#oc: riley wayne | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeenybeanies · 2 years ago

Text

This is the Way I Pray | Chapter 2: Monday

whew! another long-ass chapter --w-- idk if they'll all be this long, but we're two for two at over 10k words lmao. WARNING: this chapter mentions nazis/white supremacists, & the desire to cause great harm to said nazis/white supremacists. also, bold+italic text is meant to be interpreted as non-english previous • next call of duty | wayne “champ” champagne (oc), john “soap” mactavish, simon “ghost” riley, kate laswell 11,400 words strong language, mentions of violence, alcohol use thanks for reading!! patreon ✨ ko-fi ✨ read it on ao3

Ghost was awake before his alarm would have gone off, as was often the case. He stared at the clock on his nightstand, watching the digital numbers flick from 4:59 to 5:00.

He’d gotten about four and a half hours. For him, that wasn't bad. He turned his head to see Soap still sleeping. He looked peaceful. Ghost almost didn’t want to disturb him.

Sitting up, Ghost pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket, rubbing away the weariness clinging to him. “Johnny,” he said, his voice heavy with sleep. The Scot stirred and hummed back at him. “You gettin’ up?”

Technically, neither of them needed to be awake yet. Their day wasn't supposed to start for another three hours. Soap lifted his head to glance at his own clock, then dropped it back onto his pillow. “‘Nother hour,” he mumbled. “Alarm set.”

Some days, Soap liked to join Ghost in the early mornings. Evidently, today was not one of those days. Ghost took no offense, and silently slipped out of his bed to get ready.

No need for the full kit of tac gear right now. Ghost pulled on a plain, black t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. He brushed his teeth in the bathroom and applied his greasepaint over his eyes, then donned a balaclava.

Soap was rolled over onto his back when Ghost exited the bathroom. One more hour. Ghost could be back by then with breakfast for the both of them. He grabbed his room key, wallet, and phone from the dresser, and made for the door, but paused before opening it. There was a new text notification on his phone from a number he hadn’t saved yet—Champ’s number. Curious, he tapped the notification. Champ had sent him a photo of the ghost plushie that Soap had won him last night, and a message attached saying “forgot someone” with a cowboy emoji.

Ghost rolled his eyes. He hadn’t forgotten the damn thing.

He stowed his belongings in his pockets, grabbed his jacket from the closet, and exited the room.

With an hour to kill, the Brit wandered the hotel with no real destination in mind. Yesterday, he and Soap had scoped out the amenities, but now Ghost figured he could take a better look at the gym. He might hit it up at some point this week, time and mood permitting.

Unfortunately, but nevertheless unsurprisingly, the hotel gym was rather disappointing. Camp Sasha was a small base, so it made sense that everything on it would be small. This “gym” only had a couple of treadmills, an assisted pull-up machine, a smith machine, and some weights. Very bare bones.

No, Ghost would probably not be hitting that up after all. His physique would survive a week without a proper gym.

He moved on, slowly making his way to the little shoppette in the lobby. Breakfast options weren’t particularly exciting, but neither him nor Soap were picky eaters. He settled for a couple of protein bars, two croissant sandwiches, a coffee and a tea, and a blueberry muffin.

The muffin was for Soap, of course.

Breakfast in hand, Ghost headed back to their room. It was 5:58 when he swiped his key and pushed the door open. Soap was still sprawled out on his bed, now on his stomach. The muscles in his back tensed upon hearing Ghost enter.

“That you, LT?” he mumbled.

“If it wasn’t, you’d be dead already.”

Soap snorted, and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees. “Good morning to you too.” He lifted his arms over his head and stretched, soft noises tugging from his throat. Some of them were pleased, some of them not so much. He was definitely still feeling the soreness from his wild trail ride yesterday.

“That coffee I smell?” he asked.

“Sure is,” Ghost said, taking a seat on his bed. He set the coffee on Soap’s side of the center nightstand. “One sugar.”

“Och, you know me so well.” Soap took the still steaming cup and held it between his hands, enjoying the warmth before taking a sip.

It was shit coffee, as expected, but it was hot and had caffeine.

Ghost handed over Soap’s portion of their breakfast, then pulled his mask up to his nose and bit into his sandwich.

