Ghost pulled out his phone to check the location of the hotel where the team had set up a temporary base.
He typed the name into his GPS. Only a couple blocks. Best to just go on foot. No need to waste money on a ride at bar-close when he could just as easily walk. He pulled his hood down tight on his head and brought his hands down to his side, stretching the tendons as far as he could and closing his fists tightly. He slid his still-clenched fists into his pockets as he started walking back toward the well-lit park.
Ghost was a soldier. His entire life had been defined by trial by fire. Even as a young child, his father constantly pushed him to the brink, leaving mental scars that had only just begun to finally heal. That's the thing about scar tissue though, the skin covering what's underneath becomes hard, and once the damage is done nothing is ever really the same.
After years of terrifying home life, Ghost was only able to escape, his wounds starting to scab, by joining the British Army. The life of structure, cleanliness, and routine, was much different than the world he had grown up in. His father had never let go of the Manchester punk scene, and all of what came with it. His mother tried desperately to keep her children safe, clothed, and in school, while his father was off doing his best impression of Sid Vicious. Even down to the death that followed.
The Army ground the scab off. It scrubbed the wound clean and poured antiseptic on it until the skin was bleached white. The bandage they wrapped tightly around it held the battered skin together until it grew back tougher, almost unrecognizable from what had been there before, but underneath he still knew what caused that wound.
And when he was finally healed, he trained. Hard. He learned to turn that fear and sadness into anger, and most importantly how to wield it like a weapon. He found his father at the end of the barrel regardless of the target. He was good at it too. One of the best. So good in fact that he was recommended for special forces.
He served Queen and Country proudly until his untimely death. Not of his physical being, but the death of everything that made him Simon: The death of his family, and the betrayal by his fellow servicemen that lead to that death. Created that death. And, so, he became death. Ghost replaced what he thought were the last holdouts of Simon.
After seeking out those that had instigated the killing of his only loved ones, Ghost and his empty shell clung onto the only thing that gave him what he needed. On all physical accounts, Simon Riley was dead. So when Task Force 141 came knocking there wasn't a door left or a house around it to stop him from saying yes. After all, what else would he do? Where else would he go? Nothing, and nowhere.
Different from his formation during Army service, his dedication, and skill allowed Ghost to feel freedom with enough structure to help him build back his muscle and his flesh. He began a long and slow journey toward becoming whole again.
Price believed in Simon. He trusted him. Price gave Simon a purpose. While the blood on his hands may have told a different story, Simon was still hiding under the calloused skin.
xxx
Simon pulled out and lit a cigarette. He needed something to occupy his hands. He was nervous. In his head, he replayed what had happened. The cold clung to the tea on his jacket, his backpack pressing the wetness into his skin. The moment seemed like more of a crime scene than a brief heat of passion.
He wasn't sure if it was tenderness that made him pull Sarah close. It felt like something had taken over him. There was aggression behind the way he pressed his lips hard against the softness of her skin. The same instinct was there as the feeling of throwing the men in the alley hard against the concrete. It was not something he could control, it was a visceral urge.
Simon practically marched across the frost-crisped grass of the park, taking long drags of his cigarette that matched his fast pace. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to check that he was still heading in the right direction.
Searching for further intel from an inconspicuous location, the team would be here for a while. CIA money kept them well off. Simon had lived out of a hotel room before. There was a certain comfort in the idea that he had a space without the trouble of having that space tie him down. He couldn't see Laswell bunked up in a Motel 6, and Motel 6 their home away from home was not.
Finishing his cigarette as he approached the tall building, he flicked the butt out and placed it in the trash can at the door. The front desk staff didn't even look up as entered the foyer. He steadily approached the elevator, entered, and pressed the button taking him to the 7th floor. As the doors slid closed he slumped against the back wall, letting his head fall back against the dark wood that lined the inside of the lift.
He had spent so much of his life pushing memories out of his head. Lingering on emotions was the best way to end up in a ditch. And yet, he could still practically feel the softness of her hair, the smell of tobacco and leather in the musk of her perfume. He shook his head as the elevator dinged, signaling the 7th floor.
He pushed himself off the wall and heavy steps took him down the hallway to the door that would be his home for the immediate future. He swung his backpack to his front and retrieved the key card from a zippered pocket. Sliding the card into the lock of the door the light flashed green and he let himself into the room.
"What the fuck happened to open coms, Simon?" Price yelled as Simon stepped into the room. The whole team occupied the space. They had completely transformed the suite into a base of operations. Computers and wires littered almost every surface, duffle bags with supplies were on the beds and floor.
"Sorry Sir," his voice was rough and ragged from the cigarette, the cold, and the tiredness which was starting to weigh him down. "didn't think a check-in was necessary, I was focused on getting out of the bloody cold." He rubbed his hands together to emphasize his point. "Couldn't bloody well type out a message, my fingers can barely move." He was changing the subject.
"We are working on a tight schedule. No more interruptions. No more intervening in civilian affairs." Laswell rubbed her forehead as she spoke. She looked tired. This whole affair seemed to age everyone in the group. "And no more going to that bar. Or maybe any bar. We have to focus." She sat in one of the only available chairs and placed her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward and clasped her hands together.
"She's damned right. We CANNOT afford to give away our position." Price sat down at the edge of one beds, mimicking Laswell's body language. They had no time to slow down and after months of chasing cartels, AQ, and the betrayal of Shepard and Shadow they were starting to wear thin.
Soap stirred and opened one eye, looking up at the group from his position on a couch at the edge of the room. "Late night for you LT? Did you get lost on your way back? Thought you mighta disappeared." He swung his legs around and sat up on the couch. He stretched his arms out and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Glad you got some shut-eye, Princess." Ghost shot back. "So where are we sitting?" He pulled a chair out from the makeshift operations desk and sat back, stretching his legs out and resting his arms to his sides.
Gaz emerged with a computer from the suite's small kitchen. "Found her." He walked the laptop over to Laswell and set it on the table next to her. "She's at the University of Chicago working as the head of the Center for East European and Russian/Eurasian Studies." Gaz reached his hand up and rested it on the back of his neck. "What exactly is a cryptographer and Russian linguist doing in a Humanities department?"
Laswell swung around to look at the information on the screen. She scrolled through the notes written next to a picture of an older blonde woman with a sharp bobbed haircut. "Teaching. She was one of the CIA's foremost experts in the language and was responsible for capturing and decrypting intel at the end of the Cold War. When she got out she directed her experience to something less... heavy."
"Makes sense." Gaz replied. "So what's her part in this"
"We're calling in a favor" Price replied, head still hanging down from his position on the bed.
"We have reason to believe that Makarov and his cell are planning a large-scale terrorist attack." Laswell replied as she continued scrolling through the information she had pulled up on the laptop. "Anika is the best we have in trying to infiltrate and decrypt any information Makarov may be trying to send."
The collective mood in the room shifted. The air seemed heavy as the group recognized what this might mean for the near future. Laswell gently shut the laptop. "We will be meeting with her tomorrow. For now, we have a lot coming. I suggest we all try and get as much rest as possible. We leave at 0800." She stood from the chair and picked up a bag from the table. She walked to the door and pulled the bag onto her back. "Goodnight boys."
Price stood and stretched, placing his hands at his back and pushing forward. "Steady on team. We'll see you bright and early." He followed Laswell out of the door, shutting it gently behind them.