#tgtr

There was a lot about him I couldn’t place, if we’re being honest. He sat still for most of the flight, arms crossed over his chest, eyes behind the mask completely impassive. If he had thoughts about me or the mission, he kept them to himself. 

I wasn’t about to break the silence to ask.

When the transport finally touches down, the sky is already that slate-grey kind of miserable, typical for the Scottish Highlands. It’s just past 7am but it might as well be midnight for how exhausted I feel.

The second the doors open, the chill bites through my tac gear when a sharp, damp wind cuts across the landing pad. It’s the kind of cold that slips under your collar like it’s got a grudge.

I swing my rucksack over one shoulder as we descend the ramp of the helo. Price walks beside me. “Welcome to RAF Scáthach*. Looks can be deceiving.”

When my boots hit the ground, I take a look around. It appears to be an abandoned facility at first glance, but I see a watchtower on the other side that could be a perfect nest for a sniper. I bet if I looked harder I'd spot some cameras around the perimeter fencing and other security measures.

“Above ground, it's just crumbling hangars and old watchtowers. Officially, this place doesn’t exist,” Price explains. “The good stuff's buried underground, where no one can see.”

We make our way across the cracked tarmac and I clock a guy watching us in silence. Tall, mohawk, smaller than Ghost but still looks like he can rip someone’s head off with a well-placed roundhouse.

He stands off to the side, leaning against the outer wall of an old building, arms crossed, clearly waiting for us. He looks well-rested, casual, like he hasn’t just been pulled into something unexpected. Soap, then, I assume.

He straightens when Ghost and Price approach. Then, the moment his gaze lands on me, I see it—a flicker of surprise. His brows lift just slightly, then he blinks, masking it almost as fast. But not fast enough. I can practically hear whatever assumption he had about me shattering in real-time.

His eyes dart between Ghost and Price, questioning, like this is some kind of prank they’re trying to pull on him. I resist the urge to smirk.

He probably expected someone twice my size. A guy, maybe, built like a brick wall. Probably someone like Ghost. Anything but a girl barely brushing five-foot-four, blood under her fingernails and half a tired smile.

Price stops in front of him, and they clasp hands. “You’ll be sharing quarters with MacTavish,” he tells me over the shoulder. “Only spare bunk we’ve got at the moment. That okay?”

I don’t particularly care who I’m bunking with as long as they keep to themselves. So I shrug. “Fine by me, Captain.”

The last few days have been a series of missions, movements, and barely-there downtime, and the thought of finally having a place to drop my gear—even if just temporarily—is more appealing than it should be.

Soap coughs once, then turns to me properly. “Right then. You must be Reaper.”

“Last I checked,” I reply, adjusting my pack over my shoulder.

“Johnny MacTavish,” Soap says, offering a hand. “Everyone calls me Soap. You don’t have to, but you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

“Reaper,” I say, gripping his hand briefly. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

That earns me a grin. “Oh, I like you already.”

Then his gaze flicks to Ghost and lingers, likely a silent check-in, an unspoken question. 

Ghost tilts his head ever so slightly, voice low and dry. “She’ll do.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “High praise, really. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

Soap blinks like he’s just been slapped and his brows twitch up. That pause says everything—it’s clearly not the answer he expected. Then he gives me a silent once-over, less judgment and more genuine curiosity this time.

“Soap will show you around.” Price claps a hand on my shoulder, effectively pulling my attention. “Get some rest, kid.”

I nod before he peels away without another word. Ghost follows, grunting low as he walks past us.

“Charming fella,” I mutter, as soon as he’s out of ear shot.

“Absolutely,” Soap chuckles, and gives me a quick head nod. “Didn’t picture you like this,” he admits. “Figured you’d be… scarier.”

“Most people do,” I say. “That’s usually their first mistake.”

He grins wider. Then jerks his thumb toward the underground entrance where the others disappeared into. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we’re holed up. Try not to judge our little underground bunker too hard. We’re very sensitive.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

I follow him inside, boots echoing off the concrete. He talks a mile a minute, tossing out nicknames, half-finished stories, and warnings about the quirks of the base as if he’s afraid silence might swallow us whole.

