with four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and everything necessary for living and even some comfort. It was usually used to house officials, senior officers, and other dignitaries associated with the government who came to the capital on business.
The interior of the house was quite luxurious but completely devoid of even the slightest coziness. The bedrooms, each with two double beds, were identical and more reminiscent of hotel rooms; the same could be said about the bathrooms. All common areas were faceless, like a picture in a magazine advertising some fashionable furniture store. The kitchen had quite a lot of various household appliances, but there were no basic items such as pots and pans. However, members of 141 often had to live in much worse conditions, so instead of complaining, they quickly acquired everything that was missing here. Despite his condition, Soap managed to buy a few cheap but attractive paintings at a fair, which they hung in the living room instead of the soulless and probably very fashionable abstractions of this season.
“You're doing it again.” Soap said sleepily, distracting Ghost from his thoughts.
“Doing what?” The lieutenant asked.
“Standing there staring at me while I sleep.” The sergeant explained.
“Sorry.” Ghost said emotionlessly, as always.
He wanted to take a step back, but a sincere and gentle smile appeared on Johnny's lips, showing that he wasn't angry. To tell the truth, he had long since stopped getting angry about this creepy habit of his beloved demon.
“How are you feeling, Johnny?” The lieutenant asked, staring intently at his face.
“Mmm...” Soap stretched sweetly, looking at Ghost with sleepy eyes. “I think I'm better. At least my head hasn't hurt since this morning, and that's something to be happy about.”
The lieutenant nodded and, while Johnny reluctantly crawled out of bed and got dressed, prepared the meds, which, according to the doctor's instructions, the sergeant should take immediately after waking up. As he took the necessary pills out of the bottles, Ghost watched out of the corner of his eye as Johnny wandered around the room, looking in the closet for clothes, searching for a sock that had disappeared again, and rummaging through the drawers of the dresser where clean towels were kept. The sergeant was already moving quite confidently, but two days ago he had been suffering from sudden bouts of dizziness. Often it was so severe that he literally couldn't stand on his feet and would surely have caused himself new injuries if Ghost hadn't been constantly by his side.
Johnny obediently took his pills, then pressed himself against the demon with his whole body and looked up at him with an incredibly sad look in his blue eyes.
“I’m really feeling better.” He said. “And I really like that you're always there, but not when I need to pee.”
In fact, Johnny felt uncomfortable even in less intimate circumstances; for some reason, he felt very awkward doing ordinary things like brushing his teeth or shaving under the watchful, unblinking gaze of Ghost's eerie black eyes. Of course, he wasn't afraid or angry; it's just that some things, even the most mundane, are more comfortable to do alone.
Now the demon couldn't understand his human's feelings, but he remembered that when he was alive, he had felt something similar from time to time. This usually happened during long missions far from civilization, when very different people had to live together in a very confined space where privacy was impossible.
“Okay.” Ghost said reluctantly, unable to withstand Johnny's sad, pleading gaze. “Go ahead, just don't lock the door. I'll be nearby, so...”
“So if I feel sick, I'll call you right away.” Soap finished impatiently for Ghost, grabbed a towel, and hurried to the bathroom before the lieutenant could change his mind.
Due to his injury, Johnny had mood swings, sometimes very sharp and rapid, but so far today everything was fine. Ghost looked at him intently as he came out of the bathroom with his hair wet from the shower, and Soap smiled at him again. He even took the lieutenant by the elbow himself before they started descending to the first floor of the house. Yesterday, when Ghost tried to awkwardly support Johnny so he wouldn't fall down the stairs due to dizziness, he got terribly angry. At first, Soap yelled that he hated being treated like a little kid, and then he almost cried from guilt over his aggression toward the lieutenant, who was just trying to take care of him. The doctor warned that this could happen for a while due to the concussion, but he also said that for a speedy recovery, the sergeant needed rest and no stress. All this was very difficult for Ghost, especially considering other things that deprived him of peace and caused feelings he did not understand.
“What's for breakfast?” Soap asked, sitting down at the table. “Let me guess, that bloody oatmeal again?”
Food was another problem that Ghost didn't know how to solve. The doctor had set a strict diet for Johnny, banning almost everything he loved. All his comrades-in-arms and even Laswell tried to cheer him up. They varied the foods he was allowed to eat, even though they had no particular culinary talents, and even ate the same things as Soap so as not to tease him with the sight and smell of more delicious food. Johnny saw that everyone was trying to help him and tried to be grateful, but he couldn't hide his sadness from the demon and humans who knew him so well.
Ghost placed two plates in front of Soap. One did indeed contain oatmeal with bananas cut into almost perfect cubes and sprinkled with cinnamon. The demon warmed it up by holding it in his palms. The other plate held toast with cheese, which Ghost had made in the most ordinary way—using a toaster. Pouring orange juice into a glass, he almost wanted Johnny to say something about his use of technology, but his beloved human was already pouting and listlessly poking at the oatmeal. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Soap put the first spoonful of porridge in his mouth and literally a second later froze, staring in surprise at Ghost, who was standing motionless opposite him.
“Fuck, Lt., what is this?” He exclaimed, taking a second spoonful. “Did Gaz finally learn how to cook? Or whose turn is it today?”
“Gaz and Roach are helping the mother of one of Silva’s guys today, remember?” After a short pause, Ghost said, watching the oatmeal disappear from the plate. “They left early; they didn't even have breakfast.”
“Oh, right.” Soap nodded.
Now he remembered how Kyle had told him about his and Gary's plans. In fact, not only two members of 141 were supposed to go there to help, but all of Lieutenant Silva's soldiers, except for the wounded. One of the last was Dami, the son of the woman who needed help either moving or removing the junk left behind by the former owners of the house she had bought. He promised his mother he would do it when he returned from the mission, but he was still in the hospital, so he asked his comrades for a favor.
“So, this is the work of Cap or Laswell, and I can't decide which of these options is less fantastic.” Soap said cheerfully and pushed the empty plate away from him.
“They didn't even have time to drink their coffee before they were called to the ministry, or wherever all this bloody debriefing is taking place.” Ghost shrugged and then began clearing the empty dishes from the table.
For half a minute, Soap silently watched the lieutenant's back as he took off his gloves and carefully washed the plates, ignoring the presence of a dishwasher. Then a slightly silly but very happy smile appeared on his face, and he said:
“So it was you! You made me breakfast!”
Ghost didn’t answer, putting the dishes away. Closing the cupboard, he took his gloves but didn't put them on, returned to the table, and sat down opposite Johnny.
“How did you learn to cook so deliciously?” Soap asked with his eyes wide with surprise. “You don't eat at all!”
“My human memory is gradually returning.” The lieutenant replied, paused for a moment, and continued. “I often cooked for myself and Tommy when we were children.”
Johnny looked at him intently but didn't ask any questions. Despite the neutral wording, he understood that if children had to cook for themselves, it meant that things weren’t going well in their family.
“That was very delicious.” Soap said again, reaching out and covering Ghost's hand with his own. “Thank you, luv.”
Johnny uttered the last word automatically, without thinking, because in his mind he had been calling Ghost like that for a long time. He didn't even realize what he had said at first; only when he noticed the demon freeze and stare at him did he feel a little embarrassed and shrug his shoulders.
“Well, what?” Soap asked. “I love you, you love me; so what's the problem?”
“Nothing.” Ghost replied.
Hearing this from his beloved human was pleasant, perhaps even too much so, because a familiar pain flared up in his chest. Fortunately, Soap did not pursue the subject. Watching Ghost prepare the next batch of pills for him to take after eating, he began to chat about various nonsense, as was often the case during their late evening smoke breaks at the base. Only when Ghost took him to the living room and helped him settle down on one of the sofas did Johnny change the subject to something more serious.
“You never told me about your second visit to Lieutenant Silva.” He said, enjoying how carefully the gloomy demon covered him with a soft blanket.
Soap, like all the other members of 141, knew that Ghost had only been able to pull the Angolan commander out of that hell thanks to his demonic abilities. It was unknown how much Marcos had seen, or if he had seen anything at all, and Price decided that it was up to the demon himself to find out. Anyone from 141 could have done it, but the captain obviously thought it would be a good lesson in the art of human communication. If Ghost had any emotions about the task before him, he didn't show them and just nodded silently.
During the first visit, conversation was impossible because Silva was still in too serious a condition to speak or even think coherently. Ghost wasn't even sure that the human he had rescued recognized him. So he only spoke with Silva's doctor, who told him about his injuries, which turned out to be not as serious as everyone thought. Ghost didn't know how to react, so he just nodded and said the first thing that came to mind.
“Will he return to duty?” The demon asked, looking at the doctor with his terrifying eyes.
“Rehabilitation will be long and difficult, but I'm sure he will.” The doctor replied.
Yesterday, the doctor called the house number; Roach answered the phone and told Ghost that Lieutenant Silva was feeling better and could talk now. Remembering the captain's orders, the demon went to the hospital. When he returned, Johnny was feeling unwell and was in no mood to talk, but now he had the strength to be curious. Ghost didn't really want to talk about everything that had happened yesterday at the hospital, but he knew he couldn't keep quiet, so he started talking.
... When Ghost entered the ward, Silva seemed to be asleep, but he opened his eyes when he heard the sound of the door closing. He slowly turned his bandaged head, and in his gaze, clouded by medication and pain, the demon clearly discerned recognition and... fear.
“Hello.” Ghost spoke first, approaching the bed. “How are you feeling?”
While waiting for the doctor's report, the demon prepared for his conversation with the lieutenant by watching several movies and picking out phrases that humans usually say when visiting the wounded or sick. However, he did not expect this stockpile to be enough for the conversation the captain had entrusted him with.
“It's like a house fell on me.” Silva replied in a weak voice, in which some tension could be discerned, and then smiled slightly. "You pulled me out of there, so thank you. I just don't understand how you did it.”
