owner beware

The operators of the 141 were not alone when they filed into the meeting room for mission debrief. Soap’s laughter quickly died in his throat when he noticed the soldier sitting in the corner of the room, her feet propped up on the table's edge, her nose buried in another book.

The rest of the week had been a tense one. Ghost had not seen his training partner for the rest of the time Price was away. The Lieutenant beared the brunt of their punishment, while Sergeant Jones got off Scott free. The one time Ghost had seen her was in the library. He had gone in on a Friday evening, when it was the most quiet, to return his stash of books that had been sitting on his bedside table for too long and collect some new ones, if there were any that he hadn’t already burned through yet. He had rounded the corner of the quiet library, head down, the small collection of shelves shoved into the corner of the MWR were quiet, most soldiers out drinking off base. He had been heading towards the fiction section, raising his eyesight to the spines, looking for any new additions to the measly collection when he spotted her and immediately retreated, pressing his back to the adjacent shelf. She had been standing there between the fantasy and science fiction shelves, trailing a finger along the spine of a small but thick paperback before tugging it out to read the blurb. She hadn’t looked good then, face red, eyes swollen, lip freshly split but not bleeding. Nobody paid her no mind, soldiers often returned to base bloodied and bruised. Her thick eyebrows pinched together in concentration, a stack of books in her other arm. She had been reading the back of thick novel, a series he had already made his way through. He had thumbed through that very book himself. His stomach fluttered at the thought. That she was picking up, touching something he had already touched, had already consumed. Her fingers where his has been. Thumb pressed to thumb with every dogear of a page.

Would she stop at the same places he had stopped?

Would she notice the tea stain he had left somewhere in the midpoint of the book? When Soap had knocked his elbow while telling a story, his hands exaggerating every word. He had laid into the idiot, and Ghost had felt sick to his stomach returning the book with the stain.

Would she leave a similar mark on the book? Her own mark? Something for him to discover. Hunt through every page to find her.

She was not reading that tea-stained novel, she was thumbing through something else when the other operators of the 141 entered the room. The bruising was yellowing at the edges, but still jarring for those who hadn’t seen it. Ghost and Soap paused on the threshold of the door, and Gaz, after bumping into Soap, grumbled and shuffled around them both. His eyes trailed over the lone sergeant before snapping to Ghost. The cut to her lip was scabbing over, but was deep, cutting into the skin below her lip.

It would scar. A permanent mark. Something to remember him by.

The skin on her knuckles had healed but was still pink and fresh. He knew there was more bruising, including her ego. That had taken a mighty blow. Ghost had skimmed the medical report that came across his desk a day later.

He had broken her ribs, nose and opened her stitches from surgery. She had been decommissioned for the rest of the week to recover.

Gaz, painfully polite, said nothing about the state she was in, pulled a chair out across from her, and sat down, eyes glued to the scuffed tabletop. Johnny was no such gentleman, he made his way around the table, heading towards the chair next to her with a pleased look on his face.

“Nice face.” Soap’s face was smug, his tone mocking.

Jones in a similar tone, said, “I wish I could say the same.”

Gaz snorted, Soap cut him a look before standing tall over her. She didn’t even look up from her spot on the page, eyes flitting back and forth, still reading. The room was silent, save for her steady, slow breaths, the flipping of a page every now and then, and the almost silent click of a bullet loaded into a barrel. Ghost sighed. Fucking hell.

Jones didn’t even flinch, didn’t even look up from her book when Soap pressed his gun to her temple. But her eyes, they stopped moving, the page she was on stayed the same, her voice guarded, “That’s not very nice.”

Soap clenched his jaw, voice low, “I’m no’ feelin’ very nice today, lass.”

Ghost watched as her fingers tightened on the book, the paper creaking, “I’m not feeling particularly chipper either, so can we get to the point of this little hissy fit?”

Soap flicked the safety off, Gaz glanced at Ghost, the both of them frozen, waiting.

“Ye’ shot at me and me’ mate.”

A pregnant pause ballooned in the small space. The room began to hum, like the string of a bow, quivering for release. Gaz slowly stood from his spot across from them, eyes drinking everything in. Ghost didn’t dare move a muscle, his eyes glued to the two operators across from him, to Soap's finger on the trigger.