“Mind the third step down this hall—creaks loud enough to wake Price from a coma,” he says, pointing as we descend. “Training area’s on this floor, armory’s just past that. Medical bay’s next to it—don’t ask why, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

He takes a sharp left and slaps a big red button on the wall. A door groans open, revealing another underground stretch of the base—concrete walls, dim lights, and a chill that seeps into your bones. The air smells like metal, coffee and faint gun oil.

“Mess is closer to the barracks. You’ll probably get lost a few times, but if you smell burnt toast and shitty coffee, you’re close,” he continues. “And if the lights flicker twice in there, that’s not Morse code—it just means Gaz tried to microwave something he shouldn’t.”

I arch a brow. “Define ‘something he shouldn’t.’”

“Let’s just say the inside of the microwave still has some charred bits of melted plastic we never managed to get rid of.”

“Lovely.”

Soap grins. “You’ll get used to the chaos. Just keep your boots off Price’s table and don’t touch Ghost’s tea stash.”

That catches me off guard more than it should. “Ghost drinks tea?”

“Religiously. The man’s an enigma, but God forbid you mess with his Earl Grey. Had a bloke once who drank the last packet—swear Ghost’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for his handgun right there.”

“Sounds about right.”

We move deeper into the base. It’s a mix of sterile corridors and old reinforced concrete, the kind of place that still hums with Cold War memories. The smell of disinfectant coming from the hallway leading to the medbay overpowers everything else before we go down another flight of stairs. 

“Quarters are down this way,” he says, motioning me forward. Soap moves like he’s used to being in control of his space, comfortable but still easygoing. “You know, I’m pretty sure Price stuck you with me ‘cause I’m the most socially adjusted one around.” 

“Uh, is that code for ‘loud enough to break the tension when Ghost’s being extra murdery’?” 

Soap snorts. “You catch on quick.” He pushes open the door leading to a long hallway lined with evenly spaced doors. “So why’d you sign up? What made you wanna do this job?”

I exhale, reading the names on the doors as we walk by. “Didn’t sign up.”

Soap frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

I glance at him, debating how much to say. “Price invited me.”

His expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “That so?”

I nod. “Maybe he thought you lot needed someone to keep your asses out of trouble.”

Soap lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s rich. Price must’ve thought you were some miracle worker, then.”

“Something like that,” I say with a half smile.

“Think you’re up to the task?”

I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Soap watches me for a beat, then nods. “Fair enough.”

We pause in front of a reinforced door with two nameplates already slapped on it—Soap and now, underneath, Reaper.

“How official,” I mutter.

“Price likes to label things,” Soap says, pushing the door open and stepping aside with a mock bow. “After you.”

The room is basic—two bunks, two lockers, a small desk shoved against the far wall. The covers on the bed furthest from the door are slightly wrinkled, like someone was lying there not long ago. There’s a black notebook on the desk and a half-empty bottle of water on the same side. 

I step inside and drop my bag beside the bed that doesn’t look lived-in. This is not much different from every other barracks I’ve ever stayed in. At least it’s not just an old mattress on the floor, so that’s something to be grateful for. 

The adrenaline from the mission's long gone, and exhaustion is settling in like a weighted blanket. I need to sleep, I need food and a shower. Perhaps not in that order.

Soap watches me for a second, then nudges the door shut with his boot and leans against the wall. “So… what’s your deal?”

I glance at him. “That’s subtle.”

He grins, unrepentant. “C’mon. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious loner’ thing going on. Ghost’s got it too, but you’ve got a different flavor. Less murdery, more… haunted.”

“Charming.”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I unzip my rucksack and start unpacking—just the essentials. Extra ammo mags and spare knives go on my locker. A beat-up copy of Bravo Two Zero that’s survived five deployments and two IEDs on my side of the desk. My zippo lighter resting on top of it.

Soap sits on his bed, watching me like he’s trying to piece me together. His eyes follow me as I move around the room, tracking my every motion like I’m some cryptid he’s studying.

I can feel the weight of it—his curiosity. He’s waiting for me to drop some kind of hint, a clue that might tell him who the hell I am and where I came from.

Tough luck. I’m not going to make that an easy task.

Instead of giving him what he wants, I ask, “You always this chatty?”