"I decided to take a chance, and I managed to find a way through the rubble and fire." Ghost replied, sitting down on a chair next to the cot.
It wasn't the best answer, and both lieutenants knew it. Getting through an area where an explosion had just occurred was a one-in-a-million chance. Not to mention that no competent commander would ever allow his subordinate to take such a risk. Especially when there was no confirmation that anyone had survived that inferno.
“When I was lying there...” Silva began slowly, staring intently into the darkness beneath Ghost's hood. “When I saw you, it looked like you were walking right through fire.”
“After a house fell on you, you might see things like that.” The demon shrugged, betraying none of the tension that had arisen.
“Yes, probably.” Marcos said thoughtfully and sighed quietly, grimacing slightly from the pain in his broken ribs. “How is your sergeant feeling?”
“He's recovering.” Ghost replied briefly. “He looks even better than our captain, who is dragged to meetings with those damn headquarters bureaucrats and forced to write tons of paperwork.”
“Yes, I know.” Silva sighed again. “The same thing awaits me. But I don't regret it. Ndala is dead, and that's what matters.”
Even during the mission, the members of 141 realized that their ally hated the rebel leader so much that it must be something personal. Then Soap told his comrades about what happened on the second floor of headquarters and how obsessed Silva was, ordering him to leave, confirming their assumptions. Perhaps Angolan soldiers could explain something, but to do so would mean telling them everything that had happened, and the members of 141 decided not to do that in either private or, even more so, official conversations.
“What did he take from you?” Ghost asked. “Or who?”
Marcos looked at him silently for a few seconds, probably wondering whether to answer, but then he spoke.
“My two best friends I knew since we were five.” He said. "We lived next door to each other, went to the same school, and spent a lot of time together. We even planned to join the army together, but then that fucking Ndala showed up."
Silva's friends were Africans, young sixteen-year-old idealists, and it is precisely such people who are most easily caught in the web of lies and propaganda. These two, like Marcos himself, wanted to make their country better, and the ideology promoted by Ndala, embellished with beautiful words, fit in very well with their own values. There was no place for white people in his army, but the friends did not abandon Silva, even when they officially joined the rebels. They didn’t see the evil, sincerely believing that Ndala wanted to bring peace and tranquility to Angola. They died while attempting to rob a small military unit, along with all the other participants in this crime. A large group of experienced soldiers under the command of Ndala himself was not far away, and they would have had time to come to the rescue and save their comrades, but this didn't happen. The rebel leader decided that the lives of young people, who would need to be trained for a long time to become real soldiers, were not worth the risk. He led his combat group deeper into the jungle, and all the participants in the failed robbery were killed when they tried to break out of the encirclement on their own.
“You know, Ryan, I thought that I would be happy when this bastard died.” Silva said. "That I would feel relieved by his death. But that was a mistake. I chased him for many years, and now I feel only fatigue and devastation. Yes, he's dead, and that's great, but his death won't bring my friends back. And many like them, who were taken in by pretty words and became puppets of a sick bastard for whom their lives were worthless."
“But he will no longer sacrifice any lives to his ideas.” Ghost said.
“Yes, of course.” Silva smiled bitterly and covered his eyes wearily...
Ghost finished speaking and felt Soap's warm fingers grasp and squeeze his hand. Although the demon's story was dry, almost official, and without any details, Johnny understood what was left unsaid. It was, to some extent, similar to Ghost's own situation, who craved revenge as much as Marcos Silva.
“You're upset by what he said, aren't you?” Soap asked quietly, gently stroking the demon's wrist with his thumb. “Talk to me, Simon, please.”
“I can't get what he said out of my head.” Ghost covered Soap's hand with his other one, enjoying the feeling of its lively warmth."That revenge didn't bring him peace because it didn't undo all the evil caused by the man he hated. Revenge that had eaten away at his soul for many years and taken up so much of his time and energy. What if he felt better now if he had spent all that time on something else? Something... less destructive?"
Soap looked at Ghost and, despite the heavy and gloomy topic of conversation, couldn't help but feel proud of him. He, who was much more obsessed with revenge than Silva had been, didn't dismiss the Angolan lieutenant's words but began to ponder and analyze them and, as a result, came to quite correct conclusions, letting them exist only as doubts for now, rather than as confident assertions. John MacTavish was not one to call for forgiveness of all offenses, but in Ghost's case, his fate depended on that forgiveness. Or rather, their shared fate.
“Ndala's death wasn't the result of all those years of chasing him, but rather a fortunate coincidence on that particular day.” Soap said thoughtfully, choosing his words carefully. “So you're right, all the time Silva spent searching and pursuing, he could have spent, for example, with his family or friends, and nothing would have changed. But he would probably be happier than he is now.”
Johnny could have finished voicing this thought himself, but he wanted Ghost to do it. He wanted the demon to come to the final conclusion himself, rather than simply agreeing with what he had heard. So Johnny said nothing more, just looked at Ghost with all the tenderness he was capable of, and waited.
“That mercenary, Sword, said something about people not having to take revenge because God does it for them.” Finally, Ghost said. "What if that's really true? After all, it wasn't Silva who killed Ndala, but some piece of metal that was driven into his chest by a blast wave. So maybe that was God's plan all along, and all Silva had to do was wait?”
"Maybe you need to too?" Johnny asked quietly, unable to restrain himself, squeezing Ghost's hand.
If the demon could, he would have sighed. This thought had already crossed his mind, but it provoked strong resistance, anger, and confusion. Remembering his past and the details of his deal with the devil (or with the demon, if Sword was to be believed), he began to feel a burning, fierce hatred for his abuser. Perhaps if it weren't for Johnny, his love for him, and the frightening uncertainty of what might happen after revenge, Ghost would have already carried it out, taking advantage of the lack of constant supervision as he had at Albright's base. For the sake of his beloved human, he could have refused to make Roba answer for everything he had done, but forgive him?..
“I don't know.” Ghost admitted honestly, looking into Johnny's eyes. “I don't know what to do.”
“You don't have to decide anything right now.” Soap said softly. “Just think about it, okay? Time will pass, and the decision will come.”
“Okay, Johnny.” The demon agreed, knowing that the human understood human emotions much better than he did.
Soap smiled at him and then pulled his hand; Ghost, already knowing what that meant, got up from the chair. He lay down on the edge of the sofa and hugged Johnny, who, finding himself in the safest and coziest place in the whole world, closed his eyes and fell asleep. Gradually, his sleep became deep and peaceful, and he did not wake up even when Ghost carefully got up to go to the kitchen and start preparing dinner for his human.
The 26th part of my demon!Ghost AU. The enemies turned out to be much more numerous and powerful than had been anticipated during the planning stage of the mission. However, neither TF141 members nor Angolan Special Forces are accustomed to retreating, especially when so much is at stake.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25
Action, mission, chaos. 5842 words.
The events that unfolded on the deserted road had almost nothing in common with the intelligence data used to plan the operation involving British and Angolan Special Forces.
Yes, the representatives of one of the parties who arrived for the negotiations were indeed smugglers, but they were not dealing in precious stones but in weapons. Judging by the accent and mannerisms, their leader was American, and he had brought with him at least three dozen thugs, armed no less than Price and Silva's men. They arrived in two trucks, and although their bodies were covered with tarpaulins, it wasn’t difficult to guess what cargo was inside.
Yes, representatives of the other side did indeed have diamonds, but they weren't illegal miners, and for their treasure they wanted not money, but weapons. There were at least as many of them as the first group, and they arrived in several obviously self-made buggies and old, not to say ancient, pickup trucks. They were also armed, but compared to the American and his men, they looked more like vagrants than worthy business partners, even if they were involved in criminal activities. There was not a single white person among them, and they were led by a huge burly man with an unkempt beard and dark eyes filled with some kind of insane fury.
You can keep reading here or on the Ao3
“That's Ndala.” Silva's voice suddenly sounded in Price's radio headset. "He leads a group of people who call themselves ultra-radical rebels, but in fact they are ordinary terrorists. He was hit hard a couple of years ago, after which he went into hiding and did it so well that no searches yielded any results, and some even began to think that he and his scum had died somewhere in the jungle."
“He looks pretty good for a dead man.” The captain muttered in response, switching his radio to the general channel and asking. “Does anyone hear what they're talking about?”
“Aye, Cap.” MacTavish’s voice replied. “Give me a minute.”
All members of 141 immediately realized that it wasn't Soap who heard, but Ghost. Fortunately, neither Lieutenant Silva nor his men knew for sure how close Lieutenant Ryan's combat group was hiding to the road, so no one had any doubts or asked any unnecessary questions.
“They're bargaining.” Finally, Soap spoke again. “It looks like this isn't their first deal. Ndala wants to pay the same amount as before, but the American says the special order costs more.”
“What the fuck kind of special order?” Silva asked grimly.
MacTavish paused again, probably listening to Ghost or waiting with him for the enemies to explain themselves.
“The American is saying something about a risk premium.” Soap continued. “Something about his house being almost in the center.”
“To hell with his fucking house!” Marcos exclaimed. “How is that related to the special order?”
This time, MacTavish paused only briefly before repeating the American's words verbatim.
“If my house is damaged, who will compensate me for the destruction when they catch you and hang you after the fireworks display you want to put on in Luanda?” Soap said and fell silent, shocked by the sudden realization.
“Explosives.” The captain said slowly, also putting all the pieces of the puzzle together.
“It looks like Ndala wants to buy a lot of explosives from the American and carry out a terrorist attack in the capital.” Marcos added, clenching his fists.
At that moment, Price regretted that Silva's unit had been sent on this mission with TF141. He had nothing against these guys; on the contrary, he respected them for their professionalism, but it was precisely because of their presence that Ghost couldn't go out on that damn road and destroy everyone there.
“Silva.” Price called out. “They're about to make a deal and go their separate ways. We have to decide what to do, and decide quickly.”