The air grew hot and thick. Heavy with dread, with anger. It felt like wet wool had filled Ghost’s lungs, leaden in his chest. Soap cocked his head at Jones.

Finally. Finally , she looked up, eyes slowly rising to gaze at Ghost across the room. Their eyes locked and he had to force himself not to move, not to widen his stance or roll his shoulders. Force himself not to try to shake off her searing observation. Her head turned to gaze up at Soap, the muzzle of his gun now pressed to the centre of her forehead. Stared right down the barrel, their eyes meeting.

She shrugged, “Shame I missed.”

She hadn’t missed, Ghost wasn’t sure if she was capable of missing. The sand around their feet had jumped when the bullet landed. He had seen firsthand the accuracy in which she could land a shot. She didn’t miss. Ghost took one slow, steady step towards them, his footsteps silent as his hand wrapped around Gaz’s shoulder to push him back into his seat. Could he reach across the table quick enough? Quick enough to stop a finger already on the trigger? To stop a bullet?

The top lip of Soap’s mouth twitched as he fought back a sneer. He held his weapon pressed to her for what felt like forever, arm out straight, finger trembling on the trigger. Nobody blinked, nobody moved. Soap pressed the muzzle of his handgun further into her face, forcing her head back before yanking it away. Only then did Ghost suck in the first full breath he had managed since stepping into the room. He stormed round the table, grabbing Soap by the collar of his shirt.

“You stupid git.” Ghost spat at him, low against the soldiers ear, dragging him away from her. Soap tucked his gun back into its holster before Ghost shoved him into the chair furthest away from Jones. She had not taken her eyes off Soap. Hadn’t even dared to blink.

Situating himself between the two of them, Ghost settled into his chair, skin prickling, burning hot, and he sucked in a deep breath and tried to swallow down the dryness in his throat.

Another page flipped. Ghost stared at Jones, and Jones stared at her book.

Fingers drummed against the tabletop. Gaz stared at Soap and Soap stared at the table.

The door pushed open further, Every pair of eyes in the room jumped to Price as he shouldered open the door. They had been moments away from a real shit show. From a reprimand, for all of them. Price would have had Soap cleaning toilets with the Scot’s own toothbrush for a week if he had caught the silly sod pulling a weapon on another soldier. The Captain kicked the door closed with his foot, balancing a steaming cup and a stack of paperwork in his arms. His eyes did a once-over on every operator in the room. Unaware of the nervous way Gaz picked at the hangnail on his thumb, or the tension coming of both Soap and Ghost in wave after endless wave, finishing his inspection with the operator directly to his right. Drinking in her face, the state of her, his gaze snapped to Ghost. Brows furrowed, face furious, the papers in his arms slapped against the table, “Morning Sergeant Jones.”

Jones slowly closed her book and hugged it to her chest, “Ata mārie, sir.”

Price crossed his arms over his tactical vest, “I can see training together went well.”

Ghost could feel the disappointment radiating off him. In the heat of the moment, it had felt right, she was asking for it, he was teaching her a lesson. Wasn’t that what a Lieutenant was for? Keeping the rest of them in line so Price could focus on more important things. He was keeping her in line, beating her into submission if he had to. He raised his chin to the Captain. He was only doing his duty.

Jones pressed her lips together before smiling, “Swimmingly.”

Price didn’t miss the slight hesitation before she smiled, the painful tug of the skin around her split lip, still scabbing over. His eyes snapped to Ghost, “Lieutenant Riley, care to explain yourself?”

Ghost didn’t even get to open his mouth before another spoke up, “I tripped, sir.”

Both Price and Ghost gazed at Jones. His eyes trailed over the curve of her shoulder, tight, slightly hunched, she had her back to him, held her novel tight to her chest. She was lying. Why was she lying. Soap snorted, Price gave her a droll stare, “You tripped.”

She nodded, ran her tongue over her teeth, “Yep.”

He turned to Ghost, sitting next to her, “Lieutenant?”