“Nah,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Only when I’m bored. Or nervous.”

The scent of gunpowder and sweat clings to everything I’m wearing. I peel off my tac vest and toss it on the floor. Then tug my overshirt over my head, sleeves still stained with dried blood, and drop it onto the growing pile.

“Which one is it now, bored or nervous?”

Soap shifts on his bed and lies on his back, sprawled out like he’s got nowhere to be. One arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his chest. 

He grins at me, unabashed. “You’re kinda scary so I’m a bit nervous, not gonna lie.”

I snort under my breath and tug off one of my boots, tossing it with a heavy thud onto the floor. “You have no idea” I mutter.

Soap just hums, amused. His gaze never wavers, even as I sit on the edge of the bed and start unlacing the other boot with slow movements

“So,” he says after a beat, “the op went well?”

I remove my hidden combat knife from inside my other boot before kicking it off as well, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I didn’t die. That’s usually my bar.”

Soap snorts. “C’mon lass, give me something.”

I roll my eyes, grab a towel from my duffel, and wipe some of the grime and dried blood off my hands before responding. “Well… Ghost didn’t slow me down.” 

Soap barks out a laugh, shaking his head like I just told the world’s best joke. “Oh, he’s gonna love that.”

I glance at him, and without meaning to, the memory flickers—Ghost’s voice in the helo, low and dry as he muttered, “Soap’s gonna love this one.” Like he already knew how this conversation would play out.

“Funny,” I say, tossing the towel aside. “He said the same thing about you.”

Soap perks up instantly, sitting up straighter like I just activated some hidden command word. “He did?”

“Yeah.” I smirk as I unzip a side pocket and pull out a crumpled ration bar. “Said you were gonna love me.”

Soap blinks. “Ghost said that?”

I nod, tearing open the wrapper with my teeth. “Well, not in those exact words. More like… ‘Soap’s gonna love this one.’ Real heartfelt.”

He lets out a low whistle and leans back against the wall, eyes wide with mock awe. “Bloody hell. That’s practically poetry coming from him.”

I take a bite of the bar, chewing slowly, pretending not to enjoy how off-balance he looks. He’s still trying to figure me out—and now he knows Ghost might already have.

The room’s gone quiet, except for the hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of pipes hidden somewhere deep in the walls.

Soap’s voice cuts through it, softer this time—thoughtful. “He doesn’t say things like that lightly, y’know.”

I pause halfway through a bite. “I figured.”

He’s sitting up now, legs crossed on his bunk, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me. There’s no teasing in his expression this time—just curiosity and something else. Caution, maybe.

“You get under his skin or something?”

I don’t say anything right away. Not because I don’t know how to answer—but because the question is too close to something I haven’t put into words yet.

“Not on purpose,” I say finally. “We didn’t exactly spend a lot of time talking.”

“Still…” 

Soap squints at me, like he’s trying to see through fog. “You’ve got him clocked already, don’t you?”

I shrug one shoulder, turning back to my pack. “Enough to keep up. Tonight was just… easy.”

I drop into a seated position on the edge of the bed and stretch my arms behind me, rolling my shoulders until they pop. The tension still lingers in my spine, a phantom from the mission that hasn’t quite let go yet. I wince as one knot tightens, then breathe out slow.

Soap tilts his head. “Easy?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought I’d hear someone say that about working with Ghost.” His brow furrows, like he’s been giving a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “He doesn’t always tolerate new people, let alone say anything close to a compliment.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, trust me—‘she’ll do’ is practically a love letter, coming from him. Means he’s already counting you as one of us.” He glances at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s honestly kinda freaky, not gonna lie.”

I let out a quiet huff, more amused than annoyed, and start undoing the velcro on one of my kneepads. “Why?”

“Ghost is picky about who he works with, and it takes him a while to get used to new people. Makes me wonder what the hell you did tonight.”

He says it like he expects a full report, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for a confession. I debate brushing him off. But instead, I give him just enough.

“We didn’t even have to talk out there,” I say, tugging off the other kneepad. “We just did our job. No drama, no fuss.” I glance at him. “I mean, I thought I was the quiet one until I met him. We exchanged maybe… ten words.”

Soap straightens a little. “During the op?”