The situation was shit, one from which it was impossible to emerge victorious. Price and Silva could have acted according to protocol, i.e., canceled the mission because it was based on false information. The main objective couldn't be achieved without a fight, and a successful fight in this terrain was impossible against an enemy force that outnumbered both units by at least four to one. Of course, once their soldiers are safe, the captain and the lieutenant will immediately report everything they have seen and heard, including the terrorist attack being planned by the rebel terrorists. Unfortunately, both commanders understood perfectly well that even if their report reached the higher command, even if they believed the information, without knowing exactly when Ndala planned to carry out the explosions, it would be impossible to prevent them.
“They made their bloody deal.” Soap's voice in the captain's earpiece distracted him from his thoughts. “They're moving the boxes from the trucks to the pickups.”
“We can't pursue both of them.” Price said to Marcos. “We'll have to let one of them go. I'd let the American go and focus on Ndala, but it's your country, Silva, so it's up to you.”
“They'll be out of sight before we get out of our hiding places.” The Angolan lieutenant spoke grimly.
“But first, Sergeant Sanderson will get close to them and attach a tracker to one of these cars.” The captain said. “You decide which one.”
Hearing this, Roach perked up. He activated the miniature tracking device, put it in the pocket of his tactical vest, and began to slowly approach the road, hiding from the enemy's gaze. However, both the American and his men and the rebel terrorists were focused on their own business, which made Gary's task a little easier.
“Let's track down Ndala.” Lieutenant Silva said decisively. “Find his base. And destroy it.”
Roach was already too close to the road to say anything out loud, but he understood his task and, sneaking to the end of the column of terrorist vehicles, chose the best moment and stuck the tracker to one of them. Sanderson reached as far as he could under the car to ensure that the small device remained undetected for as long as possible, then quickly darted off the road and dropped behind some scrubby bushes a second before one of the terrorists looked in his direction.
“Good work, son.” Price praised Roach. “Now get back to Ghost and track their movements.”
“Yes, sir.” Roach muttered, crawling away from the road; once he reached a safer hiding place, he got to his feet and, crouching low, ran to his combat group's position.
When Silva saw the red line marking Ndala's convoy route on Sanderson's tablet, he wanted to rush after them, but Price stopped him. It was obvious that they couldn't catch up with the terrorists on foot, or it would take several more days, which the two units probably didn't have. Therefore, if they really wanted to stop the terrorist attack in Luanda, they needed to find some kind of transportation.
“Are there any not abandoned roads nearby, Lieutenant?” Price asked Silva.
“Yes.” Marcos replied, unhappy that the captain had stopped him. “According to the tracker, these bastards even drove several dozen kilometers along one of them before turning into the jungle.”
“Then we should go to it.” Price said calmly, as if not noticing the lieutenant's irritation. “If there's any way to get transportation around here, it's on the road.”
In this case, ‘get’ meant borrow or steal, because there was no guarantee that the vehicles would stay in one piece. Such actions would surely cause Marcos a lot of trouble with his commanders, but right now he wasn't concerned with such trifles, unlike other, more important issues.
“One car won't be enough, Captain.” Silva shook his head. “People here mostly drive pickups or small buggies, and there are sixteen of us.”
“Then we'll approach the Ndala’s base in groups.” Price shrugged. “Those who arrive first can do some preliminary reconnaissance while waiting for the others.”
There were too many gaps in this plan. For example, the captain could hardly have imagined that even on the not abandoned road it was possible to spend the whole day without seeing a single car. The Angolan commander knew this very well, but he didn't say anything because there were no alternatives. No one considered the option of Lieutenant Silva making an official request for transport because even if his commanders decided to be generous, the vehicles wouldn't arrive until late at night, if not tomorrow morning. But, most likely, upon learning all the details, they would simply cancel the mission and recall both units, which couldn't be allowed to happen.
Some of the soldiers remained by the road to wait for transport; the rest settled a little further away, in the shade of trees half-dead from drought. While humans divided the remaining water and food among themselves, the demon passed by them and, coming up to Captain Price, gestured for him to step aside and talk.
“Do you have a better offer, Lieutenant?” Price asked when they were far enough away from the others.
“Negative.” Ghost shook his head. “I have a problem. If I don't get souls on this mission, I'll start to weaken and won't be able to protect you anymore.”
The captain looked at the lieutenant with concern and frowned. Until now, he hadn't really thought about the fact that demonic strength needed to recharge just like normal human one. Ghost had always been so powerful and had never even hinted at fatigue, so his need to devour souls seemed like something unnecessary. None of the 141, not even Soap, had ever asked the lieutenant if he was tired or needed anything special. They took everything he did for them for granted, and now Price was very ashamed of that.
“I'll include only our lads in the first group that will go to the Ndala’s base.” The captain said, placing his hand on Ghost's shoulder. "You'll lead them, and you'll start the infiltration without waiting for the others. That way, you can get what you need.”
“Lieutenant Silva won’t be pleased.” The demon shook his head.
“I'll take care of it.” Price promised and glanced toward the road. “Let's go, Lieutenant; it looks like the Angolans are stopping some kind of transport.”
As Ghost said, Marcos was unhappy with the captain's decision to send only his people in the first group, but he didn't argue and maintained the subordination. He even ordered his soldiers to help load onto the confiscated buggy Sergeant MacTavish's explosives that he had taken from the meeting place of the two criminals. After that, there was barely enough place in the small vehicle for three soldiers: Ghost, Soap, and Roach.
Everything had been planned on the way to the rebel base, so once the three members of 141 arrived, they began to act without further ado. Sergeant Sanderson grabbed Sergeant MacTavish's sniper rifle, L96A1, ventured a little deeper into the jungle, and climbed a tree. From there, he would observe the enemies, keep in touch with Captain Price, and help his two comrades, who would meanwhile infiltrate the base. Roach was quite satisfied with this plan. He liked the grim lieutenant, but he had no desire to watch up close him deprive all sorts of rascals of their immortal souls. To be honest, he didn't want to see it even from a distance, so he hoped that Ghost would do it inside one of the buildings.
Recovering the demon's energy was the priority, but since he and Soap were going to infiltrate the enemy base anyway, Price ordered MacTavish to set explosives there. Roach, who had already taken up his position and was surveying the base, briefly described it to Soap while he and Ghost moved around the perimeter, looking for the best place to infiltrate.
“Bravo 7-1, how do you copy?” Gary's voice sounded in Johnny's radio headset.
“Loud and clear, Bravo 7-2.” Soap replied and glanced at Ghost, who was crouching near the fence and staring intently at it. “Looks like we're ready to infiltrate.”
Roach didn't ask any more questions. He could see the figures of his comrades, he could see Ghost frozen in front of the perimeter fence, and he understood that the lieutenant was either thinking or using his supernatural abilities, which sometimes took him a while. Instead of asking questions, Sanderson continued to describe what he saw through his scope, slowly moving the barrel of his rifle from side to side.
“Looks like they have a fuel truck there; I can see part of the tank. Even if it's empty, it could still explode.” Roach said. "I can see the vehicles they arrived in. They're all empty, parked next to a large building. Maybe they moved everything they bought there."
Soap listened carefully, mentally mapping out the base. Sanderson, having finished describing the area, tried to count at least the approximate number of enemies, but it proved futile.
“They're clearly preparing for something.” He said grimly. “There are a lot of people, all armed and rushing back and forth. I can't say how many there are in total.”
“Johnny.” Ghost interrupted, continuing to stare at the chain-link fence. “It's time to go.”
He grabbed the metal mesh and tore it apart with his bare hands, then stepped back to let the sergeant pass. Just as he was about to squeeze through the gap, the lieutenant said:
“Don't touch the fence.”
Soap didn't ask any questions. He realized that the perimeter was probably electrified and that Ghost was somehow stabilizing the voltage in place to prevent the alarm from going off. He slipped into the base and found himself near the wall of a long temporary building made of rusty corrugated iron. There were no windows here, but patrols passed by from time to time, so it was dangerous to stay in one place for too long. Ghost crawled in after Soap and stared at the fence again before starting to move. Under his gaze, the gap in the metal mesh closed, the torn ends of the wires connected, and electric current flowed through them again.
“Bravo 7-2, try to figure out where their generator is.” Soap said quietly, following Ghost along the building.
“Copy.” Sanderson replied and began to scan the base through the scope again, trying to find the place where the most wires were connected.
Busy with this, Roach didn't see a patrol of three Ndala's soldiers stumble upon his comrades. In fact, no one except Soap saw or heard anything.
The demon began his deadly harvest with these unfortunate bastards. He clenched his fist sharply, and the hearts of the enemies burst, ending their lives in an instant. Johnny saw the demon's eyes flash with greedy red lights as the first three white clouds, which a second ago had been the souls of living humans, reached for his outstretched hand.
The rest of the soldiers, under the command of Captain Price and Lieutenant Silva, reached their destination as night fell on Angola. They were met by Roach, while Soap took up his position on the tree with his L96A1. Ghost stayed at the base to cut off the power supply when the time came. He didn't have a radio, but unlike the enemies, he could see Johnny with his demonic eyes and was ready to act on a prearranged signal.
“Report, Sergeant.” Price ordered as Silva approached him and Roach.
“While we were observing, five vehicles and two helos with soldiers arrived at this base.” Sanderson began. “There are now far more people and equipment on the territory than this base can accommodate. We couldn't even begin to count them, but there is good news too.”
“What could be good here?” Marcos asked gloomily.
“Taking advantage of the chaos, Lieutenant Ryan and Sergeant MacTavish were able to infiltrate inside the perimeter.” Roach replied. "Soap set his explosives under the fuel truck and in the ammo warehouse and left the base, while Ghost stayed behind to cut off their power when we're ready to infiltrate. He's waiting for a signal from Sergeant MacTavish."
The captain nodded, understanding more from his sergeant's last sentence than Lieutenant Silva did. Ghost probably stayed behind not only to cut off the generator but also to recover his strength. The chaos that reigned at the base was only to the lieutenant's advantage in this matter—when there are so many people from clearly different units in a limited area, it is almost impossible to notice the disappearance of a few of them.