“Hm.” He chewed thoughtfully. “America has some good food. This isn’t it.” Also unsurprising. Military bases weren’t known for having excellent chow.

Soap huffed and took a bite of his own. “Better than an MRE,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Christ, Johnny, finish chewin’ before you open your gob,” Ghost admonished.

A shit-eating grin spread across Soap’s lips. He finished chewing and swallowed, then said, “Oh, now you have a problem with me talkin’ with my mouth full?”

For the second time today, Ghost rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to dignify that comment with a response.

They finished their breakfast, Soap stashing the muffin for later, then Ghost checked in with Price and Laswell for any updates while Soap got himself ready. They sent over a couple new information packets to review, which Ghost skimmed over briefly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the Brit muttered. Soap leaned around the bathroom door, toothbrush in his mouth. Ghost held up his phone, “Latest intel thinks we’ll find more info on this politician by goin’ to a bar.”

Soap ducked back into the bathroom to spit his toothpaste out and rinse his mouth, then reappeared with a towel around his neck. “A bar?” he repeated. “What kind of bar?”

“Doesn’t say,” Ghost said. He scrolled a bit further, finding nothing. “Some place called the ‘Thunder Lounge.’”

–– –– ––

A quick exchange of texts had the soldiers meeting up with the cowboy at oh-nine hundred. He was waiting for them in the conference room set aside for this mission.

“Mornin’ fellas,” he greeted, cheerful and chipper. He had on his signature cowboy gear and bandana, the red fabric pulled up over his mouth and nose like it had been yesterday. His sunglasses sat perched up on the brim of his hat. Unlike yesterday, though, the sleeves of his button-up shirt were rolled up to his biceps, showing off blackout tattoos that covered the skin all the way down to his wrists.

Also unlike yesterday, he had a gun belt around his hips, with a pistol nestled into the holsters on either side; and a pair of holster bags around his shoulders in a harness.

“You always dress like that?” Ghost asked, taking in the sight. “Thought it was a costume for the rodeo.”

Champ snorted, unoffended. He gave the Brit a dramatic once-over, one brow arched. “If that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black,” he said, gesturing to the skull balaclava.

Ghost stared blankly at him for a long moment, then turned to Soap. “You know what that means?” The Scot shook his head.

“Means you got no room to talk,” Champ clarified. His grin was evident enough in his voice. Soap snickered, earning himself a glare from Ghost.

With pleasantries out of the way, the three of them settled around the conference table in the center of the room. Laswell was due to call here shortly and give them more information on today’s tasks.

Soap’s wince when he sat down in one of the chairs did not go unnoticed. Champ tilted his head, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes.

“How ya feelin’?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. It was pretty obvious.

“Sore,” Soap said, pushing faux-bitterness into his tone. “Dunno how you’re still standin’ after what you did yesterday.”

Champ waved a nonchalant hand. “If it makes ya feel better, I am a lil’ bit sore m’self. Bull had some kick to ‘im.”

“Actually, it does.”

The phone in the middle of the table rang, making all three men stiffen. Ghost leaned over to answer it, and put it on speaker. “Laswell?”

“Good morning, boys,” she greeted. “Have a good first day in Kentucky?”

“Soap did,” Ghost replied. Champ chuckled.

“I heard,” Laswell said. Soap made an offended noise, and muttered a curse to Price under his breath. “Good thing today shouldn’t be too strenuous. I’ve sent you all some information already on what’s going on; this meeting is for further details and instruction.”

Champ pulled out his phone to glance over said information while Laswell continued. She provided a few more updates and went further in-depth on what they already knew, what their goals were, and what other units were up to.

As for them: their job was to place bugs around this bar so that Laswell’s team could listen in, see if they could identify this politician and find out about his involvement with terrorists.

“Did you say the Thunder Lounge?” Champ interrupted. All eyes fell to him. He scrolled through the information packet, brows furrowing when he found the name of the bar. He bristled.

“I did,” Laswell confirmed, her voice lifting with an unasked question.

“That’s a fuckin’ Nazi bar.” Champ set his phone down and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Even with the lower half of his face hidden, his displeasure was clear. It practically radiated from him in waves.