“Total. Since Price introduced us before the briefing.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” I lean back on my hands, staring up at the ceiling, voice quieter now. “You ever work with someone and it just clicks? No uncertainty. No stumbling over each other. You move, they move. Go in, do what you gotta do, and get out.”

Soap goes still for a second. “Ghost’s not exactly the click-with-anyone type.”

“Guess we’re both weird, then.”

Soap just hums, his tone light but observant. “You’ve already cracked his surface, I can tell.”

I glance over at him, one eyebrow raised as I pull my legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “Yeah?”

He nods, stretching like a cat before slouching back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “Mm-hmm. He didn’t glare once on the landing pad. Coming from Ghost, that's the same as a hug.”

I snort, resting my forearms on my knees. “Maybe he was just too tired to be annoyed.”

“Doubt it,” Soap says, chuckling. “Man could be bleeding out and still judge you with a single look.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me, soft and unexpected. He's not wrong. Ghost has a stare that could strip paint off a wall—and I’m not sure whether I passed through it unscathed or he just didn’t bother trying.

He watches me, that same little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s filing this entire conversation away somewhere in his brain for future reference. “You’re not what I expected.”

I smirk as I pull my hair loose from its braid, fingers running through the tangled strands. “Most people say that right before they start running in the opposite direction screaming.”

He laughs, bright and genuine, like he didn’t expect me to have a sense of humor. “You’d have to do a lot worse than ‘efficient in combat and surprisingly sarcastic’ to scare me off.”

“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail and flicking the tie around it.

Soap raises an eyebrow, grinning. “That a promise or a threat?”

I shoot him a look. “Depends on how loud you snore.”

“You’ve got attitude, I’ll give you that.”

I let out a soft snort, surprised I’m even still talking. I usually shut down after missions. Go silent. Vanish into my own head. But Soap makes it hard to stay closed off—he talks like the world hasn’t broken him yet.

That’s refreshing. 

It’s strange—this ease. I’m not used to it. Not with strangers.

I shift on the bed, propping one knee up and leaning back on my hands. The mattress isn’t exactly comfortable—standard issue, stiff as hell—but it’ll do.

“Really, though. You snore?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.

He lifts an eyebrow, mock offense written all over his face. “You planning to smother me in my sleep if I do?”

I grin. “Just gathering intel.”

Soap huffs a laugh, ruffling a hand through his mohawk like he’s considering whether this is a trap. “Nah, not usually. Unless I’m sick. Or really, really drunk.” He pauses, then gestures vaguely in my direction. “You? Any weird sleeping habits I need to know about?”

I hum, pretending to think, dragging it out as I reach into my bag for a spare shirt to change into after a shower. “Well, I do this thing where I levitate six inches off the bed and speak in tongues around 3am.”

Soap snorts, loud and abrupt. “Ah, brilliant. Can’t wait. Should I keep holy water on standby?”

“You can try.”

I settle back against the wall, tucking one leg under the other. My body’s starting to calm, with that dull soreness that always creeps in after the action stops finally setting in. There’s a moment of quiet between us—not awkward, not tense. Just… still.

Then I speak, my voice low and even.

“I sleep light.”

Soap doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, expression unreadable now. Waiting. Listening.

I exhale through my nose, slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall.

“If you ever notice me slipping out for a stroll in the middle of the night,” I murmur, quieter this time, “just turn around and go back to sleep, yeah?”

The weight of the words hangs in the air like smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t need to.

A beat passes. Then another.

Soap’s voice comes soft and steady, no hesitation.

“Aye.”

That’s it. No questions. No judgment. Just that simple word, like an unspoken agreement. Like he’s already accepting my quirks.

I nod once, just enough to feel it. Then I lie back and close my eyes, giving myself a moment to rest before crawling out again to take a shower.

It’s not trust. Not yet.

But it’s something.

--

*Scáthach is pronounced "Ska-ha" (IPA: /ˈskaːhax/).

The "Scá" sounds like "ska" (as in Skate or Scar). The "thach" is a softer "ha" sound with a slight guttural "ch" at the end (similar to the "ch" in the Scottish "loch" or German "Bach").

