Bombs hit the earth with a tremendous roar, debris being spit up into the air with brilliant waves of heat and flame. Shrapnel covered the ground, while the thunder of boots and gunfire provided the percussion to the symphony of war. The sky was filled with thick, grey smoke, no blue sky to be seen. Hell would have been more pleasant company on this morning, and death would have been just as close, but still men fought, just as dogged as ever.
Between bursts of return fire, a heavily armored man swung his arm forward, a clear motion to proceed. He tried to yell something to the group of three that followed close behind, but it was lost to the clamor and chaos of combat. The physical gestures had been well enough understood, and three men sprinted forward, guns firing bullets from their hips, before they ducked behind a nearby vehicle. They hardly seemed to care that it was alight with fire, just turned to one another, the point man surveying the true value of this temporary cover.
The point man growled beneath his breath, but once more, the sound was lost in the heat of battle. A sound so inaudible would never have been noticed, even on a calm day, as it would have never made it past the cotton barrier that covered his mouth. A balaclava illustrated with a ghastly, grinning skull covered the lower portion of the man's face, and it was already coated with a thick layer of gunpowder and dust. His eyes, hidden by a pair of tinted sunglasses, stared intently over the car, hunting for potential targets down the street. He was suddenly distracted, however, by the voice of the man crouching to his right.
"Ghost, how many more tangos you spot down there?" Despite the sound of explosions, Ghost was still able to hear that shrill, terror tainted voice he had come to know so well. Crouching back down beside his comrades as bullets flew over their heads, lodging in the metal of the car, Ghost shouted his reply with an angry hiss attached.
"How the bloody hell would I know that, Roach? Now just fuckin' reload, this car isn't going to hold much longer." As he spoke, he stood up, firing his fully automatic weapon with as much accuracy as he could manage. He saw one man in the distance go down in a spray of red mist, and as the familiar hammering of the weapon back into his shoulder faltered, he dropped back to a knee. Smoothly ejecting the magazine and shoving it back into his belt, Ghost turned to look at the other man, who was surveying the streets around them.
"Which building is it, Meat?" Ghost asked, to which Meat only shook his head, turning his eyes back down to reference the digital map he possessed. As Ghost surveyed the tall buildings around him, he mourned the loss of such a wonderful place. A lonely street now, nearly abandoned, rubble making up the landscape after a recent series of bombings. Window panes were shattered, and glass littered the streets, just as plentiful as rubble. All of the people were gone now- having abandoned their homes and shops upon the intrusion of Makarov's men, or killed by the recent bombings. Civilian corpses were lying exposed in the street, but the trio had done their best to ignore that most unfavorable carnage.
"It's that one!" Meat suddenly exclaimed, just as Ghost was preparing to bring his weapon up to bear once more. His eyes followed Meat's finger, which now pointed to a decrepit building nearly adjacent to their location. It was in such close proximity that Ghost was tempted to let out a sigh of relief, such an unbelievable stroke of luck nothing less than a blessing in the battlefield. Once more, Ghost shifted his weight upwards to survey the men that were shooting at them. They had taken most of their enemies down in the last few rounds of fire, but there were still a few shadows ducking behind piles of broken stone, the clicking of automatic weapons being shuffled.
"Alright men, follow me" Ghost muttered in the absence of bullets showering the thin metal shield of the car, shifting to the balls of his feet in preparation to move. "We're going to go quickly. I'll lead the way in, Roach, you cover me. Meat, draw their fire until we're inside, then watch the door. Take the rest of them out, if you can" he instructed sharply, and gave no chance for his men to confirm his orders. Like a bullet from the barrel of a gun he burst from behind the vehicle, swinging his rifle to the side to deter the enemy from firing with a few friendly shots of his own.
The building was near now, the crumbling walls showing where an entranceway had used to be, and the only target that Ghost had to strive for now. Just a few more paces, with Roach right on his heels, and they would be inside what was left of this shop. As he neared, a man burst from the shadows of the building. Ghost didn't hesitate to pump the body full of lead and watch it drop to the floor like a discarded toy. Leaping over the body, Ghost and Roach were successfully inside, and Meat followed within three seconds.
"Four more Tangos down, Ghost, that should be the last of them" Meat confirmed with a curt tone, his front still facing where they had just entered, weapon ready to fire at the slightest sign of a threat. Pleased with the fluid motions of the operations thus far, Ghost took a deep breath, surveying the inside of the shop.
