Chapter Text
Radio static was the only bridge between the mud of the exclusion zone and the relative comfort of the 141 base. In the rec room, John "Soap" MacTavish was checking his gear for the third time, but his actual attention was locked on Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, who was staring fixedly at his phone with a strange smile.
"Checking yesterday's mission report again, Gaz?" Soap teased, a mocking smirk crossing his face. "Or should I say... checking the response times on the support channel?"
Gaz looked up sharply, locking his screen way too fast. "Just making sure Laswell’s data synced up, Johnny. Nothing more."
"Aye, right. And I’m the bloody Queen of England," Soap scoffed, leaning forward. "That’s three missions in a row you’ve gone dead quiet every time the 'Kentucky Ghost' opens his mic. Admit it, lad. You’ve taken a liking to the yank's voice."
"Don't call him that, his callsign's Hess," Gaz corrected immediately, feeling his ears grow hot. "And it’s not the voice. He's... professional. Efficient. Saved our bacon back at the docks without us even having to ask."
"He’s a voice on a comms channel, Kyle. A very nice, calm one, sure—‘Hess here, threat neutralized’," Soap mimicked in an exaggeratedly smooth American accent. "But we don’t even know what he looks like. Always eight hundred meters out in a tower or a ridge, covered in ghillie, wearing that ballistic mask he probably doesn't even take off to breathe. Could be fifty years old with a scar across his whole face."
"He’s twenty-seven," Gaz blurted out without thinking.
Soap froze, blinking a few times before a massive, predatory grin spread across his face. "Twenty-seven? And how the bloody hell d'you know that? Laswell keeps those files under lock and key! Oh, you’re proper sorted, Garrick. He’s really got a hold on you."
Before Gaz could defend himself or throw a coffee mug at his head, the main monitor in the room flickered, shifting the ambient light to a bluish tint. The secure connection with Kate Laswell had been activated.
"Sorry to interrupt the gossip session, gentlemen," Laswell’s voice echoed, calm but authoritative, "but we have a situation in the northern sector. The Russians are moving cargo ahead of schedule. Price and Ghost are already in position, but I need you two to deploy right now."
Gaz sprang to his feet, internally thanking her for the interruption, while Soap slung his rifle over his shoulder, still casting complicit glances his way.
"Will we have eyes in the sky, Watcher?" Soap asked, winking at Gaz.
"Allied command couldn't divert air support," Laswell responded from the screen. "But I managed to reroute an independent contractor who was in the area. You already know him. He'll be on the eastern ridge before you hit the ground. Keep the frequency open. Laswell out."
The chopper ride was short and silent, punctuated only by the vibrations of the engine. When they hit the ground, the night rain hit them hard. Mud squelched beneath their boots as they moved toward the perimeter of an abandoned warehouse.
"Bravo 2-6 in position," Gaz whispered into the comms, his heart beating just a fraction faster than usual. "Looking for confirmation from the spotter."
After two seconds of pure static, a clean, deep voice with a heavy American accent filtered through a mask modulator echoed directly into his headset.
"Hess here. I have eyes on you, Bravo 2-6. You’ve got three tangos patrolling the roof and two at the main entrance. Take your time... I’ve got your six."
The sheer confidence in that voice anchored him. Gaz nodded to himself, exchanging a quick hand sign with Soap before breaching the complex. The assault began in a flash of suppressed bursts and shattering glass. The two 141 men carved their way into the hangar, but the layout was a labyrinth of metal catwalks, and the Russian resistance was quick to react.
The blare of local alarms and muzzle flashes began to saturate the air. Amidst the chaos, a couple of enemy soldiers managed to reach the upper rafters, angling for the blind spot of the British soldiers. Gaz took cover behind a stack of wooden crates, swapping a spent magazine while bullet impacts kicked up splinters just inches from his head. He knew he was exposed, that the angle favored the enemy, and that he wouldn't bring his weapon around in time.
But up there, in the cold stillness of the mountain, Hess's finger was already on the trigger. The world froze again for a split second. The American let out the last breath from his lungs, lined up the crosshairs with the hostile shooter’s chest, and squeezed the cold metal.
The bolt-action rifle roared—a dry crack that the storm immediately swallowed.
The click of the radio broke the silence on the Task Force’s private channel. Following a clean shot that dropped the last hostile trying to flank Gaz, Hess's steady breathing came through the comms.
"Clear, Bravo. Roof is yours. Move out," his voice came low, calm, with the cold efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.
"Copy that, Hess. Brilliant shot. Cheers," Gaz replied, keeping his tone strictly professional, though he took an extra second before moving forward.
Soap, who was a few meters ahead, said nothing over the radio, but he shot Gaz a knowing smirk and a smug look over the internal channel. Soap had noticed that Gaz was always the first to make sure the line with the sniper was clear, and that attention to detail went way beyond protocol.
Once the mission wrapped up, the extraction chopper flew them to a secure airfield in neutral territory for a quick refuel. Inside the corrugated metal hangar, illuminated by dim yellowish lights, the Task Force 141 finally shared the same physical space with the marksman.