Ghost and Soap exchanged grimaces.

“Deadass. That’s the local meet-up for all the white supremacist pukes in this neck a’ the woods,” Champ explained. “Fuckin’ vile.”

“Damn, and here I was hopin’ we’d get to enjoy a drink while we investigated…” Soap said.

Laswell sighed. “Of course it is. Doesn’t surprise me. We suspect that’s where the Ultranationalists are meeting. We need you three to go in there and—”

“Hell naw.” Champ shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ in there. Sorry, fellas. No can do.”

The soldiers looked at him, Soap sympathetic, Ghost unreadable.

Laswell tried again, “It’d only be for—”

“Said I ain’t doin’ it. Ma’am.” Champ pushed off from the wall and leaned his palms on the table, shoulders hunched. “‘Cos if I do go in there, someone’s gonna bleed. I’ll keep an eye on things outside.” He regarded the other two in the room with narrowed eyes, watching them for any signs of argument. Neither of them had any.

Another sigh over the phone broke the silence. “Fine,” Laswell said. She wasn’t going to try and fight him on this either. “That might actually be good, having a pair of eyes on the outside. Ghost, Soap, does that work for you?”

The soldiers perked up. “No arguments here,” Ghost answered.

“Good. And boys? We’re not looking to have any bloodshed today. This is supposed to be recon only. For all of you.”

Ghost nodded. “Understood.”

Champ scoffed, but added no further comment. He snatched his sunglasses from where they sat on his hat and put them on.

Laswell continued on with some more information, then dismissed them to prepare for the day.

–– –– ––

The bar wasn’t set to open until sixteen hundred, but, at Laswell’s suggestion, the three men went to scope the area out well in advance.

Champ had driven them, his old truck inconspicuous without the giant trailer behind it. It blended in with every other old truck in Kentucky. Even still, they only drove past the bar twice, not wanting to risk any chance of suspicion.

On the outside, it really didn’t look like anything special. The building was well-maintained. Its front wall was covered with wood pieces, meant to look like a cozy cabin in the woods.

Just laying eyes on it set a fire in Champ’s gut. Soap grimaced as well, feeling a similar sentiment. Even Ghost kept clenching and unclenching his fists.

None of them liked this.

The only thing keeping Champ cool was the thought of watching those scumbag fucks through the scope of his rifle, envisioning their brains spraying against the walls of the establishment with the pull of his trigger. What a lovely image. He could only hope that he’d get to make it a reality soon.

They decided it best to park the truck in one of the back rows of a grocery store around the corner. Champ chose a spot where they had a clear view of the front door. The bar also had big glass windows out front, which worked well for Champ’s purpose.

“Alright,” the cowboy said after a while, noisily slapping the steering wheel. “‘M gonna get up on the rooftop ‘cross the way. Scotty, hand me that case back there?” He pointed to a black hardcase in the back seat that housed his rifle—a military-grade bolt action sniper.

“Bar doesn’t open for another three hours,” Ghost said, glancing at his watch. “Is it gonna take you that long to get set up?”

“Naw,” Champ replied. Soap passed him the case, and he popped his door open to get out. “I’ll be ready n’ a few minutes. ‘M jus’ tired a’ waitin’ here.”

“So you’re going to go wait… on a rooftop?” It was a question, but Ghost said it like a statement—one he was having trouble believing.

Champ paused, thinking for a moment. “Mm… yep. Sounds ‘bout right.” He fished his car keys from his pocket and tossed them to Soap in the back seat. “If y’all wanna move to another spot, be my guest. Jus’ don’t get me a ticket or towed.” Case hiked up on his shoulder, the cowboy tipped his hat to the both of them, and jogged off towards the building he needed. Soap and Ghost watched after him until he disappeared in an alleyway, then exchanged glances.

“Can’t seem to sit still,” Ghost commented. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

Soap shoved the lieutenant’s shoulder. “Oi. Be nice. You’re just mad he gave me the keys an’ not you.” It had been a deliberate move on the cowboy’s part, since Ghost was the one in the passenger’s seat, and Soap was in the back. Soap met Ghost’s stare with a smirk. “Don’t think he trusts you to drive.”

“Ridiculous,” Ghost muttered. “Did you say somethin’ to him about my driving?”