“Captain, you must lead the assault.” Lieutenant Silva said decisively. “My men will follow all your and your sergeants' orders. And I must get Ndala. Only I know him well enough to prevent him from hiding in the crowd.”
Overall, Price agreed with this plan; he just had to work out the details, taking into account the peculiarities of working with an unusual member of his unit. However, it didn't take him long. He began to explain his plan to the Angolans, to his sergeants Garrick and Sanderson, who were nearby, and to MacTavish, who could hear every word through his radio headset.
“Lieutenant Silva, have one of your snipers take my sergeant's position and be ready to replace him. Have the other one set up on the opposite side of the base.” Price began. "Gaz, Roach, you'll take three men each. I'll take two, and we'll join up with Lieutenant Ryan. Soap, after he signals Ghost, will join you, Silva; you could use some cover too."
Each combat group received its entry point and priority tasks, after which the soldiers dispersed to their starting positions. After making sure everyone was ready, Price took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and gave the order to begin.
As soon as the base was plunged into darkness, chaos reigned. Ghost didn't just turn off the generator; channeling his demonic power, which now overflowed within him, he melted everything inside the scratched, rusty hull. This made it impossible to restore electricity. Undoubtedly, the rebels who lived at this base permanently had clear instructions for accidents like this, but the presence of a large number of people from other places almost nullified all their efforts. There weren't enough flashlights for everyone, and the unfamiliar faces around immediately began to seem hostile, especially considering that their owners were rushing around the base without any plan. For the soldiers who arrived today, this base was an unknown place; they didn't know where anything was and didn't understand whose orders they should follow. In this chaos, no one noticed how outsiders had infiltrated the territory—first three small groups, and then another consisting of only two people.
Ghost didn’t have a radio and didn’t know his allies' plan, but he was sure that one of the infiltration groups was looking for him. Since his task was to disable the generator, it was better for him to stay somewhere nearby. The Angolans and British moved without flashlights, lowering their helmet-mounted night vision goggles over their eyes. Ghost raised his body temperature to human levels so that no one would ask unnecessary questions. He didn't have such a device, but he hoped that Lieutenant Silva's men wouldn't notice it during the battle. He pulled his hood tighter and then saw Captain Price with two Angolans, so he went out to meet them.
Sergeant Sanderson's combat group's task was to gather information. It was unknown whether this base was the main one or whether Ndala had chosen it for another reason, but it was clear that there were others. In addition, the rebels could also be living secretly in towns and villages across the country—spying, recruiting people, or simply waiting for the signal to take action. Many people followed Ndala, and a group of this size is impossible to control without clear lists, registers, and other documentation. This is what Roach's group was looking for, because victory in this battle won't be victory in the war. Ndala was a smart and cunning leader, so he surely had a plan in case of his own arrest or death. Therefore, regardless of the outcome of this mission, the Angolan Armed Forces faced a long and exhausting struggle, in which any information about the members of the rebel group or their whereabouts would be a serious advantage.
Before starting to destroy the base, it was necessary to make sure that the enemies couldn't leave it, and this task fell on the shoulders of Price and Garrick's groups. The most important thing was to disable the helicopters as quickly as possible. The roar of one of these vehicles' engines was already breaking through the chaotic cacophony of sounds at the base. The captain took this upon himself, planning to use Ghost's supernatural abilities if they couldn't do it the usual way. Gaz remained to block the gates and destroy as much ground transportation as possible, or at least render it unusable.
All three combat groups tried to move as inconspicuously as possible, avoiding clashes whenever possible or using knives and pistols with silencers to quickly eliminate enemies. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Silva and Sergeant MacTavish didn’t engage in combat at all, hiding from the beams of flashlights and the gazes of the rebels' few thermal imagers and night vision devices. They were guided by one of the snipers, who managed to see Ndala through his scope. Unfortunately, there was no opportunity for a successful shot. The rebel leader was constantly blocked by other people, and then he went into one of the buildings, from where he gave orders through his most loyal followers. That's where Marcos and Soap headed, listening to the sniper's cues, while the chaos that had engulfed the base began to subside.
Price's group quickly and easily disabled the first helicopter, but they encountered serious resistance near the second one. Its engines were running, and the pilot was ready to take off at any moment. There were many ways to prevent this, such as throwing a grenade under the helicopter, killing the pilot with a well-aimed shot, or even simply shooting the propellers. But for all this, it was necessary to see the target, and Price's group was currently unable to do so. The rebels organized themselves and met their enemies with heavy fire, not allowing them to peek out of their covers even for a moment. Even so, Price could see that another group of enemies was quickly loading the familiar boxes of explosives aboard. Even if Ndala wasn't planning to escape in this helicopter but simply wanted to transport weapons for a future terrorist attack, this couldn't be allowed to happen.
“Ghost, can you get to those bastards?” Price asked, meaning, of course, to get there in a way that wouldn't look too fantastical to the allied Angolans.
“Yes.” The lieutenant replied, quickly calculating all the possible options.
“We've got your back.” The captain said, glancing at Lieutenant Silva's two soldiers. “Ready? Then go!”
One of the Angolans threw a smoke grenade, and Ghost rushed forward. The rebels were still firing at the covers where Price's group was hiding, but the loading was taking place outside the line of fire. The soldiers involved were too focused on their task and were confident that not a single human could reach them. Except that the one who emerged from the smoke clouds right next to them was not a human being.
“Time to die.” Ghost growled hoarsely, raised his assault rifle, and opened fire.
Gaz shoved a piece of cloth soaked in gasoline, which was spilled everywhere, into the pickup's gas tank, set it on fire, and quickly ran to where his men were hiding. They drew several enemies into a firefight, distracting their attention from Kyle, who managed to jump into cover a second before an explosion rocked behind him. It stunned the terrorists who were closer than the Special Forces, but the flames that flared up also illuminated the surrounding area, depriving Garrick and his soldiers of their advantage. They quickly ran into the darkness, but it was too late—the enemies regained their senses and opened fire again.
Crouching and firing wildly, the four Special Forces soldiers scattered in different directions, looking for new covers. Gaz jumped behind some concrete blocks but couldn't see if the rest of his combat group had managed to hide. Reloading his assault rifle, he asked this question over the radio. Two Angolans answered, but the third didn't. Garrick gritted his teeth, but there was no time for grief and guilt now. Most of the ground transport had already been taken out of action, but the gate was still open. Some terrorists began to realize that they were unlikely to win this battle and that the best thing they could do was to run away.
“The van near me is still working.” Gaz radioed his soldiers. “It can be used to block the gate. Cover me!”
After receiving confirmation, the sergeant rushed toward the vehicle he had mentioned, and bullets started whizzing around him again.
While three Angolans from Sergeant Sanderson's group were engaged in a firefight with the headquarters guards, distracting them from their patrol, Roach himself was already climbing inside through a broken window on the other side of the building. Two rebels ran past him so quickly that they didn't notice him, but the third was more alert and drew his pistol. Without a second thought, Roach lunged at him, ducked under his arm, and the bullet whizzed over his head. The sergeant pulled out his knife and stabbed his opponent in the side. Then he quickly moved behind him.
The wounded terrorist didn't have time to turn around and shoot again—Gary broke his neck with a sharp movement. He didn't waste time hiding the enemy he had killed. He pulled the knife out of the terrorist’s body, shook his head, and quickly looked around. He was standing in a corridor with doors on both sides, and behind one of them was what he had to find.
“I'm in.” Gary briefly radioed his soldiers. “I could use some help here.”
“Roger.” The reply came. “We're on our way.”
“Copy.” Roach said and, without waiting for the Angolans to arrive, opened the first door.
Once inside the first room that needed to be searched, Sanderson didn’t see MacTavish, who staggeringly walked down the corridor, or Captain Price's combat group meeting him at the entrance, having managed to eliminate the guards. Roach also didn't know that a battle was raging on the second floor of the headquarters, which had begun before he entered the building.
Silva and MacTavish managed to reach the target building before the enemies regained their composure and began to organize resistance. There were many people at the entrance, so the lieutenant pointed to a window on the other side. Breaking it, two soldiers climbed inside. Voices could already be heard from the opposite end of the corridor, and lanterns could be seen, so the lieutenant pulled the sergeant toward the stairs leading to the second floor, hoping they could hide there. But in the end, everything turned out even better.
The second floor of this building was clearly built later; it was much smaller and contained only one room with a large table in the center and walls covered with maps, photographs, and various documents. At the top of the stairs was a door that turned out to be unlocked, and, opening it slightly, Silva peered inside and saw the one he had been chasing for so long. Ndala was not alone; five men were gathered around him, but three of them soon left the room, not noticing the intruders lurking on either side of the door. There could be no better moment, so Marcos gestured to Soap to follow him and burst decisively into the second floor of the headquarters.
The fight with the two rebels who came to their leader's defense was short but very unsuccessful for Sergeant MacTavish. He was attacked by an opponent who was bigger than him and very skilled with a knife. Soap couldn't see how Silva was doing because he was focused on dodging the rapid attacks. With one of them, the enemy managed to cut the sergeant's helmet strap, causing it to slip off immediately. His night vision goggles were no longer where they should be, so Soap quickly tore off his helmet, blocked another attack with it, and tried to punch his opponent in the face. He succeeded, and the enraged enemy lunged at the sergeant and threw him against the wall. Soap hit his head so hard that he felt dizzy, but he still managed to realize that for a few seconds he was out of reach of the enemy's knife. Grabbing his pistol, he fired, and his opponent fell.
During the fight, Johnny heard several explosions, and now the flames burning at the base slightly illuminated the room. Everything was blurry before the sergeant's eyes, but he still managed to get up and realize that Silva had killed the second rebel and was ready to fight Ndala. Soap knew he had to help, but he could feel blood flowing from his ear and waves of nausea washing over him. The blow to the wall had probably caused a concussion, and Johnny knew he wouldn't be able to fight. However, it seemed that neither Marcos nor Ndala wanted him to.