--

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No full name. No credentials. No file. Just a single assurance and the unwavering look of a man who knew I’d push back and wasn’t in the mood for it.

I’ve seen too many green operatives fold under pressure. Didn’t need another liability.

I turned my head then, finally sizing her up.

She was quiet. Didn’t waver under my stare. Didn’t offer a handshake either. Just nodded at me, arms crossed but relaxed. Unbothered. Like I’m the one who needed to impress her.

She didn’t try for small talk. I respect that.

Her gear was dark, tight, methodical—no excess weight, no unnecessary bullshit. Her knife, strapped to her thigh, looked well-worn. 

She wasn’t trying to impress me. Wasn’t posturing. She just stood there, waiting. Sharp green eyes beneath long dark lashes, watching me like she was already evaluating my worth as much as I was hers. 

"You sure about this, Cap?"

"You’ll see."

I don’t trust new faces. Not in this job, when one wrong move gets people killed. And I sure as hell don’t trust someone I have never even heard of—if she was worth a damn, I would have.

But I trust Price. If he says she's good, it means he saw something in her.

We get briefed—standard breach-and-clear, target is holed up in a compound on the outskirts of town. Intel suggests a small crew of mercs, well-armed, but nothing we can’t handle. Just me and Reaper, boots on the ground going in, Price on overwatch. Simple.

During the brief, I watch her from the corner of my eye. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t interrupt, just absorbs the information with a slight crease between her brows from concentrating too hard. Her eyes scan the maps like she’s memorizing every detail. I can tell she’s already trying to find weak spots and the best ways in and out.

When Price outlines the plan, she doesn’t question it. Doesn’t even look at me. She only asks about rules of engagement like she’s already mentally there, running the op in her head.

Focused.

I know, because it’s the same thing I always do as well.

Most operators—new ones, at least—try to gauge where they stand with me. Try to impress, seek approval, prove they belong. Often try too hard. She didn’t, not once.

We’re perched high on a ridge now, eyes locked on the distant glow of the compound. Below us, guards patrol in staggered rotations—disciplined, but predictable.

The freezing wind cuts like daggers where it touches exposed skin. I have my mask, protecting most of my face. She has to make do with a bandana she had strapped to her thigh.

Resourceful.

I expected to spend the first few minutes watching her, gauging how she moves, where she hesitates, if she hesitates. Expected her to make a mistake, to get ahead of herself, expected I’d have to correct her. Tell her to stay close, watch her corners or her six, keep up.

I don’t expect her to move like she already knows what I’m thinking.

She’s fast, but every movement is deliberate, controlled. There’s no second-guessing, no fumbling. 

Our comms—dead silent. I noticed as soon as we landed that no words seemed to be necessary for us to communicate. 

I gesture once. She nods. We move.

Slipping through the treeline, we hit the perimeter in tandem. A sentry rounds the corner—one quick movement, and Reaper has her knife buried under his jaw, her other hand clamped over his mouth. He goes limp, gets dragged into the shadows before his body even has time to fall. Silent.

Clean.

She keeps moving without hesitation. Doesn’t look at me, doesn’t wait for praise or acknowledgement. Just steps over the body and keeps going like it was nothing. Keeps moving like she knows I’ll be right behind her.

A side entrance looms ahead, guarded by two men. She motions to me—take the left. I don’t argue. As soon as I get into position, she makes the first move. A pebble flicked against the far wall, just enough to draw their attention.

A beat. They turn.

Then we strike.

She’s a shadow, fast and precise. Her blade finds its mark in the first guard’s throat before he could even exhale. I take the second, arm locking around his neck in a crushing chokehold. His struggles fade in seconds.

The door is clear.

I glance at her, and she’s already waiting for me to move forward.

I exhale through my nose. Alright, then.

We breach.

The compound is a maze of cold steel and concrete, corridors twisting into deeper darkness.

We move in sync—two shadows weaving through the halls, anticipating each other’s next step like we’d done this a hundred times before. She takes low, I take high. I cover her blind spots; she covers mine.

When a guard rounds a corner ahead, I barely have time to react before she puts a suppressed round through his temple. The body slumps against the wall with a muffled sound.