Jones glanced over her shoulder at him. Ghost's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. Angel kept her gaze firmly on him, he was confused, she could tell, the little collection of muscles between his eyes was bunched slightly. Getting any kind of reaction out of him was like pulling a splinter, painful but satisfying. She would dig it out with a needle if she had to.

“Clumsy, this one.” He grunted, folding his arms across his chest.

Price sighed, “Right. If that’s the story you’re sticking with.”

His eyes snapped to Ghost’s. The conversation was far from over. The Captain would pull him aside to ask questions later, Ghost was sure of it. The captain sniffed, his moustache twitching as he rested his fists on his hips, “Thanks to the intel provided by Sergent Jones, we were able to spend the last week gathering data on a safe house. Price slid mission files across the table to every operator.

“I hope you’re all sick of this heat,” He said, smiling at all four soldiers in front of him. Angel flipped open the manila folder, her eyes skimming over the information. Russia. Great.

Price launched into the initial infil.

The mission that the rest of the 141 went on while Angel and Ghost had been left to their own devices was successful. With a name Angel had provided in her initial debrief with Price and Laswell, one of many they did not have, Laswell was able to decipher some information regarding their movements. Hidden deep within CIA databases was the name of what was once thought to be a dummy corporation, set up to launder funds from various illegal activities back in the 90’s. Someone in America had looked into the corporation, with an address registered in the FTS databases just outside of Murmansk. Price, Gaz and Soap had been sent deep into Russian territory for recon. They had spent four days watching and reporting on a known safehouse for the once thought inactive organisation. Soap, with a notebook spread out before him, talked the team through the movements over those four days. They had not seen anything during the day, no movement whatsoever, no shipments coming in from the deep port to the north of them, no cargo sitting in storage that they could see. Until the sun went down, then, they saw the men that emerged from the supposedly empty warehouse. On day five they moved, weapons tight, Soap and Gaz conducted a SE with Price as watcher. The two soldiers had cleared each room, without anyone ever hearing a peep. Angel’s eyes trailed over the roughly drawn floor plan, gazing at it upside down in Soap’s notebook across from her. Even she had to admit, it was impressive for them to have been able to get in, get the intel they needed, and get out without being seen, heard, or anyone realising what they had taken. Gaz had stashed a whole fucking laptop in the back of his belt. Fully functioning, and full of information. Angel’s skin itched to pick through it herself. The names, locations, correspondence back and forth, the people, situations she would be able to recognise, pick out. Her fingers tightened into fists, nails digging into the flesh of her palm so hard it hurt. It had taken a few days for Laswell’s team to find anything, most of it was hidden behind firewalls or corrupted. Alex would have been able to crack it in a day and a half. Most of it was menial information, nothing off use, apart from one partially decrypted PDF file that they had found. A wire transfer from an offshore account connected to names they now knew were within the very small inner circle of Bratstvo. Even terrorists had a paper trail. The wire transfer was sent to a company located in the Murmansk Oblast, just north of the Arctic Circle, on the border of Finland. They had been cleared, weapons hot.

The whole team moves out today.

Price closed the file in front of him, “I want you all geared up and ready to go by 0800 hours.”

Angel glanced at her watch, an hour and a half. The team all stood, tucking their chairs in with a chorus of groans. Gaz and Soap smiling at one another, the former slapping the soldier next to him on the shoulder as they exited the room, “Finally some real action, aye?”

The excitement was clear on their faces. Angel's stomach flipped. Her eyes snapped to Ghost’s, and he was already staring at her, his footsteps slowing at the door. His eyes switched to Price, nodding at the captain before exiting the room.

“Jones, a word, if you will.”

Blake paused, her gaze snapping to the man at the head of the table, “Of course, Captain.”

He approached her, moving around the head of the table with a few measured steps, coming to stand a little bit away from her, he made a face. It was grim, she thought.

“You tripped?”

She sucked in a deep breath, her ribs aching still. If either of them told, there would be an investigation. The less her name was recorded in military databases, the better.

“I’d rather not talk about it, Sir, if that’s alright with you.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly considering something before speaking, “I know it has been quite a while since you have worked with a more traditionally run task force.”

It had been years. Since her first year. She had hated it back then as well.