Sunlight streamed in through the holes blown in the ceiling, and various items were strewn across the floor. What had once been blue paint was now stained with dirt and blood, as though warfare had tried to make its own homely masterpiece, but had instead torn everything apart. Ghost could only grimace at the carnage, noting the set of shoes that still remained somewhat untouched beside the pile of broken stone to his right. Had his thick black gloves not been covering his hands, it would be obvious to see the white knuckles with which he was gripping his weapon. His whole body was on high alert, the knowledge that more enemies could be lurking around any corner setting his blood on fire.
However, the objective of the mission snapped him back into focus. The intel they had was shady at best, and if it were up to him to voice his opinion, he would have called this mission nothing more than a shot in the dark. They knew that Makarov had been in this location days ago, but had already left. All that remained were some of his men to pick over the ruins, and let some intelligence filter through. The fact that the higher-ups thought that some holy grail of knowledge would be contained in this small town blown to smithereens was beyond his comprehension. With a slight growl in the back of his throat, Ghost nodded to the room to the left.
"Come on Roach, hurry up. Exfil will be here within two minutes of our call. Meat, you keep watch at the front, radio at any signs of trouble. We're looking for a laptop, or a cell phone, whatever the hell looks valuable through all this mess" he barked, and Roach didn't hesitate to bound into the room that Ghost had motioned to. Upon seeing that the man had done as ordered, he too moved forward, scouting the room to the right. His movements were silent, although true stealth had been compromised by their explosive entrance. Thankfully, no more enemies were to be found in the next two rooms, while unfortunately, no obvious intel was either.
Just as he was about to enter the back room, he heard a rustling, and instantly brought the sights of his rifle up over a body that had just moved in front of him. There was a soft yip of surprise, and Ghost dropped his rifle with an annoyed huff. The body that had been in his sights was a familiar one, and although there was a rifle pointed right back at him, Ghost realized there was no immediate cause for concern. It appeared that Roach had cleared his rooms as well, and happened to make it to the backmost room at the same time as he.
"Bloody hell, kid, watch where you point that thing" Ghost grunted, looking at the room with a wary eye as Roach lowered his weapon, cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment. There were two folding tables set up in front of a tattered couch, and a closed laptop sat in the center, nearly begging to be taken. Ghost smirked, glad that his mask could hide his silent expression of relief, and he moved towards it, letting his rifle down to his side.
Roach walked over with him, staring intently down at the laptop as Ghost took it in his hands. With a quick inspection, Ghost deemed that it hadn't suffered any damage, and was definitely a product of the ultranationalists. He stuffed it quickly into the bag on his back, glad that there was room amongst the other supplies, and turned to Roach, who was smiling openly.
"Makarov, fuck 'em, right? Maybe this'll give us the upper hand" he commented, to which Ghost only shook his hand. The kid had passion, he had to give him that. Of course, they knew their job wasn't done. There was always the chance that intelligence was more well-hidden than just a laptop sitting exposed on a tabletop. Ghost figured it would be worth the investment to sort through the pile of wreckage that lie beside the table.
It appeared as though the men that had taken up this place as their base of operation, no matter how temporarily, had moved most of the rubble to a center pile, which was as tall as Ghost. It was in the corner of the room, and seemed to contain mostly bits and pieces of furniture, as well as some chunks of stone. Roach sniffed, and Ghost looked at him. The younger soldier was toeing a piece of stone with his boot, shaking his head.
"It's a shame what they've done to a place like this. Someone lived here, dammit. It's just not right."
"We all know that, Roach" Ghost muttered, watching as his subordinate elbowed a plastic chair that was perched precariously on the top of the pile. It teetered for a moment, then toppled over the edge, making a clattering sound as it descended over other pieces of rubble. The surprise came when a soft cry coupled the crashing sound of the plastic chair.
Instantly, Ghost and Roach brought their weapons up to bear, hunting for a target that had made the sound. After less time than it took to draw a breath, Ghost had circled the pile with Roach, and pointed his weapon at the closest moving body. Once more, Ghost couldn't believe what he saw through the sights of his rifle.
It wasn't a weathered soldier with angry eyes and a weapon, and it wasn't a fellow soldier. Instead, it was a blood streaked face, coated in sweat and grime. Large green eyes stared at him, pools of liquid fear as they stared at the rifle, and another whimper came from a small mouth.
Beside him, Roach balked. This wasn't one of Makarov's men, or an enemy of any sorts. Trying to pull themselves to their feet, staring with obvious terror at the weapons in front of them, was a young girl, probably in junior high or high school. She was shaking, but she was on her feet, dried blood smeared across her face and torso. And by the look in her eyes, Ghost knew that she was ready to run.
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