“This is our personal matter!” The lieutenant spat with hatred in his voice. “Go, Soap, I’ll catch up!”
“Yes, kid, go.” The rebel leader agreed unexpectedly, then grinned with such fury that even the dim light from the fires couldn't hide it. “Only I wouldn't expect him to catch up with you if I were you.”
Johnny might have tried to do something, to intervene, but at that moment he heard the captain's voice in his radio headset. The sniper who had helped the lieutenant and the sergeant get there had told him where MacTavish was, and Price with his combat group was already on their way to headquarters.
“It's time for your bombs, Bravo 7-1.” Soap heard the captain's slightly breathless voice. “So whatever you're doing there, drop everything and get your asses out of there, copy?”
“Aye.” The sergeant replied briefly.
He wanted to tell Silva that they both had to go, but he was already fighting Ndala, who would have seemed like a real giant to anyone unfamiliar with Ghost. However, the lieutenant remained confident and seemed to know what he was doing, so Soap, whose thoughts were confused and prevented him from making his own decision, obeyed someone else's. Clinging to the railing, he began to slowly descend to the first floor of the headquarters.
Price was very dissatisfied with MacTavish's confused explanations as to why he had left without Silva, but seeing the sergeant's condition, he didn’t reproach him.
“Mission accomplished.” He said it instead, both to those nearby and to everyone else on the radio. “Bravo 6-2, Bravo 7-2, get your people out of the perimeter. Do you copy?”
“Yes, sir!” The two sergeants replied almost in unison.
The flames were spreading quickly through the base, so there was no time to waste. Glancing at the windows of the second floor of the headquarters, Price gestured to his men to follow him and switched channels on his radio.
“We're leaving, Silva.” He said without stopping. “If you're still alive, hurry up, because Soap is going to blow this place up as soon as we're out of the blast zone.”
There was no answer, and Price spat and quickened his pace, stepping around a burning pool of gasoline. Soap tried to keep up with the others, but he couldn't. Then Ghost easily picked him up in his arms and caught up with the captain.
Gaz and Roach led the Angolans as far away from the burning base as possible, and they all descended into a low-lying area that would provide additional protection from the blast wave. Price, despite his own words to Marcos, waited as long as he could. Only when snipers reported seeing terrorists leaving the base and fleeing into the jungle did the captain grimly order Soap to detonate his bombs. The Angolan unit's medic managed to inject him with something before leaving with the others. This improved his condition and helped him remain conscious, so Johnny quickly activated the detonators and felt Ghost's large palms clamp over his ears.
Marcos and Ndala lay almost side by side, pinned to the ground by debris and twisted metal, and the lieutenant heard nothing but a nasty squeaking in his ears. A second ago, he had been fighting his enemy, forgetting everything except his hatred for him. However, Ndala hated the white Angolan no less. It was not just that they stood on opposite sides of the law and that one of them was trying to preserve democracy and the rights of citizens regardless of the color of their skin, while the other was trying to destroy them. It was not even that the roots of this hatred stretched back to the 16th century, when Marcos' ancestors arrived in Africa to conquer and destroy Ndala's ancestors. The main reason was that Silva was the embodiment of the future because he accepted the changes taking place in the country, even if not all of them would ultimately prove beneficial. Ndala, on the other hand, represented a difficult and bloody past that he sought to bring back. Perhaps if MacTavish had not detonated his bombs, this battle would have lasted forever, or at least until both opponents fell dead from exhaustion.
The squeaking gradually subsided, and Silva slowly turned his head toward his enemy. He was lying very close by, almost like the lieutenant, except that a large piece of metal was sticking out of his chest, and his wide-open eyes would never see anything again. However, Silva understood that he did not have long to live either. He felt pain almost everywhere in his body, and despite the hellish heat from the numerous fires, he was very cold. He was still breathing, but he didn't have the strength to try to get out from under the rubble.
Silva looked at Ndala once more and then turned his head to the other side. His consciousness was confused, and his dying brain began to generate some strange, bizarre, and surprisingly realistic visions. Marcos saw Lieutenant Ryan approaching him, walking straight through the fire; his red eyes glowing brightly from the shadows of his hood. Marcos saw Lieutenant Ryan approaching him, walking straight through the fire; his red eyes glowing brightly from the shadows of his hood. Now he was right next to him. Ghost brushed aside the rubble pinning Silva with a light movement of his hand. He crouched down and carefully lifted the lieutenant into his arms.
“Everything will be fine.” Marcos heard Ghost's terrifying, inhuman voice; the world went blurry before his eyes, and then he fell into a warm, gentle darkness.
The 25th part of my demon!Ghost AU. TF141 is called to duty in the scorching jungles of Angola, where they must find and neutralize international smugglers planning to transport a large shipment of illegally mined diamonds out of the country. The task seems straightforward, but it turns out that things are not so simple.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24
Mission, action, memories. 3553 words.
“I'm gonna die.” Gaz groaned and, without taking off his heavy backpack, fell to the ground.
“You're never satisfied.” Soap replied wearily but mockingly, sitting down next to his friend. “You complained about the cold in London and at the base, and now we're in a place where winter doesn't exist, and you're still whining.”
“I wanted warmth, not this fucking heat, humidity, and bloody jungle where literally every blade of grass is trying to kill you!” Garrick exclaimed indignantly and began to wriggle out of his backpack straps.
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TF141 had been walking through the jungle along the Kwanza River for three days. As support for this mission, Captain Price had been given a small unit of local Special Forces, whose members were well versed in the jungle in general and in this area in particular. The main task of the mixed combat group was to disrupt a large deal involving the sale of illegally mined diamonds and their removal from the country and to detain all participants, alive if possible. It sounded simple enough for both the British and the Angolans, but this was one of those cases where getting to the mission location was much harder than actually completing the mission itself. They had to move on foot; firstly, so as not to reveal themselves to numerous enemies earlier than necessary, and secondly, because no transport could pass through here. That is why, in addition to the usual military equipment and weapons, each soldier carried a large backpack, which was evenly distributed with supplies, tents, sleeping bags, and other items necessary for survival in the wild.
“Some people pay a lot of money to be here.” MacTavish said, following Garrick's example and taking off his backpack, which was aching from its weight and his tired shoulders.
“I'd pay a lot of money to get out of here.” Gaz grumbled, groaning as he sat down and then stood up.
The grueling jungle trek was over for this day, but there was still a long way to go before they could rest. Angolan special forces have already begun setting up tents and establishing a camp, while the members of 141 had to secure the perimeter to protect themselves not only from people but also from wild animals. On the first evening, Price handed over command of this process to Ghost, while he and the commander of the Angolan unit checked the maps, marking the way they had covered and studying the route for the next day.
Lieutenant Marcos Silva commanded a dozen soldiers who were elite by local standards. His ancestors had arrived in these lands in the distant 16th century and had fought for generations against the indigenous population, which resisted the relentless colonization process. As part of the colonial army, the men of the Silva family advanced deep into the Black Continent, unaware of how the local culture, traditions, and bizarre beliefs were intertwining with their own, creating a new identity. These lands became more native to the lieutenant's ancestors than distant and almost forgotten Europe, so when the time came for Angola to rise up against colonial oppression, the Silvas joined the liberation struggle. Perhaps they believed that after victory, after gaining their long-desired independence, they would finally be able to lay down their arms; instead, they had to fight again, this time in a bloody civil war. Even after its formal end, peace didn’t come to Angola, and Marcos Silva didn’t stray from his family's centuries-old tradition, joining the army and starting his own battle.
Now there are very few people like Marcos left in Angola. Many descendants of the proud colonizers returned to Europe after the colony became an independent country. And those who remained mostly chose to live peaceful lives. In Lieutenant Silva's unit, there was only one other white man besides him—a young but very promising guy named Andre. The other nine were native Angolans, and sometimes this ratio of whites to dark-skinned people in army units was a source of conflict, but not here. Lieutenant Silva's subordinates respected their commander, just as he respected them and their culture. That was enough to reconcile the descendants of former enemies.
Something loud banged where the Angolan Special Forces were setting up camp, distracting Lieutenant Silva from his thoughts. He realized that Captain Price had just said something to him, or perhaps asked him a question, but he had missed it.
“Excuse me, Captain, could you repeat that?” Marcos asked, angry for allowing himself to be distracted.
“This place.” Price nodded calmly, without showing the slightest irritation, and pointed to the map. “There's a big detour marked on the route, but why? There's nothing there.”
“Actually, there is.” Silva said. “There are several illegal settlements scattered around the river in that area. Those snake pits should have been burned to the ground long ago, but the authorities never have the resources to do it. We can't be seen there if we want to maintain the element of surprise, so the route has been changed.”
“We'll lose a fucking lot of time.” Price sighed heavily, already imagining how tomorrow they would have to fight their way through the jungle instead of walking along the riverbank.
“There will be a couple of places further on where we can cut across.” Silva ran his finger across the map, pointing to what he was talking about. “We'll catch up with our schedule there.”
Price nodded silently in agreement. Although he was the commander of the entire operation, at this stage, the best key decisions should be entrusted to those who had already traveled through this wild area many times and knew all its peculiarities, namely Lieutenant Silva and his men. Incidentally, the latter had already set up camp and were busy preparing a simple dinner while their commanders discussed the route. Looking more closely, Price noticed three of his sergeants among the Angolan soldiers, which meant that they had already finished securing the perimeter.
Suddenly, the huge figure of Ghost appeared in front of the unit commanders, and it looked as if he had simply materialized there, rather than, for example, coming out from behind the large tree on the right. Price was already used to the lieutenant's manner of movement, but Silva flinched in surprise and reflexively grabbed the handle of his pistol. However, he quickly realized his mistake and cursed in Portuguese with a mixture of irritation and relief.