“But please feel comfortable coming to me if you need someone to talk to, to listen. Do not feel obligated to cover for someone else’s misguided actions.”

Her eyes remained on the surface of the conference table, tracing the small circular tea stain that was left from a too-hot mug. The melamine warping under the wet. She nodded, once. She could feel Price’s worried stare on the side of her face, could feel the sudden and sharp disappointment fill the space between them. She tried not to let it in. A small voice then, gentle, soft, he replied, “Alright then.”

She stepped back, making for the door, but Price called her back once again. He set a toughbook down in front of the seat she had occupied.

“Laswell and Shepherd would like a word.”

Her heart leapt into her throat, filling the space completely, it was tough to swallow back. She blinked, her nervous system stumbling for only a moment before she forced her feet to take her back to her seat. Forced herself to sit down. Forced herself not to flinch as Price leaned over her, opening the toughbook and swivelling the screen to face her. She glanced at Price, standing with crossed arms behind her before turning to the screen.

Three faces filled it. Hers included. God, she looked terrible.

Two small faces next to hers. Herschel Shepherd, she had heard of. Only in passing, but his name has been all over the documents she had read and signed when she first got here. He was an Army General. United States military. Founder of Task Force 141. Laswell, Price, Ghost. They all reported to him. She made sure to commit his face to memory. On her screen, he sat in a dark room, a single lamp to his right illuminating half of his face. She could only just spot the crescent of the moon high in the sky. Still in America then, the Pentagon probably. His scowl was severe, brows heavy over his eyes, and a calculated look that made her suppress the urge to shuffle in her seat. This was the first time they were crossing paths. But she knew him. Made sure she would know his face in a line up. She wanted to remember it.

From what she had heard of him, he was an extremely reserved man. Careful. Different to someone like Ghost, whose taciturn nature was more due to his efficiency and desire for information through observation. He did not waste time with small talk and silly little words. Shepherd was different though. Shepherd came off more reticent, advisedly tight-lipped. Blake clenched her jaw tight.

Laswell looked to be in a brightly lit office, a man sitting behind her with a headset on, smiling at Blake through the screen. She could hear clicking of keyboard keys and idle chatter in the background. Somewhere close by, CIA data centre. Somewhere in the UAE maybe.

“How can I help you, General?”

“I will make this short,” Shepherd said, “The situation has changed. We intends to make you a permanent operator of Task Force 141.”

She tightened her grip on her chair. Permanent. Angel’s stomach churned. She might throw up.

Laswell spoke then, “We’re aware of your previous task force being a highly secretive off-the-books black ops team, this will be very different to your previous—”

She blinked at the laptop screen, cutting in, “With all due respect Sir, Ma’am, but I already have a team. I would like to return to them.”

Shepherd spoke next, his southern accent thick, “Request denied.”

Her mouth flooded with saliva. Price shuffled on his feet from behind her, taking a step closer.

Her team. Her girls. She hadn’t known that the last goodbye was a goodbye.

Her eyes stung, she watched herself in the monitor blink and blink and blink. A fuzzy sound filled her head as Laswell and Price continued to talk about probationary periods and new login information, but she couldn’t hear them.

Had they know? Had Price known? Had they flown her in under the guise of a temporary joint task force knowing all along that she wouldn’t be leaving. No, Hera wouldn’t do that. Gen would have cried. Her nails dug into the palm of her hand, surely drawing blood. Her team. Her girls. They had fought alongside one another for years, endlessly patching up each others wounds. Alex had dug out a bullet from Angels thigh the first week of deployment. Still reminded her every chance she got that Angel was the first on the team to get shot. Hera had spend a whole evening while they were both on watch tattooing a small star around the scar left behind with a hypodermic needle and a ballpoint pen she had snapped in half. Flatted out her hand, pressing her fingers to the flesh of her thigh, where she could feel the barely there mottled scar tissue. Angel still had the small, speckled tattoo three years later.

Laswell told her a number. Funds. A raise. Her skin flushed hot. An American tax form she had to fill out. Price slid it out of the paperwork under his arm and placed it next to the toughbook.