Ghost was leaning against some crates with his arms crossed, watching the entrance. Price smoked a cigar in silence, and Soap rested his weight on one leg, watching Gaz, who was stripping down his rifle with unnecessary thoroughness.
"He's coming to sign the debrief with Laswell," Soap murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Gaz to hear. "Let’s see if your hands stay that steady in person, Garrick."
"Drop it, Johnny. He’s an efficient asset, that’s all," Gaz shot back without looking up, though his posture stiffened subtly.
The hangar doors slid open, and Hess walked in at a slow, measured pace. He wore full tactical gear, a precision rifle slung across his back. A simple black balaclava completely covered his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. Dark, deep, piercing eyes that contrasted sharply with the pale skin visible around the sockets.
Hess walked toward the group, stopping at a respectful distance. He gave a slight nod to Price and Ghost.
"Hess," Price greeted, breaking the silence with a nod of his own. "Excellent work out there. Hard angles to work with."
"Just doing my job, Captain," Hess replied. His physical voice, stripped of the radio’s modulator, was a bit softer, but it maintained that slow American drawl.
Soap stepped forward, offering a casual, military-style nod. "Good show out there. I'm Soap. And this is Gaz," he introduced, gesturing to his partner with his thumb. "The bloke who couldn't keep his eyes off you on the tactical map."
Gaz stepped up, ignoring Soap’s jab, and extended his hand firmly toward the sniper. "Pleasure operating with you, Hess. Your cover back at the docks was spot on."
Hess looked down at Gaz’s hand and took it. The American's grip was brief and firm. His dark eyes locked onto Kyle’s for a fleeting moment, reading him in silence, before he broke the contact.
Just then, the screen of the hangar's radio station blinked to life, displaying Kate Laswell’s encrypted feed.
"Good work, team. Data is already encrypted," the supervisor said from the monitor. "Hess, I spoke with command. You’ve got a three-day window before your next deployment. Price has room at the 141 base if you need to refuel or just catch some rack time in a safe place. The offer's on the table."
Price nodded, backing Laswell up. "Hospitality’s on us, Hess. The mess hall isn't much to write home about, but the coffee's decent."
Gaz glanced sideways at the sniper, waiting for his answer. Ghost, on his part, kept his eyes glued to Hess, analyzing his reaction.
Hess went quiet for a second, looking at the screen and then back at the team. His posture remained that of a soldier on alert, comfortable in his own solitude.
"Appreciate the offer, Captain, and yours, Laswell," Hess responded, his tone calm but firm. "But I think I'll move out on my own this time. Got some loose ends to tie up in the northern safe zone. I'll stay on the emergency frequency."
On the screen, Laswell didn't press; she knew the nature of lone wolves in this line of work all too well. "Copy that, Hess. Keep a low profile. We'll be in touch for phase two. Out."
Hess nodded to the darkening screen and then brought his gaze back to the team, lingering one last time on Gaz.
The monitor flickered to black, returning the hangar to its usual dull lighting. In the ensuing silence, the air grew thick, heavy with that strange electricity left behind when a mission ends but everyone's adrenaline is still spiking.
Hess didn't move right away. Through the opening of his balaclava, his dark eyes held Gaz’s gaze—steady, unreadable. There was no hostility in them, but rather a quiet curiosity, a mutual recognition between the boots on the ground and the ghost watching over them from above. Gaz didn't look away; he felt a slight tug in his chest, realizing that despite the physical distance the sniper always maintained, in this freezing hangar, that distance seemed to have vanished entirely.
Soap, arms crossed, shifted his gaze between the two of them with a subtly raised eyebrow, barely suppressing a mocking whistle. Ghost didn't even blink, assessing the independent contractor's body language as if weighing a potential threat or a valuable ally.
It was the faint crunch of Price's boots on the concrete that broke the tactical trance.
"Right. Good hunting, Hess," Price nodded, taking a final drag from his cigar. He respected men who kept their distance; in this business, getting attached or putting down roots was a dangerous luxury.
Hess took a step back, maintaining that relaxed yet alert stance characteristic of him. His dark eyes locked onto Gaz for a fraction of a second longer.
"See you on the next one, Bravo," the American said, a subtle hint of farewell in his voice before turning around.
His boots echoed sharply against the concrete floor as he headed toward the exit. Soap watched the sniper's silhouette vanish into the outer darkness, then nudged Gaz's shoulder playfully.
"Quite the character," Soap muttered under his breath. "Mysterious yank. Got to admit he's got style, though. Right, Kyle?"
Gaz didn't look away from the door until the metal panels slid completely shut. He let out an imperceptible breath, adjusting his plate carrier.
"He’s efficient, Johnny. That's the only thing that matters in the field," Gaz replied, his voice perfectly steady, though internally he couldn't help but think about how young the man's voice sounded without the radio filter.
Ghost, who hadn't uttered a single word the entire time, finally detached himself from the supply crates, adjusting his gear.
"Less chatting, more moving. Laswell didn't give us three days off. Get your kit cleaned."