“We've finished securing the perimeter.” Ghost reported calmly to Price. “But there's a problem. He won't save us from the snakes, and there are a lot more of them here than at our previous campsites. I killed three while we were working.”
The demon fell silent but, catching the captain's very expressive glance, turned his head toward Silva.
“I'm sorry, Lieutenant.” He said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”
“I just don't understand how a man of your build can move so silently.” Silva shook his head, and the three of them approached the fire.
The Angolans surprisingly quickly and without question accepted the fact that one of their allies was so mysterious that he didn't even eat in their presence. A portion of dinner was set aside for Ghost, and the plate stood next to him while everyone else devoured their simple camp food. Some of the soldiers were too tired even to talk, but one of the Angolans, a cheerful young man named Mbilu, who had grown up not in the city but in a small village far from civilization, still had the energy. He entertained his British comrades with stories about specific local delicacies made from fried termites or crickets, which made the Angolans, even white Andre, laugh, while Sergeant Garrick seemed to have lost his appetite completely.
Neither Silva nor Price intervened, understanding that such conversations were part of establishing friendly relations between members of the two units. The captain, moreover, was thinking about the night shift schedule, because tonight the safety of the entire team's sleep rested on the shoulders of 141. Last night, Lieutenant Silva's men had been on duty one at a time, which was quite enough in such a remote area far from any settlements or roads, but they knew the local conditions well, unlike the British. Besides, Garrick seemed to have real problems with the Angolan fauna, especially the numerous reptiles. In the end, Price decided to discuss the matter with his men later, without outsiders.
Immediately after dinner, the soldiers dispersed to their tents. Marcos assigned those responsible for breakfast, pointing them out to Price so that his guards would wake them up before the rest, and then went to bed too. The members of 141 gathered near their tent, and, making sure there were no Angolans nearby, the captain spoke quietly.
“Soap, you'll take the first watch with the lieutenant.” He said. “Then Roach. Then me.”
“What about me?” Gaz asked in surprise.
“You'll rest today and help with breakfast tomorrow.” Price explained diplomatically, not wanting to reveal the real reasons for his decision.
The fact that Ghost would be on duty all night was not even discussed. First, he did not object, and second, it would be difficult for him to squeeze into a cramped tent designed for a maximum of four normal people. The Angolans had tents like this, but none of them were giants like Ghost. So Price, Garrick, and Sanderson climbed inside, making sure there were no snakes, spiders, or scorpions, while MacTavish and Ghost stayed outside.
The lieutenant and sergeant walked around the camp for a while, but then, when everyone was asleep, they returned to their unit's tent. Ghost didn't need to patrol the area to hear or see any approaching danger, so he and Soap positioned themselves so that they couldn't be seen from the camp. Johnny sat closer to the demon, who this time was not warming him but cooling him, and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“It's actually pretty nice here, if you don't count the insects, snakes, poisonous plants, and other crap.” Soap said thoughtfully, leaning his shoulder against Ghost's. “If it wasn't so secret, you could take your camera and get some amazing shots.”
This assessment was completely sincere and objective—the first roll of film he shot revealed his true talent for this art. Ghost's photographs were not only high quality but also very interesting from an artistic point of view, regardless of what he was shooting. He managed to print one copy of each image in 8x10 inch format before 141 left for Angola, but each of his comrades ordered additional copies for themselves.
Gaz and Roach asked for photos that captured moments from the unit's life—training, hanging out in the break room, caring for weapons and equipment. Gary also wanted a few images of cats to send to his mysterious partner, which he told Ghost in secret from Kyle and Johnny.
Price also wanted photos from the base, as well as those taken during the rest at his hunting cabin. Among them were not only the captain and Soap, captured on camera while hunting, fishing, and cutting and preparing their catch, but also the amazing night sky with myriads of bright stars that cannot be seen not only in the city but even at a base far from civilization.
Soap's order was the largest, partly because it included not only his own wishes but also photos for his parents and sisters, some of which were duplicated. For example, Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish were to receive two copies of sets of pictures taken in front of the Christmas tree in their home to give one to Marion. In addition, Johnny added one portrait of his younger sister and one of himself, as well as a couple of images from the base. He also planned to send Aileen all her photos, a few of his, and several of cats and kittens. For himself, Soap, like the others, wanted group photos of the unit, all with him in them, as well as a portrait of Aileen, the one where she shows off her piercing.
“You know what picture you have to take?” Johnny squinted slyly at Ghost.
The lieutenant was scanning the jungle around him, but when he heard himself being addressed, he looked at the sergeant, tilting his head questioningly.
“You have to take a picture of the two of us together.” Soap said. “I'd like to carry a photo like that in my wallet or in the pocket of my tactical vest.”
Ghost thought that he'd like that too. This idea was even better than a photo of Johnny alone or his self-portrait, which the demon now had with him. He could print this picture without buying small photo paper, using what he had and then simply cutting off the unnecessary white margins.
“For that, I'll need to buy a self-timer lever and a tripod.” Ghost said thoughtfully. “If you help me, we can find and order them from your phone when the radio silence is canceled.”
“Of course, I'll help!” Soap rejoiced and, glancing at his watch, stood up. “Let's go and do another round.”
Closer to dawn, when the sky was already beginning to lighten, a leopard approached the camp. It silently emerged from the morning mist and froze directly opposite Ghost and Price on the other side of the perimeter, which, however, was unlikely to hold back the powerful predator. The beast was probably heading for the river to drink, as it had done hundreds of times before, and didn’t expect to encounter an obstacle in the form of humans who had set up camp in this very spot.
The scene that unfolded before Price's eyes seemed almost unreal. The tropical forest, filled with strange, eerie sounds and shrouded in mist; the tents immersed in silence, seeming so insignificant against the backdrop of boundless wilderness; and the powerful and agile predator, its strong muscles rippling beneath its bright, spotted fur... For a few long seconds, the captain also froze, as if not daring to disturb the solemnity of the moment, but then shook off his stupor and slowly reached for the pistol in the tactical holster on his belt. However, he didn't even have time to grab the weapon. Ghost gently squeezed his wrist and, when Price looked at him, shook his head. The demon's gaze was fixed on the beast's eyes, and it slowly, with dignity, backed away, then turned and disappeared into the misty jungle.
The captain didn't ask anything. He stared for a few seconds at the spot where the leopard had disappeared, then tapped the lieutenant lightly on the shoulder, and they continued along the perimeter.
The path through the jungle proved to be more difficult than along the river, not only because the soldiers often had to literally cut their way through with machetes, but also because they had to be very vigilant. The illegal settlements mentioned by Lieutenant Silva were not close to the planned route, but the risk of encountering one of their inhabitants was still quite high. In this case, the best thing the soldiers could do was to kill anyone who saw them, because disappearance and death in the jungle would raise far fewer questions than a large, by local standards, group of well-armed and equipped men.
Another factor complicating today's journey was its length. Price and Silva decided that their unit must reach the bank of the Kwanza again before stopping for the night, but this proved to be no easy task. For the last hour or so, the soldiers walked in the dark, lighting their way with flashlights, and when they finally heard the splashes of water ahead, even the Angolans were so tired that they could barely manage to set up camp.
Realizing that the British were having a harder time than the locals, Lieutenant Silva ordered his men to secure the perimeter, but to his surprise, Lieutenant Ryan was still ready to lead the way. Then Marcos simply sent three of his soldiers with him: Mbilu, who had become the good comrade of the British; Kwekenge, who had spent his entire childhood in the ports of Lobito; and a native of Luanda who was a descendant of the indigenous people but had the Portuguese name Davi. Soap and Roach, meanwhile, helped to quickly heat up the MREs, and Silva assigned guards from his men for this night.
“We know you're all tired.” Captain Price said, and the Angolan lieutenant sitting next to him nodded in agreement. "But tomorrow is a crucial day. The road ahead will be difficult, and we must reach our destination in time, or all your suffering will have been for nothing. The good news is that if we do everything right, we won't have to walk back—the helos will come for us.“
"It's worth rushing!" Someone from the Angolans shouted, and everyone, including the members of 141, laughed wearily.
In fact, the helicopters were supposed to pick up the mixed combat group in any case, so the next day when they approached the first section where Marcos planned to cut the road, the soldiers left most of their heavy marching gear behind. Now they needed to overcome a cascade of several not very high but almost vertical rocks, cross a flat plateau overgrown with bushes, whose flexible, intertwined branches caught their feet at every step, and descend. There, for many miles in all directions, stretched an impassable swamp. Fortunately, the soldiers didn’t need to cross it completely, only to walk along the edge, taking advantage of the temporary dry spell and the fact that Lieutenant Silva knew a relatively safe route.
The journey was difficult even without backpacks containing tents, sleeping bags, dishes, and other items necessary for setting up camp, but no one complained. Everyone understood that this was the only way the combat group could make up for the time lost bypassing the illegal settlements. Returning to their planned route, the soldiers had a quick snack on the go, and those who wanted had smoked their last—before the mission was complete—cigarettes. Shortly thereafter, Price checked the map and declared combat readiness. Less than an hour later, the mixed unit reached the road—long abandoned but not forgotten by those who wanted to keep their movements secret. It was here that the meeting for which the soldiers had traveled such a long and difficult journey was to take place.
There was little time left before the mission targets appeared, so preparations under Captain Price's command began immediately. During the briefing at Strickland's base, 141 had received detailed satellite images of the meeting place, so the captain had plenty of time to think everything through and plan the upcoming battle in advance. Now all he had to do was direct all the men under his command.
First, Price divided the mixed unit into four combat groups. The first consisted of Ghost, Soap, and Roach. In battle, it would be led by the lieutenant, but now their task was to mine the road, so command was temporarily transferred to Sergeant MacTavish.