Some of them had been together since induction. Hera, Meg, Olivia, Gen. They had shared barracks, swapped make up and skincare, gotten drunk off shitty Mongolian vodka Meg had gotten off of an Australian and laughed over stories of bad dates and even worse shags. They had shared meals, swapped MRE’s with one another. Erin always liked the trail mix more than Angel, and swapped her peanut butter sachet with her every time just so she could eat the cashews and chocolate and then throw the rest away.

Price and Shepherd were arguing, something about leave, the Captain pressing a hand to the table, next to the toughbook and leaning into the screen, she could see his face, brow furrowed, angry.

They had cried together when Yas had gotten news of her mums death, they had been three weeks into a six week mission in Kuwait, she missed the funeral. They had all gone with her, helped her clean out her mums house, Angel could still smell the scent of calla lilies rotting in the hallway.

Shepherd clicked off without a farewell, just one final biting remark directed at Price and he was gone. She swallowed back the bile that tried to force its way out.

She couldn’t remember the last thing she had said to Hera. She couldn’t remember if she had even said goodbye. Couldn’t remember if she had told her she loved her. Hera had laughed over her shoulder. What had she said. She couldn’t remember what she had said.

Only Laswell filled the screen now, the room was silent, the computer whirring slightly.

“Good luck on the mission, and congratulations.”

Jones gave Laswell a tight-lipped smile and nodded, it was the polite thing to do, more a muscle memory than anything else. Someone offers you congratulations, you thank them. The screen went blank. She didn’t feel thankful.

Price closed the laptop with a click, picking it up and tucking it under his arm, “Welcome to the team, kid.”

She glanced up at the man behind her. He slapped his hand into her shoulder and her whole body jerked at the movement. Jerked back into fully functioning. She sucked in the first full breath she had taken since Shepherd had clicked off. Her breakfast threatened to come up. An egg and bacon butty smothered in mayo and barbecue sauce. The sweetness of the maple bacon coater her tongue. It would be horrible coming back up, so she forced it back down. Stared at the tabletop as Price left the room, thinking of how embarrassing it would be to vomit all over the table. She sat there, with her mind reeling and the minutes ticked by as she stared down at her pale fingers until they stopped shaking. She clenched her fists in her lap, nails biting. Pain was easier than fear. Pain overrides anger.

Her stomach still churned as she stood. The rest of the 141, her new team, would no doubt never let her forget it if she did puke all over herself and their meeting room. They would never get the sour egg smell out. So she swallowed it down. Swallowed it all down, eyes stinging, and stood on unsteady feet to leave the room.

Yanking the door open, tax form fisted in her hand, she nearly lost the iron grip on her stomach and vomited all over the operator leaning against the wall across from her, arms crossed.

She swore, her body sagging slightly as she pressed a hand to her chest. As if she could smother the pounding of her heart against her aching ribs.

He had been waiting for her the whole time.

She felt the skin on her neck, her face, burn red hot. Felt his eyes follow the blush.

Ghost stood across from her, their eyes met. Hers wide, slightly wild, his flat, bored. She didn’t feel like breaking any more bones, didn’t even know if she had it in her to try. She gave him a single nod and she was moving.

One moment, he was standing there, his hands by his side, the next, they were on her, warm and soft. Between one breath and the next, his back connected with the wall, her forearm pressed to him.

“I’m really not in the mood today.”

Her skin felt itchy, prickly where he had grabbed her. Anger bubbling hot in her belly. It was better than fear. Stronger than pain.

It was for Shepherd, for Laswell, for Price. For the deception, the sly backhand deals that had obviously gone on, for the eye-watering amount of money they were going to pay her in hopes of her forgetting all about it. For Hera, Alex, Soph, Em, Olivia, Gen, Meg, Erin, Addie. For all of them. Her team. For this whole fucked up situation. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to hurt. Ghost was here. He was an easier target.

She leaned in, raising her chin so she could meet his eye, “Didn’t mummy teach you to not touch what’s not yours?”

His jaw clenched, “No.”

The tip of her knife pressed to his crotch, “Need a reminder?”

He didn’t move, barely breathed, just stared at her and murmured in a low voice, “Disengage.”