Soap held his hands up. “I would never—”

“Johnny. ” Ghost turned in his seat to better face the Scot, eyes narrowed through the opening of his balaclava. Soap scooted back against his door, his smirk blooming into a grin. Ghost didn’t miss how he stashed the keys in his back pocket, out of immediate reach.

“I didn’t! Honest, sir! I’ve not said a word to him that you haven’t been privy to!” he defended.

Ghost didn’t quite believe him. The further narrowing of his eyes said as much. But he righted himself in his seat, a sharp breath through his nose, and set his attention back on the bar. He could also see the building Champ would be using for overwatch—some Greek restaurant with a big, gaudy logo that extended well above its roof. It made for a good spot to conceal the barrel of a rifle.

Three more hours.

If they were lucky, they’d start to see some activity here soon—employees coming in to set up for the night.

Soap settled into the back seat, making himself comfortable in the space. They were going to be at this for the rest of the day, and likely through much of the night, too, unless they got some new intel. Surveillance was always the boring part of these missions. Scouting on foot? That could be fun. But just waiting around all day, watching?

He definitely understood why Champ dipped. Watching through a scope, going into the sniper mindset, felt different than this. He was half-tempted to find the cowboy and join him on the roof.

Unfortunately, he knew that wouldn’t fly. They were going to have to go in that bar at some point tonight, and Ghost would stand out too much if he went in alone. Hell, he was already going to stand out as it was, even with Soap with him, but it was going to work better if they went together. Besides, the two of them could plant bugs in the place more efficiently, without arousing any suspicion.

“All set up over here,” Champ’s voice came in through their comms.

Soap leaned into his mic, “Good view?”

Champ lay out on the rooftop in sniper’s prone, with a light blanket covering him to protect from the blazing sun. Situated inconspicuously behind the big “O” of the restaurant’s sign, he peered through his scope into the bar. From his vantage point, he could read the labels of the various bottles on the shelves. “Oh yeah. I can see just ‘bout everythin’ in the main bar. Hate t’ see it, but they got a pretty decent selection a’ whiskey. Some good vodka… Shit gin selection… An’ that tequila is just sad.”

“What kind of bourbon?” Ghost asked. If they were going to have to go in there and play nice with a bunch of Nazis, he might as well get a good drink out of it if he could.

Champ hummed, skimming the labels. “I’d suggest goin’ for the Bison Sketch or the Creator’s Stroke. Ooh, they got Logtown Supply too.”

“Not bad,” Ghost noted.

“What about Scotch?” Soap interjected.

Another hum and pause. “Nothin’ too impressive as far as scotch goes,” Champ answered. “Sorry, Scotty.”

“Can’t win ‘em all, I suppose,” Soap said.

Over the next hour, Champ leaned off of his comm and fell silent. As was par for the course with the two soldiers, Soap did most of the talking to fill the time, with Ghost offering commentary here and there. Soap, at one point, remembered the muffin from their breakfast earlier, and shared it with his lieutenant.

Another hour in, and the skies darkened with rain clouds. Distant thunder rumbled. The first fat drop hit the windshield with an audible splat, and then the ensuing downpour crashed down upon the town.

“Hell’s bells…” Soap muttered, leaning forward to peer up at the sky through the windshield. He glanced at Ghost, a twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t fuckin’ say it,” the Brit warned.

“What? Wasnae gonna say a thing, LT.” But the grin spreading across his face told them both exactly what he was thinking.

It’s pishin’ it doon oot there.

Ghost sighed, suppressing an eyeroll, and pressed his comm. “Champ, how copy?”

There was a pause that lasted just long enough that Ghost opened his mouth, ready to ask again, but the country twang came through. “Solid. Still no movement.”

“You must be gettin’ soaked,” Soap said. “You doing okay up there?”

“Peachy,” the cowboy replied. “Rain’s a nice relief from the heat. It’ll pass in a few minutes, though. Don’t you worry ‘bout me.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, then shrugged in mutual acceptance.

As predicted, the rain did fizzle out within the next ten minutes, the gray of the skies splitting apart to let the mid-afternoon rays of sunshine filter back through. The air was ripe with the smell of petrichor. The fine citizens of Lexington continued on as normal, shaking out and stowing their umbrellas.