We breach the first room together. She’s inside before I finish pulling the trigger on my first target. She doesn’t hesitate—just moves, weaving past me in a blur, leaving a trail of bodies behind.

Fast.

I clear my side, expect to turn and find her finishing up hers. But she’s already looking at me. Waiting. Like she knew exactly how fast I’d be. Like she matched her pace to mine without thinking.

She starts assessing the next door before I even call it.

I push forward, falling into step beside her. Next room I move right, she moves left. No words exchanged, just instinct.

It’s like she already knows exactly where I’ll be before I even move. We keep going at the same pace, clear our side of the room at the same time. She covers my blind spots before I register they’re open.

It’s unsettling.

And impressive.

Her breathing remains controlled, measured, her eyes focused, and that same crease of focus is still there between her brows. She floats through the halls, boots barely more than a whisper against the floor. If I weren’t watching her, I’d hardly know she was there.

Reaper stops ahead, body low against the corner, her head tilting slightly like she’s listening for something. I shift to take a step forward. Without looking back, she reaches out and touches my arm—a silent signal to stop.

I flinch. Wasn’t expecting it.

It’s not much. A twitch, a barely-there recoil. Muscle memory from years of people reaching, and me pulling away.

But she notices.

Her hand is gone instantly. No hesitation. No frown, no question, no ‘why the fuck did you do that?’ Just immediate adjustment, like she’d filed the information away without needing to say anything.

I exhale slowly, shaking it off. It wasn’t her fault.

I don’t like being touched. Not like that. Not unexpectedly or by someone I don’t trust. My instinct is always to react, even if I can mask it and not show it outright.

I catch a glimpse of her in my periphery, moving with a quiet, practiced efficiency. One step ahead, never out of sync. Nothing but a shadow beside me.

Another guard rounds a corner ahead. I see him the same moment she does. I raise my rifle, but before I can fire, she signals with her hand, already moving. A flicker of motion, the glint of a blade—and the man crumples, soundless.

She doesn’t break stride. Just wipes the blood off on his sleeve and moves on.

The halls are dim, shadows stretching long beneath flickering overhead lights. The air smells like damp concrete and cigarette smoke. From deeper inside, I can hear the occasional murmur of voices and radio chatter—guards on rotation, unaware their numbers were thinning by the second.

Her rifle is silent, her blade quicker than a breath. She cuts down guards before they even know she’s there.

Lethal.

I don’t trust easily. Don’t like new teammates. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know when someone’s good. And Reaper?

Price was right. She’s good.

We move through the compound like that—quick, quiet, coordinated. No missteps. No wasted motion. Price’s voice crackles in my ear from time to time, but he barely has to say anything other than count the tangos through the windows.

We don’t need directions.

The deeper we go, the heavier the air feels. Vashkov’s office is at the heart of the compound. That means more guards, tighter security.

Doesn’t matter.

We clear the last room together. I take down one guard, she takes down the other. Smooth. Effortless.

One by one, they drop. No alarms. No loud gunfire. Just cold efficiency until we reach the last corridor before our target. We hit the last corner. Vashkov’s office was just beyond.

“Two guards inside, standing by the door. HVT sitting at his desk,” Price says in our ears. “Maybe a third guard in my blind spot, be careful.”

I make sure our six is covered and let her take point. We left no loose ends on this wing, but there are still others out there that could surprise us.

She peeks around the corner. I glance behind us.

Boots shuffling against the concrete, not too far from us in the corridor ahead, then footsteps. Approaching.

There's a split second there where I register that I expected the same light contact as before, the same signal. But it never came. Instead, she just adapted.

I hear a soft sound that draws my attention to her. She’s watching me, two fingers extended against the side of her gun. Taps again, nods left—Stop. Two guards, I’ll take the left one.

If anyone asks me how I know that’s what she meant, I couldn’t tell them. I just know, like we’d been doing this together for years.

I give her a short nod. Barely anything. But she catches it anyway, and moves forward.

We cut through them like ghosts, before they can even register what’s happening.

Again, she’s fast—quicker than I expect. By the time I have my target in a chokehold, hers is already slumping. Throat cut with surgical precision, blood pooling on the floor. No wasted movement, no theatrics.