She clenched her jaw, the small muscles around her eyes twitching slightly. It had been so long, so long since she had worked in a team with a hierarchy. The muscle memory was there, drilled into her from the early years of training. Yield, obey, submit. Like a good little dog.

Her hand tightened around the knife, skin groaning against leather. Between one breath and the next she was standing across the hallway, knife away, and took off down the hall, her short footsteps quick and light.

Ghost followed, his voice carrying over the space between them, “I don’t need anyone doing me any favours.”

She laughed, skidded to a stop, and Ghost had to back peddle to not run into her. Their eyes met and she pointed at her own face, “I have a permanent reminder on my fucking face. Trust me, I’m the last person that would do you any favours.”

His eyes trailed over her face, drinking in the bruises, the cuts, the scrapes. He had done that. It had felt good at the time, felt like winning, but now she was just sore.

Ghost raised his chin, “Why cover for me?”

She started walking again, hoping he wouldn’t follow, he did, “Because I was bored.”

He didn’t get it. He didn’t see. She wasn’t doing it for him.

Ghost shook his head, his long stride eating up hers easily, “Not good enough. You could be reprimanded.”

She snorted, a sharp sting in her nose, and rounded the corner to head down their hallway, “Why, you gonna report me?”

They slowly came to a stop, both operators standing outside of their respective doors.

“I might do.” The deep timbre of his voice was enough for Angel to turn, to face him, to narrow her eyes at him.

“I wonder what the punishment is for a lieutenant beating the shit out of one of his own.”

He paused for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest. Their secret would remain with them then, and strictly off the books.

She glanced at her watch instead. His silence was answer enough, she gave him a smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, “You’re welcome.”

She turned to unlock her door, and Ghost called out to her, “Tarmac in an hour.”

She turned back, saluting, “Aye aye captain.”

“It’s Lieutenant.”

She shrugged, calling back to him through the closing door, “Whatever.”

Clicking her door shut behind her, she squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a shaky breath. Had she hugged Olivia when she left? Hera? Any of them? Her chest ached, heaving lungs pressing against still broken ribs. Listened for the shuffling of feet and the click of the door across from hers. Her chest squeezed and squeezed at her heart, her back aching. Everything ached, everything hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. Sucking in a deep breath and holding it til her ribs screamed, she let it out and opened her eyes.

Enough.

She had to focus.

Enough.

Grabbing her pack from inside her closet, she swiftly packed a few of all the basics, shirts, fleece, pants, underwear, enough socks for the whole bloody team, and an extra pair of boots to add to the ones on her feet. Heading into the bathroom, she grabbed her to-go bag and shoved that in too. She didn’t know how long they would be gone for, Price hadn’t mentioned it. It could be three days, it could be three weeks.

Better to be safe than sorry, especially when it comes to socks.

There’s nothing she hated more than cold feet. Hera had walloped her the last time she’d pressed them to her calves when they shared a sleeping bag while camping out in remote Poland. They had become snowed in, Angel’s own sleeping bag thrown around Hera’s, and she had still felt like her toes were going to fall off. Hera had screamed, her elbow snapped out into Angel’s ribs and Angel had laughed until the pain in her side shifted from uncomfortable to pleasant. A fist clenched around her heart, and Angel blinked away the stinging of her eyes. Grabbing her helmet, she double-checked her room before flicking off the light and shouldering open the door. Her eyes snagged on the door across from her. Light off, already dark. Ghost had already left. She hadn’t even heard him go. She locked her door behind her, her own room dark.

Shrugging her pack higher up on her shoulders checked her watch before heading for the armoury. She had forty-five minutes til they were due to leave.

Forty-five minutes, and she had somehow gotten lost on the way to the armoury. She had been in a daze, wandering through hallways that all looked the same, still not used to the layout. She was going to be late. Heart pounding out of her chest, skin prickling, she had wandered quickly down a couple of empty hallways that she thought were in the general direction of the armoury but found nothing. Feet quick on Lino, she shouldered open a doorway heading to the exit, and nearly walked into another soldier.

“Shit, sorry.” Her cheeks red, she stumbled back, pushing out a nervous breath and glancing up at the soldier. He was standing with a few others, they all smiled down at her. They looked young, fresh. Greenies from the US Army, going from the patches that littered all of their arms. Her eyes filtered back to the one standing right in front of her.