It wasn’t until just before three thirty that something noteworthy finally happened. From their stakeout spot, Soap and Ghost spotted the silver sedan that pulled into the bar’s parking lot. It took the turn a little too quickly, and pulled into a far parking space a little crooked. A frazzled-looking woman rushed out and, after fumbling with her keys, unlocked the bar doors and slipped inside. Champ watched her through his scope until she disappeared somewhere in the back, beyond his view.

“Guessin’ that’s the bartender,” he reported. “She must be runnin’ late.”

“Sloppy,” Ghost said. Champ hummed in agreement.

The interior lights flicked on, illuminating the bar with a dingy orange glow. The woman reappeared after a few minutes, an apron tied around her waist and her hair pulled up in a messy bun. Champ kept an eye on her as she moved about the bar, setting the space up for tonight’s business. She had some tattoos, he noticed, but he couldn’t see any outwardly Nazi-like symbols. Just normal tattoos. Of course, there was always the possibility that she kept any vile imagery concealed; Champ didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

Probably worse, he decided. He’d prefer to recognize a Nazi from afar, rather than let them get in close.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, the woman had the bar set up, all the lights and signs on, and the doors unlocked. She was efficient, if nothing else, having opened the whole establishment by herself in half an hour.

Right on the hour, another vehicle pulled into the parking lot, taking up the space right in front. It was a black, oversized, obnoxiously-lifted truck. Champ felt a twinge of annoyance at how it partially obstructed his view into the bar. The man that stepped out was a burly fellow in a patch-covered denim vest. A Confederate flag was sewn onto the back, spanning the width of the man’s shoulders. Champ sighed, eyes narrowing.

“First confirmed piece of shit,” he noted. “Fuckin’ idiot.” He shifted his rifle, settling the crosshair on the back of the man’s skull. It would be so easy…

But no. Not now. Killing this one now would not only compromise the mission, landing him in hot water with Nikolai and Laswell, but it would also tip off any other fascist shitbags and ward them away. It was better to let them feel safe, gather together, and then…

“Easy, Champ,” Ghost chided, as if reading his mind.

Yeah, yeah.

The man stepped behind the bar to chat with the bartender. She seemed at ease with his presence, her body language relaxed and friendly. It only soured Champ’s image of her more.

“‘M thinkin’ he works here too. Manager or another bartender or somethin’.” His money was on the former; this place didn’t look big enough to necessitate two bartenders—certainly not on a Monday night. “When’re you boys gettin’ in there?”

“Probably should soon, aye? Before too many people show up,” Soap said. The less eyes on them, the better. And the sooner they got the bugs set, the more conversations they could snoop on.

Ghost grunted in agreement. He tugged off his balaclava and quickly threw on a black surgical mask in its place, then donned a plain black baseball cap. Flipping the sun visor down to access the mirror, he pulled out a wipe from his pack and swiped it across his eyes, clearing off the greasepaint as best he could. By the time the wipe was saturated in black, he still had dark smudges smeared across his face. He pulled out another one with a grumble, but a hand on his shoulder gave him pause. In the mirror, Soap’s blue-gray eyes met his. He held his hand out for the wipe, silently offering his help. Ghost thought it over for a moment, then passed the wipe and turned to face Soap. The sergeant smiled and scooted in close, gently cleaning up the smears of black that lingered around Ghost’s eyes. Once he was finished, he gave Ghost’s clean, lightly-freckled cheek a pat and leaned back.

“Good to go, LT.”

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t think you’d take that off,” Soap said, nodding to the balaclava on the center console.

Ghost grimaced, the movement creasing the skin around his eyes just so. “Had a change of heart. Figured it’d help me blend in better.”

“Aye, because you blend in so well as is.” There was a tease in his tone that Ghost allowed himself to rise to.

“I could always put it back on. Brought some eyeblack with me—”

“No, no,” Soap said quickly, his lips pulled in a grin, “let me enjoy this.”

Ghost scoffed and rolled his eyes, but there was some humor in his demeanor, albeit slight. Still, he had half a mind to tell the sergeant that this wasn’t for him. It was for the mission.