The second group included two Angolan snipers who were supposed to coordinate their actions and respond to requests from their comrades. After checking their radios, they scattered in different directions, looking for places to set up their firing positions. Watching them walk away, Price thought gloomily that he would have been better off assigning the task to Soap, but the sergeant, as always, had to play the role of mediator between Ghost and the rest of the team. Once again, the captain promised himself to discuss this issue with the stubborn demon and then dismissed these thoughts, which were useless now.
The third and fourth combat groups were led by Lieutenant Silva and Price himself. They were the most numerous and would be the main force in the upcoming battle. They positioned themselves so that they could attack the enemy from two sides, and now the soldiers who had joined them were carefully camouflaging their positions, which was not so easy in this territory. Meanwhile, Ghost's combat group finished setting the explosives and lay in wait somewhere between Price and Silva, with orders to act as the lieutenant saw fit.
When all preparations were complete, the road became deserted and once again looked as if no human foot had touched it for many days. Everything around was silent; the soldiers were frozen, and the only movement that disturbed the calm of the scorching African day was the gusts of hot wind. Each member of the mission had been trained for long and exhausting waits in all conditions, so no one complained, broke radio silence, or even sighed too loudly. Only the commanders kept track of time, and in about an hour, the voices of the snipers finally rang out in the radio headsets.
“Visual contact from the west.” The first reported.
“From the east too.” The second added a few seconds later.
This meant that both sides of the criminal agreement were approaching the meeting place without delay. Representatives of the as yet invisible third side focused and brought their weapons closer, ready to make their amendments to the deal as soon as their commanders gave the order.
The 24th part of my demon!Ghost AU. Ghost managed to avoid conflict with Soap after his attempts to keep his plans secret. Meanwhile, after hearing the lieutenant's story, Sword promises to help and even offers a few ideas. Captain Price, upon learning of all this, does not quite share the joy of his subordinates, concerned about how quickly the mysterious mercenary found out that TF141 members were looking for him.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23
Conversations, angst, fluff. 3959 words.
The request made by Ghost was clearly not something that could be discussed on the street outside a 24-hour store, so Sword suggested continuing the conversation at the hotel where he was staying. But Soap realized that their hotel was much closer and suggested going there. His loyalty, which wasn’t shaken even by the fact that he had been kept in the dark, impressed Ghost and made him feel even guiltier. That's why he decided to tell Johnny everything on the way to the hotel, without thinking about how it would look to Sword.
“I wasn't sure it was even possible, so I decided not to tell you anything until I knew more.” He said it, and it was true, though not the whole truth.
“I understand.” Soap nodded; he was still a little hurt, but Ghost's explanation made sense, so he decided to act professionally, at least in front of an outsider.
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“That's smart.” The mercenary unexpectedly supported the demon with some vague understanding and threw away his cigarette butt before they entered the hotel building.
Johnny was hungry, so he suggested the guest join him for a bite to eat, which he gladly accepted. Ghost helped Soap arrange Mrs. MacTavish's cooking on plates, while Sword, clearly feeling completely at ease in a strange hotel room, placed three glasses on the table. While the others ate, the demon, with his back to them, slowly sipped his whiskey. He tried to figure out how to tell the mercenary his story in a way that avoided overly personal and painful details, but it wasn't necessary. Finishing his late dinner, Sword poured himself more whiskey and began to ask questions, clearly focusing on the information he considered important for some reason.
“So, Ghost, did you become a half-blood after death or while you were alive?” He asked.
“After death.” The demon replied, finishing his whiskey in one gulp and pulling on his mask before turning back to the people sitting at the table.
“When you returned to our world, did you remember the agreement you had made?” The mercenary asked his next question.
“Negative.” Ghost shook his head. “I didn't remember anything, not even who I was in life or how I died.”
“Our captain found some information that triggered his memories.” Soap added, deciding that this was an important detail.
“I assume you promised to give up your soul, as well as many other souls you collect while in the world of the living, correct?” Sword looked thoughtfully at Ghost, and he nodded affirmatively. “And what did the devil promise?”
The lieutenant did not answer immediately. He sat motionless on one of the beds, staring at the mercenary, and Soap could see that the latter was completely unfazed by the demon's terrifying black eyes. Johnny and the other members of 141 were also unafraid of the demonic gaze, but it took them some time to overcome their fear. For some it was longer, for others faster, but Soap had never seen anyone remain calm and even relaxed from the very beginning, staring into the darkness of the abyss in Ghost's eyes.
“I died a terrible death.” The lieutenant finally said. “The devil promised me strength and invulnerability so that I could take revenge on those who killed me.”
“And did you get your revenge?” Sword asked.
“Negative.” Ghost replied.
This time, the mercenary was silent for a while, thoughtfully rocking his glass in his hand. Then he finished his whiskey in one gulp and spoke slowly, as if he wasn't quite sure how to end his speech.
“First of all, you didn't make a deal with the devil.” Sword said, looking at Ghost. "The devil doesn't make deals. He has more important things to do, and for such trifles he has legions of demons of various ranks. Each of them is willing to call himself anything to achieve success. It would be easier if you knew the name of the one who spoke to you, but they never reveal such information voluntarily.”
Soap frowned. He was beginning to dislike the tone of this mercenary—too arrogant and pompous, in the sergeant's opinion. He knew how difficult it was for Ghost and believed that even with vast knowledge and perhaps experience in all these matters, Sword could have shown at least a modicum of compassion and humanity, since he had agreed to help. However, Soap didn’t voice his dissatisfaction, silently waiting to see what would happen next.
“Second...” Sword said this and paused for a moment, then continued in an even nastier tone, tilting his head slightly to one side. “Second, how do you imagine all this, you half-breed?”
“Hey!” This time Johnny couldn't hold back, jumping to his feet. “If we knew the answer to that question, we wouldn't have looked for you, you son of a bitch!”
The mercenary grimaced, clearly wanting to respond in the same tone, but then sighed and shook his head.
“I don't mean the process; I mean the result.” He explained. "Let's assume that a way exists and the deal is broken. Ghost's soul is cleansed and belongs to him again, but his body functions solely on the power of hell that he received under the deal, because he is, in fact, long dead. The soul will, of course, go to heaven, but something tells me that's not what either of you would want."
Soap slowly sank back into his chair, and Ghost slumped and lowered his head. Until that moment, he hadn't given much thought to the topic raised by Sword, and what he heard, though quite obvious, upset him. Of course, the lieutenant wanted his soul back, but not at the cost of parting with Johnny, even if it was only temporary, until his time came to leave the world of the living and go to heaven.
“Are there really no other options?” The sergeant asked, confused, forgetting his resentment toward the mercenary.
“I don't know.” He admitted honestly. “But I'll try to find out. Now, before we continue, let's take a smoke break.”
All three went out onto the small balcony. It was late at night, and it had gotten even colder outside, so Ghost habitually put his hand on Soap's shoulder, warming him with his demonic warmth. As for Sword, he didn't seem to be bothered by the cold. Lighting his cigarette, the sergeant wondered, not for the first time, if this mysterious mercenary was human at all. Could it be that, like Ghost, he didn't fully belong to the natural world and was hiding some kind of supernatural essence?
The lieutenant wasn't interested in that at the moment. He was trying to figure out what to do if Sword couldn't find any other options. If breaking the deal meant immediate and certain death, would it be possible to do it later, after Johnny had left the world of the living, or would Ghost have time to cause so much evil that cleansing would become impossible?
“I think I know where to start.” Sword said when the three returned to the room and smiled crookedly. “But you won't like it, half-breed.”
“What could anyone like here?” Ghost snapped gloomily and added decisively. “Speak.”
“The main point of your deal was revenge.” The mercenary said. “That's why you have to give it up and forgive your enemies, and not just with words, but sincerely, from the bottom of your heart, even if it doesn't beat.”
Silence reigned for a few seconds, and then Soap felt the aura of horror that surrounded Ghost when he was angry. The room suddenly became colder and darker, and the demon slowly rose to his feet, towering over Sword.
“Forgive?” He asked quietly but ominously. “You have no idea what they did to me!”
“You really think I don't know what one person can do to another?” The mercenary smiled crookedly. “Want to hear about the shit that's happened in my life? Or maybe you want to see?”
Soap stared silently at Sword, suddenly realizing that the scars on his face were not like healed battle wounds. They were more like those Ghost had—those that were traces of terrible torture, not combat bravery. The demon seemed to realize this too, because he took a step back and made every effort to control himself. The temperature and light returned to normal, and then the feeling of fear that Ghost had spread around him disappeared. He sat back down on the bed and, in a very human gesture, rubbed the back of his head, which was covered with black cloth.
“This is... complicated.” He said in his usual emotionless voice.
“I know.” Sword nodded calmly. "But it's important. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, says the Lord.”
“And you really believe that?” Asked Soap, who didn't expect to hear a quote from the Bible from the mouth of a mercenary, even one as strange as this one.
“Yes.” Sword said casually and stood up. “Forgiveness is a difficult thing, and it doesn't come quickly. When I find something useful, I'll get in touch with you, and we'll talk about it again.”
Ghost nodded silently, and Soap dictated his phone number. He also asked for Sword's number, and the latter handed over his business card, which he took out of his pocket. Only now did the sergeant realize that the mercenary had not mentioned the price of his assistance and asked about it as he was putting on his jacket.
“My boss will be furious when he finds out who I'm helping, and that makes me happy.” Sword smiled wickedly and crookedly. “Besides, maybe someday you'll help me. God works in mysterious ways.”
Waving his hand, Sword left the room without letting Soap and Ghost say anything else. The sergeant automatically closed the door behind him, came back to the lieutenant, and sat down on his lap, hugging him tightly. Everything had happened too suddenly and too quickly, and they both needed time to process it. They sat silently for a few minutes; then Ghost stirred, ran his fingers through Soap's mohawk, and said:
“Let's finish this whiskey, and then you go to bed. Your family is waiting for you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Johnny sighed and reluctantly slid off his demon's lap. “Fuck, I can just imagine the look on Cap's face when we tell him all this.”