“I’m really sorry, but, can you help me?” He had smiled at her blushing face and slightly out-of-breath voice and insisted on escorting her there himself.

To her credit, she had been going in the right direction. She was just in the wrong building. They ended up a few buildings over, this one smaller than the others, and made with a little sturdier material than the standard corrugated iron that all the other buildings were composed with. It was such a big base, and the buildings all looked the same. None of them had names on them either. It made sense really. It’s not like they could label an international military base with ARMORY and CAFETERIA and BARRACKS for anyone to see. It would make her life a lot easier though, catastrophe aside. Maybe she’d make a map. She started a rough sketch in her head and faltered when suddenly there was a door in front of her. The boy next to her laughed as he held the door open for her to slip through, closing it behind them with a nod.

“It’s just around the corner, you were almost there yourself.”

He laughed at his own joke, Blake smiling at him.

She had already forgotten his name. It started with a J, maybe. The two of them were heading down the hallway when another pair of soldiers rounded the corner. He was walking too slowly. Jacob. No. Julien? She was rushing to grab all of her equipment in time, but he kept on falling behind, talking about the rooms they passed, the one time he had done ROE training in the room to their right. Gritting her teeth, she paused and waited for him to catch up for the fourth time.

She didn’t notice them at first. She had been listening to the soldier, Jeremy maybe, while finishing off the map to the barracks in her head.

“So, are you based here on a more permanent basis?”

She nodded, staring at her feet. Her left shoelace was coming undone.

“For the time being, yeah.”

His smile widened, they took off again. Maybe if she matched her stride to his and slowly sped up, he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m here doing advanced training, hoping to qualify for special forces one day.”

Nodding along, she tried to calm her heart flapping about in her chest. Ten minutes. She glanced over at him out of the corner of her eyes. Thought about telling him he was too scrawny to be in the special forces. Too nice .

“When do you return?”

Her eyes snapped to his face, hopeful, open, “Sorry, that’s classified.”

He laughed, “Playing hard to get, huh.”

He began talking excitedly about a party some of the soldiers were having on the 15th, clearly young enough to still enjoy getting shitfaced and waking up the next day with a splitting headache when she passed the two soldiers, only just glancing up to offer them a friendly smile.

Soap and Ghost passed her, already geared up and ready to go.

Her eyes snagged on the two of them, her smile disappearing, and her gaze followed them as she walked past. Ghost glanced back once, his eyes flicking to the soldier next to her.

Soap did too, laughing, before leaning into Ghost, “New barrack bunny, eh?”

Ghost grunted a response before turning back around.

“You okay?”

Jake next to her lowered his head to get in her eyeline, it was still trailed behind them. They had stopped walking and she didn’t even realise. Shame burned through her, staining her cheeks pink. The two members of her team disappeared around the corner.

“Yeah, sorry.”

Jacob glanced at where Soap and Ghost had disappeared before continuing on.

“They’re on the 141. One of the best special ops teams active right now. I’d be scared of anyone on that team as well”

Blake glanced up at Jack, no, she was sure it was Jack. One of the best special ops teams. She sniffed, her broken nose aching. They didn’t act like one of the best special ops teams out there. He was right though. He should be scared of anyone on that team. Especially her.

She walked with a little more space between the two of them.

They made it to the armoury with 20 minutes to spare. Jack refused to leave until she promised to go along to the party if she was back in time.

He left with a smile and a wave and she hoped she wasn’t back in time.

Blake was the last one on the plane. Her boots were heavy on the ramp, and the clang of metal rocking against one another echoed through the interior of the plane. Packed with cargo, weapons, and vehicles, there was little space for seating. Four pairs of eyes looked up at the noise, all geared up and ready to go. The rest of the 141 were all sat together, around a crate carrying what looked to be food rations heading somewhere else. Had dealt out four sets of cards.

It was as clear as day. Where the line had been drawn.

As quickly as her eyes had trailed over them, they trailed off, seeking a spare seat she could curl up in for the six-hour flight to the Finnish border.

“Have fun with yer boyfriend, lass?” Soap raised his head over Ghost’s wide-set shoulders to smirk at her. Poking, prodding, trying to find the right button.