“Fellas?” Champ interrupted. Ghost felt a pang of alarm, and checked his mic, then Soap’s. They were cold. Champ hadn’t heard any of that.

“What?” Ghost answered. “You see somethin’?”

“Naw, not yet. Y’all just didn’t give me an answer.”

Ah. Ghost twisted around to reach for a bag in the back seat, and pulled out a little pouch containing the bugs. He dumped some of them into his palm, then handed the rest to Soap. “Settin’ up the bugs now,” he said, “then we’ll go in. Sit tight.”

“Roger that.” Not like he had plans to go anywhere for the next several hours still. “Make sure ya lock my truck up when ya leave.”

Ghost grabbed a case from the bag that housed a computer and harddrive, to which the bugs were synced. He pressed one of the headphones to his ear and switched on one of the bugs, giving it a few taps. A dull thumping noise rang through the speaker. Soap repeated the test with one of his bugs.

“Sounds good,” he confirmed. “Champ, we’re headin’ in.”

“Copy. I’ll be watchin’ from out here.”

Soap hopped out first, and gave himself a pat down to make sure his comms and his concealed firearm were hidden. Ghost followed suit, shrugging on his jacket to cover up the holster at his side. He still stuck out like a sore thumb, of course, being as hulking as he was, and wearing jeans and a jacket in the Kentucky summer heat, but at least he didn't have the balaclava to make him more conspicuous.

Soap made sure the truck was locked, then trotted up to Ghost’s side, and the two of them made for the bar. Before crossing the street, Soap glanced over his shoulder, spotting the barrel of a sniper rifle peeking out through the big O of the restaurant’s logo. He gave a subtle nod, pleased to know that they had someone watching over them.

Ghost pulled the door open, a chime overhead ringing to announce their presence. The two workers stopped mid conversation to stare him and Soap down as they stepped in and took up seats near the end of the bar. They exchanged glances, then the woman approached with a friendly, albeit nervous smile.

“Welcome in, gentlemen. What can I get’cha today?” she asked. Her accent was similar, but not identical to Champ’s. It wasn’t quite as… charming.

The fact that she was a bartender in a Nazi bar wasn’t helping either.

Scanning the selection of liquors, Ghost decided on a glass of Bison’s Sketch on the rocks. Soap, after frowning at the scotches available, settled for a glass of Creator’s Stroke, also on the rocks.

The bartender poured their drinks, and Ghost passed her a few bills to cover the tab.

“Never seen you two in here before,” she said, eyeing the two of them with cautious curiosity. “Y’all don’t sound like you’re from ‘round here either.”

��Good ear,” Soap said, taking a sip of his drink. Bourbon wasn’t his favorite, but it was drinkable. He swallowed it down without complaint. “UK.”

“Ah,” the bartender said. “Brits.”

Over their comms, Champ snorted. The soldiers had their mics on, so he could hear everything they heard.

“Close enough,” Soap said, forcing his jaw to move so he didn’t speak through his teeth.

“Lots of foreigners comin’ in this week,” she mused. She shot her coworker a glance, “But the other fellas that’ve been comin’ in—they’re all Ruskies, ain’t they? Wonder if we’ll see ‘em again tonight…”

Ghost, Soap, and Champ all perked up, though the two soldiers did so subtly, so as not to tip off the civilians.

The other man shrugged. The bartender returned to Ghost and Soap. Mostly Soap, since he was the one willing to engage in conversation. “What brings y’all to Kentucky?”

Soap held up his glass of bourbon and put on a grin for the lady. “What else? This is Bourbon County, no?”

Ghost stood up suddenly, startling the bartender. “The loo?” he asked. She stared back at him, confused. “Restroom,” he clarified.

“Oh. Down the hall, to the right,” she said, jabbing a thumb in that direction. Ghost nodded and disappeared, hands in his hoodie pockets. The bartender shot Soap a bewildered look, brows raised. “Your friend’s a bit strange.”

It was Soap’s turn to snort. “Och, he’s a wee softie once ya get to know ‘im,” he said. In his ear, Ghost growled a warning, and Champ chuckled.