The guard in my grip thrashes for all of two seconds before going still. I lower his body to the floor silently to avoid alerting the guards inside the office.

Reaper has already wiped her blade clean on the sleeve of the man she dropped. She’s checking his pockets, fingers searching with practiced efficiency. After a few seconds, she pulls out a keycard. Holds it up between two fingers, glancing at the double doors ahead.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

Vashkov’s door is locked. She just made sure that’s not going to be a problem.

Smart.

I’m still thinking about her signal as we stack at the office door. She didn’t touch me this time.

Most people in our line of work are not that quick to adjust. They either ignore reactions like that because they don’t give a fuck or ask too many damn questions because they feel entitled to that information. But she just figured it out and adjusted. Saw something once, and learned from it. No fuss, just action.

Didn’t pry. Didn’t push. Didn’t need to be told twice. She didn’t even think about it, just found another way to communicate efficiently.

It’s a small thing, but it stands out. Tells me more about her than anything else.

She learns fast, and she’s observant. Not just in the way all good operators are—scanning perimeters, reading threats, noticing the smallest details that could make an op go sideways. She watches people, too. Reads them. Understands them. Remembers.

It’s rarer than one would think. 

Reaper shifts, checking her ammo, blade between her teeth. There’s blood under her nails and on her sleeves, in the creases of her hands. She doesn’t seem to care. There are no wasted movements with her. No nervous ticks. Just calm readiness.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.

For the first time, I consider the possibility that Price has actually undersold her. She’s not just good. She’s my level of good.

I raise my weapon, exhale slow. She swipes the keycard and the lock on Vashkov’s door beeps green.

I shoulder the door open, immediately shoot the guy to my right. I notice a moment too late that I didn’t even worry about the one behind me—I knew Reaper would be on him before I even turned.

Huh.

With both guards down, there’s only the HVT left inside, hunched over his desk.

Reaper moves. She’s on him in a heartbeat, hand fisting in his collar, yanking him back with the knife pressed against his throat.

He barely had time to gasp.

I close the door behind us, keeping my weapon trained on him as he struggles against Reaper’s grip. He seems to be in his late fifties, gray threading through his dark hair, but there’s no weakness in him. His eyes are sharp, calculating even as his breath hitches against the press of Reaper’s blade.

"Mikhail Vashkov." Reaper’s voice is calm. Even.

Vashkov’s hands twitch. His fingers flex once, like he was debating making a move.

Bad idea.

Reaper’s knife presses harder against his throat, just enough for a thin line of blood to bead along the edge.

He stills. But there's a flicker of defiance in his eyes. His mouth curls into something almost amused. Arrogant bastard.

"You don’t know who you’re fucking with, girl," he rasps. His accent is thick, but his English is good.

Reaper doesn’t take the bait.

"Where are the SSDs?" I demand.

He gives a slow exhale, lips pressing into a smirk.

"Burned," he says. "Gone. You are too late."

Reaper shifts her grip. Her knife moves—just a little. Just enough for the tip to press into the soft skin beneath his jaw. Another drop of blood runs down the expanse of his neck.  "Try again." 

Vashkov sucks in a sharp breath, and his amusement flickers into something else. Pain. Fear.

"You won’t make it out," he spits, trying to hold onto his bravado. "We have men coming."

Reaper leans in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur. "Then we’d better make this quick, hm?"

I watch his throat work. He’s stalling, hoping his guards will notice something is off and come storming in.

Not gonna happen.

"Give us what we came for, or I let her start cutting until you do."

His smirk vanishes. Reaper doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just keeps the blade steady, waiting.

The bastard’s confidence cracks.

"Bottom drawer," he rasps. "Safe."

Reaper moves, yanking the drawer open while I press my rifle to Vashkov’s temple, just to keep him in line. Inside, there’s a small steel safe, keypad locked.

I press the muzzle harder against his head. "Code."

"2-7-9-4," he mutters.

Reaper keys it in and the safe clicks open.

SSDs, flash drives, burner phones. Reaper grabs everything, shoving it into her pack.

Vashkov’s breathing quickens. His hands clench into weak fists. "I cooperated, didn’t I?" he hisses. "Let me go now."

Reaper rises, shouldering her backpack to meet his eyes again. "Since you like secrets so much," she murmurs, "let me tell you one of mine."