Blake tugged at her load-bearing belt and winked at Soap as she stalked past them, “Eat me, MacTavish.”

Soap snickered, Price flushed bright red.

Her skin felt dirty.

Moving as far away from them as possible, she tucked herself against another crate in the far back of the room. Shrugging off her pack and setting it at her feet, she threw herself into the uncomfortable chair. Even worse than commercial planes, she slipped further down into the seat, crossing her arms over her chest, resting her feet on her pack, and tugging up the hoodie of her jumper till it was pulled over her brow. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on the white noise of the plane idling, trying to block out their chatter and laughter. Tried to not think of Shepherd or Laswell or the tax form crumpled up on her desk. Tried not to think of her team, where they were, if they were alive.

She had clearly been traded. For information. For weapons. For favours. She didn’t know. Someone had greased someone’s hand, pulled the right strings. Her government had traded her like livestock. She was the prized mare sold off to the highest bidder. Someone connected to the 141 had wanted her, and they got her. From the whispers around base, from what she had heard herself about the 141, Laswell, Sheperd, the lot, whatever Herschel Shepherd wants, he gets. By any means necessary.

Blake pressed a finger and thumb to her eyes, hard enough to see static. She tried to suck in one deep breath after the other and steady the raging inside her gut.

Men shouting, the plane engine roared to life. Everyone was accounted for, all equipment was loaded up, the ramp was raised and they started taxing along the runway.

She crossed her arms over her middle, resting her mouth on her still-tender knuckles. Her meeting with Laswell and Shepherd replayed in her head over and over again. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

They had been on the right track, they were so close, so close to ending this. Six months tops, and the Bratstvo would have been dead and buried. Like the job in Colombia, and the one before that. Why pull her now, why ruin the chance they had at ending things?

Her team, Task Force 212, had been hand-picked by the NZDF years ago for covert multi-national black ops to target human trafficking in Europe and the Middle East. They had gone dark for the very first year. Hunting in secret. Reporting back through notes dropped in books hidden in safehouses across the continent. The team had trained and worked together for years, had exceptional numbers, and had never breached the rules of engagement.

Why now. What changed?

Maybe they had simply wanted control. Give her to someone who could bring her to heel. She’d pissed off too many of the wrong people with the right connections. They had too many fingers in too many pies, and got angry when she cut those fingers off. Too greedy. She had always been too greedy. Bitten off more than she could chew and was now choking on it.

Maybe her situation was her very own making.

Her mind went round and round with every thought chasing the tail of the last.

Laughter echoed through the roaring metal tube that housed them all. She tried to block it out, tried and failed. Her eyes snagged on them, barely visible through the dim safety light that stained everything red. They were still playing cards, all hunched over their own hands Soap said something under his breath, her name jumbled up with other words, and the rest of them laughed.

She let them.

Blake had forgotten, what it was like to be on a normal team. She had been lucky with her girls. She had forgotten, become blissfully unaware of what it was like for a woman in the military.

What had changed, but what was still the exact same.

They were a team. But they were still men. And this was still the military.

With a clench of her teeth and a deep, steadying breath, she let them laugh, let them make her the butt of every joke. Maybe this was her first punishment. Let them think the worst of her. Even though her cheeks burned red and anger festered in her gut like an open wound.

Let them think the worst.They had seen her walking with another soldier, seen him flirt with her, and thought the worst. Because that was the worst thing for a woman to be, right? Not angry or vicious or hungry or lethal. The worst thing a woman can be was a whore.

She could slit someone's throat in front of them and lick the blood from her knife and still then, they would snicker at the lewd dispaly. It didn’t matter if she was kind or smart or strong enough.

If she was a whore, it didn’t matter.

They were meant to be the best. Price was meant to be a good man. Lead by example.

But they were still men. And this was still the military.

Her chest tightened painfully.

More laughter. The plane taking off. Her stomach bottomed out, her ears too.

She let them make it easier. Let them make the grave mistake.

Blake shimmied further down in her seat and pulled her hoodie further over her eyes before closing them. The loud laughter of men surrounded her.

She missed her team.