Pouring the rest of the whiskey into glasses, Soap handed Ghost the one with more in it. The demon pulled off his mask, and despite everything that had happened, Johnny couldn't help but smile—he was glad that with each passing day, Simon found it easier to reveal his face to him; the face he considered absolutely beautiful. His blue eyes shone with such warmth and tenderness that Ghost tried to smile back at him. The corners of his deathly pale lips twitched upward, and although it didn't last more than a couple of seconds, Johnny felt much better.
Both of them decided without saying a word not to talk about what had happened. There was too much information, and it was quite difficult to process, so the best thing they could do was to let it go for now. So Johnny began to share what he was planning to do with his family tomorrow, and although he started rather sluggishly, he got carried away and ended up speaking with genuine joy. Ghost listened to him, then said he didn't want to sit in the hotel all day, so he would probably go for a walk and take his camera with him.
“I'm really glad you like photography.” Soap smiled in response. “I can't wait to see your first pictures.”
“I think I'll finish this film before we get back to base.” Ghost said.
“Then tomorrow I'll call Gaz and ask him to look in London for anything you need to print your photos.” Soap said happily. “And when we get to Cap, we'll try to convince him to let you set up a lab in that back room where we put your furniture.”
“Thank you, Johnny.” The lieutenant said, pulling off his glove and running his fingertips across his sergeant's cheek.
Soap smiled in response, finished his whiskey, and quickly undressed and climbed under the blanket. A couple of minutes later, Ghost joined him, turning off the light as usual.
Keeping to their unspoken agreement, the lieutenant and the sergeant didn’t discuss their meeting with the mysterious mercenary until they arrived at the old village where Captain Price was to meet them. His hunting cabin was located in the forest surrounding the tiny settlement, about twelve miles from civilization if you drove along a rough dirt road, and a little less if you walked straight there. There was no cell phone reception there, but the captain had a satellite phone, which Soap called after saying goodbye to his family and returning to the hotel. Price told him how to get to the village and where he would be waiting; MacTavish said that he and Ghost were leaving immediately and briefly reported his meeting with Sword.
The three members of 141 met in the only pub in the village. When Soap and Ghost entered the dimly lit room, the captain was already there, sitting at a table in the corner and gloomily drinking local ale. Seeing his comrades, he perked up a little and, leaving his half-empty mug, immediately called them to follow him.
An old but reliable pickup truck was parked outside the pub, and the captain ordered them to transfer their belongings into it. The car rented by Soap will never make it through the forest road in winter, so it will stay here until it's time to return to base. The pickup truck Price had arrived in didn't belong to him. He had borrowed it from an old friend who lived in the village and, in return, had permission to use his hunting cabin when the captain was away, which was almost always.
On the way to the cabin, they didn't talk about serious matters. Price, sitting behind the wheel, asked MacTavish about his visit to the family. He knew Douglas personally, having met him before his retirement, and was also interested in how Soap's relatives had taken to Ghost.
The lieutenant himself didn't participate in the conversation, sitting silently in the front passenger seat and looking at the winter forest through the window. Soap, on the contrary, spoke willingly and at length, telling about himself and Ghost. After the initial emotions from his conversation with Sword subsided, he began to feel hopeful that one day he would be able to bring the lieutenant home again and introduce him as his partner not only on the battlefield but also in life. Objectively, it was too early to think about such things, but Johnny had always been an optimist and hoped for the best.
When the pickup truck pulled into the clearing in front of the cabin, the short winter day was already beginning to draw to a close. When the captain turned off the engine, silence enveloped everything, and no one wanted to break it with loud conversation or any other unnecessary noise.
Price went to start the generator, while Ghost and Soap carried their things into the cabin. It was very small; the space inside was not divided into rooms, only a door leading to an extension was visible in the far wall. It had previously been something like a shed, but when Price bought this cabin, he insulated the walls and installed a shower, a boiler, and a heater, all powered by the generator. The main room, which served as a kitchen, bedroom, and living room, was heated by a rough stone fireplace. Now the fire was out and the cabin was cold. Ghost took it upon himself to solve both problems while Soap boiled water for tea and rummaged through the cupboards looking for cookies or some other treats.
Soon all three were sitting at a small table that could be considered a dining one. The captain and the sergeant drank tea with cookies that were too hard but still tasty. The lieutenant kept them company in silence, making sure his aura warmed humans until the fire in the fireplace began to do so. It was at this moment that Price began to question MacTavish about the meeting with the mysterious mercenary, and the sergeant recounted everything in as much detail as he could, omitting only some of the more personal details concerning Ghost.
“Well, it's good that he agreed to help, but we still can't trust him completely.” Price summed up when Soap finished his story. “I suggest we need to discuss the things we're all professionals at, and the first thing that concerns me is that this mercenary found out we were looking for him. Or rather, that Laswell was looking for him, without taking the matter outside the CIA's sphere of influence.”
“Laswell has already suggested that he has people in the CIA and may even be working with them.” Soap shrugged. “I'm more interested in something else.”
“What exactly?” The captain asked, sipping his tea.
“Sword said his boss would be furious if he found out he was helping Ghost, and that clearly amused him.” Johnny said, twirling a cookie between his fingers. “His relationship with his superiors is his own business, but why would his boss be furious, and who exactly is his boss?”
“Are you implying that he's not the only one in his PMC who knows about paranormal things?” Price frowned.
“I wouldn't be surprised.” The demon spoke unexpectedly, and both humans looked at him. "You've read the file on this PMC that Laswell provided. Their headquarters, where their boss and leader is based, is in the Vatican, and even I can see that it's not economically viable. In the orphanages that the company opens as part of its charitable projects, the children are raised with a clear Catholic bias."
“This PMC is called ‘Archangels’!” Soap picked up on the idea and then rolled his eyes. “Is that a normal name for a company whose employees are literally killing people all over the world?”
“They also sponsor some archaeological excavations.” Price recalled another fact. “These are unrelated studies from different historical periods in different parts of the world.”
“What if there is a connection, but the experts don't have the necessary information to notice it?” Soap suggested with an unhealthy enthusiasm, forgetting even about the cookies.
Everyone fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, and then the captain sighed and shook his head.
“These are just guesses with no evidence to back them up.” He said. “Perhaps the boss Sword mentioned will be angry not because he is helping the demon, but because he is doing it for free.”
“Not exactly for free.” Soap objected. “More like barter, a service for a service.”
This won't work for the financial reports.” The captain said, rubbing his temples wearily.
The conversation came to a standstill. Ghost leaned back in his chair and froze, lost in his own thoughts. Price finished his tea, walked over to the tiny kitchen area, took a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, and poured some into his cup. Soap remained at the table, thoughtfully twirling Sword's business card between his fingers, as if trying to find some secret signs on it.
“It looks like all we can do now is just wait.” Finally, Johnny said discontentedly; his active nature finding it difficult to tolerate such pauses.
Of course, the sergeant's words did not apply to Ghost, who had received instructions on the first step toward a freedom that was still unclear and very vague but didn't know how to take that step. It was one thing to avoid revenge, which he had been doing all these years, probably subconsciously realizing that it could lead to irreparable consequences. But forgiving his tormentors and murderers was quite another matter, an unspeakably difficult task even for a saint, if they really existed, let alone a demon. A keen sense of injustice overwhelmed him at the mere thought that the damned Roba and his gang of vile bastards might be forgiven. After all, it wasn't just about him—Simon Riley, who was alive, had dreams, aspirations, and feelings until he fell into the clutches of a ruthless cartel. There were many like him—some broke down, turning into Roba's mindless puppets; others died, unable to withstand the constant torture. Simon Riley managed to escape from his grave, but what about all the others—those who didn’t receive an offer to trade their tortured souls for the chance to take revenge and who remained forever somewhere out there in the desert?
Yes, there were plenty of bastards among those people, no better than their tormentors. But there were also good people among them who did not deserve such a terrible death. So why didn't God avenge them, why didn't He direct His wrath at Roba and his tormentors, who were perhaps much worse than real demons?
Most likely, any priest, theologian, or even an ordinary sincere believer could answer all these questions. By cruel irony, whether of fate or of God Himself, Simon Riley never pondered questions of faith and probably had none at all until he died and was reborn as someone whose nature requires him to violate all the rules laid down by that same God. Is he even capable of such a thing as forgiveness? On the other hand, why not, if other manifestations of the divine are available to him? He, no longer quite Simon Riley, has not lost the ability to love, even if that feeling now causes him pain. So maybe he should stop resisting and looking for logic and instead focus his efforts on getting rid of his anger and finding the strength to forgive?
“All right, lads.” Price broke the silence, which had gone on too long. “I don't know about you, but I'm planning to go hunting tomorrow. I'll have to get up very early, so I'm going to bed.”
“I don't want to go hunting.” Soap shook his head. “But fishing is a different matter.”
The captain's cabin stood almost on the shore of a forest lake. The sergeant, who had been here several times before, knew that all the necessary equipment was stored in the outbuilding; the main thing was that the ice was already strong enough for ice fishing.
“So, you'll have to get up early too.” Price said, glancing at MacTavish and trying to look stern. “And son, try not to drown the drill this time, and preferably don't drown yourself.”
Johnny rolled his eyes, and the captain turned his gaze to Ghost.
“Are you going with one of us, Lieutenant, or are you staying here?” He asked.
“I think I'll go with you, Captain.” The demon replied and then walked over to the closet and took a rolled-up mattress from the top shelf, which Johnny tried in vain to reach. “I'll keep an eye on the fireplace and wake you both up in the morning.”
“Great!” Soap exclaimed enthusiastically, unfolding the mattress on the floor closer to the fire, while Price made himself comfortable on the old but cozy sofa.
Of course, Johnny would have been much happier if Ghost had lain down with him, but the lack of privacy and another sleeping place made that impossible. However, the demon was still close by, so humans could fall asleep peacefully, knowing that the fire would not go out and that their warmth and safety were in good hands.
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