Prologue - For Johnny
The station reeked of rust and old piss. Just the usual smell of metal and unwashed bodies, with sweat and urine baked straight into the tiles. That was London Underground after a week-long power cut and a riot. One of those places that you’d like to avoid even before the shooting started.
Ghost kept his back to the crumbling wall, rifle up, staring down at the shadows. Nothing moved in there besides rats and occasional wrapper picked up by breeze. Those tunnels were drafty even without trains whooshing every minute. His mask itched, but he’d rather eat glass than scratch.
Price and Soap squatted over the bomb like two blokes picking through a broken engine—wires everywhere, guts out, both of them sweating, adding to the aroma. Soap’s hands flew fast, all nerves and muscle memory. He kept his mouth running as fast as fingers, a habit he picked up to stay sane and keep Price steady. Hard to tell. Ghost stayed close, rifle pressed tight, eyes darting along the platform, then back to his guys working.
“Almost done, Ghost. Stop breathing down my neck.”Nobody smiled. Too much riding on Soaps cold fingers and luck. Ghost wedged his foot behind the bomb’s case, ready to punt it if things got lively.
He tracked the empty platform again but caught only the rattle of old pipes and his own heart trying to punch a hole through his ribs.
Gaz’s voice crackled over comms, sharp and clear through their earpieces.
“North stairwell secure. Just rats and rubble.”
Ghost didn’t turn, his gaze locked on the shifting shadows beyond the platform edge. He gave a single, curt nod that no one would see. Acknowledgement enough. They knew their job; no need to create noise over comms.
Up there, Ace braced against a ticket booth, covering Gaz’s advance on downed escalators. His long legs were taking two steps at time, moving like liquid shadow, sweeping his rifle muzzle through archways leading deeper into the station’s guts. Ace watched his six, finger resting light on the trigger guard. No words needed.
Gaz paused, tapped two fingers against his chest, then pointed sharply left. Ace peeled off instantly, covering the new angle without hesitation. Their movements were automatic, like a dance they would practice before prom. Dance was the same, only shitholes different.“Clear back here,” Ace murmured into her mic, the sound barely a breath. “Just us and the fucking damp.”Ghost caught Price’s slight shoulder shift, registering the perimeter hold. Solid. Soap’s hands didn’t falter among the wires.
They breathed together in the stinking dark, a unit held by trust stronger than steel.
It changed in an instant, because it always did. Makarov stepped out from the shadow at the far end—a rat with a pistol pointed like he’d been waiting for the applause. Didn’t hesitate. The gun spat fire. Soap jerked back, red blooming on his vest, right above the plates when it meets the neck. In the same breath he collapsed, head hitting steel with a crack that would haunt anyone with a soul.
Price roared—voice raw, croaky. “Johnny!”
He caught Soap one-handed, but not quick enough to matter. Blood streaked across his hands. That sound of his head meeting the steel casing echoed louder than the gunshots that erupted.
Ghost didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Just swung his rifle towards Makarov and squeezed the trigger until his mag emptied. Brass casings danced hot across the tiles as rounds chewed on concrete where that Russian bastard stood half a second earlier. Too fucking slow. Makarov was already melting back into the archway’s shadow. Gone, same way he came from. Probably hell. Or Russia. Same thing.
“Johnny—!” Price’s roar cracked into something wet and broken, one hand pressing hard against the red mess blooming above Soap’s collarbone, the other still tangled in strap of his rifle. Blood slicked the bomb casing where Soap’s head had cracked against it.
Ghost kept firing, walking his shots left towards the archway. No target. Just rage and the stink of cordite mixing with piss and fear. Gaz’s voice snapped over comms—“Contact rear!“—but Ghost didn’t turn. His world narrowed to Price crouched over Soap’s still form and that empty fucking shadow where Makarov had been. Their bomb tech lay motionless, Price’s fingers smearing crimson across his throat. Ghost spat a curse that tasted like bile. Specialist down. Mission fucked. But at least they managed to finish with the bomb, so maybe not fucked entirely.
Up top, Ace crouched at the exit, sniper rifle covering the alley mouth. Her comms erupted with Price’s roar, Ghost’s silence. She gritted her teeth. Her stomach turned, but her voice held.
“What the hell’s going on? Price—Ghost—Soap— answer me.”
Nothing. Just ragged breathing. That’s when she knew it’s gone bad.
She tried again, sharper. “Don’t go quiet on me. Tell me what happened.”
Below, Price pressed his forehead into Soap’s shoulder. Words barely grating out. “Stay at your post, Williams. That’s an order.”
Ghost glanced at Price. Saw the ruin in his face. Price couldn’t say it. So Ghost did.
He keyed his mic, tone flat, cold like northern wind. “Ace. Soap’s down. Makarov shot him.”
Silence from Dani. Then a choked breath.
“He promised,” she said, voice crumbling. “Said it’s just one more mission.”
Ghost’s words came out clipped, hard. “He fought for us. Do your job. Hold that exit, or his death’s for nothing.”
Ace’s hands shook. Tears hot, vision blurring. She set her jaw, pressed her eye to the scope.
“For Johnny,” she muttered, voice thin as thread.
No one moved on the station or the escalators. Every shadow looked like trouble. She waited, dead-eyed, rifle and finger steady. If Makarov’s men came up, she’d feed them lead before they reached stairs. No negotiations.
Back in the station, Price cradled Soap, whispering his name like it could make any difference. Ghost stood guard, mask hiding the mess inside.
The radio popped again. Dani’s voice slid through the comms. Steady now, anger steel under the cracked concrete of a facade.
“Exit’s clear. Move your arses.”
Ghost breathed out, bitter. “Copy that.”
Soap was gone. Price carried loss and body like a bag of bricks. Ghost took the silence. Williams, guts in knots, eyed the street with murder in her heart. No one else was dying tonight. Not unless they stepped to her first. Nobody getting past her. Not again.