His breath hitches.

"I don’t leave loose ends."

Before he even processes what she meant, her blade is already gliding through his neck from one side to the other.

Blood pours between his fingers as he claws at the wound, choking on it with a wet gargle. He’s still clinging to life while she wipes the blade on Vashkov’s jacket.

“Got everything,” she says, meeting my gaze with an unreadable expression. “Let’s go.”

He collapses against the desk as she steps away. I follow her into the empty hall outside, body twitching for the last time behind us.

We slip into the shadows before anyone notices something’s wrong. My mind is already working ahead—exfil, fastest route, enemy patrols.

Reaper moves beside me, quiet as death itself.

I risk a glance at her. She’s calm. Steady. Just as sharp as when we first stepped into this place. She’s not shaken. But she’s not gloating either.  

The extraction point was less than five hundred meters from the compound’s perimeter. We just had to make it past the outer courtyard, slip through the trees, and disappear into the night.

It should’ve been simple. But it wasn’t.

The moment we hit the final corridor, I hear it—the radio chatter.

At first, just a faint murmur, static-laced Russian coming through someone’s headset. Then the footsteps. Multiple sets, moving fast.

Reaper heard it too. Her body tenses for a second, then relaxes. Thinking. Calculating.

"Might have a problem," I murmur into our comms.

"Talk to me," Price’s voice crackles through.

The guards are closing in. Too many. If we run for the exit, we get spotted. If we stay put, we get cornered.

Suddenly, Reaper moves, backtracks to a side room where we left two bodies cooling on the floor. I follow, shutting the door just as the patrol rounds the corridor.

Through the crack, I see them—Six guards, heavily armed. Four men, two women. Not just standard grunts. These are reinforcements. 

They’re not panicking. They’re hunting.

“Ghost,” Price presses.

My grip tightens on my rifle. We can take them. Wouldn’t be clean, but we could do it.

I hear Reaper shuffling behind me, followed by the crackle of a radio she just picked up from one of the bodies. 

Then she speaks into the radio—in Russian. I hear her voice coming through the radios on the guards outside. There’s a beat of silence. 

And they move away. 

I give her a look. “What the fuck did you just do?”

She shrugs. “Just told them I saw something on the other side of the compound and needed reinforcements.”

“You speak bloody Russian?”

“You wanna waste time making a list of all my skills or you wanna get the fuck outta here?”

She doesn’t wait for me to reply. Just pushes past me into the hallway, now empty. Thanks to her.

I sigh through my nose. Then I follow her.

“Nevermind,” I tell Price. “We’re coming out now.”

As soon as the trees swallow us, I tell Price we’re on our way to him. We don’t stop until we reach the designated rendezvous point. 

He’s crouched behind cover, rifle up. “Thought you two might’ve decided to stay,” he mutters, keeping his eyes on the tree line.

“Missed your charming company too much, Captain,” Reaper says dryly.

Price snorts but doesn’t argue.

Minutes later, the helo arrives, kicking up dust as it settles. We board without a word, Price taking the seat opposite me, Reaper settling to my left. The hum of the rotors drowns out everything else for a while.

I glance at Reaper. She’s not smiling. There’s no cocky quip, no self-congratulations. She’s not waiting for a pat on the back. She’s just sitting there, calmly checking her gear like she’d known the whole time we’d make it out.

Most first-time ops with a new partner came with hesitation. Adjustments. A learning curve.

Not this time. Not with her. 

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

She doesn’t have the look of someone new. There’s something in her eyes, something weighty. Like she’s seen things. Done things. 

I'm not sure what to make of that yet.

I still don’t trust her. Not yet. But I won’t be watching her six because I have to. I’ll do it because I know she’s already watching mine.

Price exhales, glancing between the two of us, then finally speaks, voice low.

“Well?” he asks, watching me. “What do you think?”

I take a moment. Then shrug. “She didn’t slow me down.”

Reaper snorts. “Let me guess. That’s the nicest thing he’s ever said about anyone, isn’t it?”

Price smirks. “Pretty much.”

I give a halfhearted grunt and shake my head, looking away. Then I mutter, “Soap’s gonna love her.”