In the bathroom, after Ghost finished up his business—which he did turn his mic off for—he stuck one of the bugs under the sink. This one, he assumed, would just record a bunch of pissing and shitting, but it didn’t hurt to bug the place just in case someone decided to have an important conversation in the loo.

Outside of the restroom, Ghost noticed a small lounge area, and a couple of closed doors beyond. Switching his mic back on, he asked, “Champ, everyone still up front?”

“Yessir,” the cowboy answered.

“Soap, keep ‘em busy. I’m gonna snoop.” He didn’t wait for an answer, knowing Soap couldn't give him one anyway—and silently stepped up to the first door. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any signs of life beyond. As expected, he couldn't hear anyone. The doorknob was locked, though, which presented a bit of a problem.

“Anyone know how to pick a lock?”

“Sure,” Champ answered. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a lock pick?”

“Negative.”

Champ hummed. “Some sort of multi-tool?”

“I have several knives,” the lieutenant said bluntly.

A heavy sigh left the cowboy’s lungs. “Alright… might have’ta brute strength it a lil’ bit. Use a knife with a tip that curves upward…”

It took a couple of tries and, as Champ suggested, a bit of brute strength, but Ghost managed to jimmy the lock and gain access to the room. Or rather, access to a stairwell that led downward.

“Looks like a basement,” Ghost reported.

“Hurry up, LT…” Soap muttered through his teeth, “These two are gettin’ suspicious.”

Right on cue, the bartender spoke up: “Your friend okay? He’s been gone a while.” She frowned at Ghost’s drink, untouched and half melted. “His bourbon’s all watered down…”

“Aw, y’know, he was complainin’ of stomach pain just before we walked in. I’ll give him another…” Soap glanced at his watch, “ three minutes. If he’s not back, I’ll go check on him.”

Three minutes. Plenty of time. Ghost was already down the stairs, but he paused at the bottom, a little taken aback. “Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered. It was a storage room, the shelves lined with extra bottles of booze and paper products. But it was also a den of sorts, with a small table in the middle, and Nazi and Confederate iconography all over the walls. Disgust stirred deep in his gut. “If there are any secret meetings happenin’ in this place, they’d be down here.”

“Hurry and bug it then,” Soap urged. “Gonna have to break a glass if you take much longer.”

Ghost placed two bugs: one under the table, and another behind the big, ugly flag with a swastika on it. Just touching the damn thing sickened him, but he kept his complaints to himself, and quickly made his exit up the stairs. He closed the door behind him, smoothed out his hoodie, and put a hand to his stomach as he strolled back into the front bar area, selling the look of someone that had recently suffered from some gastrointestinal distress. He discretely stuck another bug to the underside of the countertop as he passed.

“There ya are, ya dobber!” Soap exclaimed, grinning wide. “Feel better?”

Ghost played along with a grunt of affirmation and took his seat. He stared down at the watery mess that was his bourbon, brows furrowed. “Should have ordered after…” he mumbled.

The bartender reached across and plucked Ghost’s drink up, startling him. “Let me get that for ya, darlin’,” she said, dumping and repouring the drink. “Want it served up this time, in case you have another emergency?”

“Cheers, that'd be lovely,” Ghost said, forcing politeness into his tone. It sounded unnatural—at least to Soap and Champ. The bartender didn't seem to notice, though.

“Y’know, you don’t gotta wear that in here,” she said, gesturing to the mask on Ghost’s face. “We never enforced the mandate.”

Of course they hadn’t.

Ghost took his new drink and lifted his mask from the chin with that same hand to take a sip, all while maintaining eye contact and keeping his lower face obscured. He swallowed the bourbon down, its smoky sweetness warming his mouth.

“Personal preference,” he said simply.

The woman shrugged her shoulders and let it be.

Soap waited until she walked away from them, then knocked his shoulder lightly to the Brit’s. “What’d ya see down there?” he asked, voice low.

“Lots’a evil,” Ghost answered. He took another sip of his drink. “ Definitely a Nazi bar.”

“Is that fuckin’—” Champ’s voice cut in over their comms, almost a yell— “ Rage Against the Machine?!” Soap winced at the sudden outburst, and pushed a finger subtly to his ear.

The other worker—the man in the vest—had turned on the juke box situated in the back corner. Sure enough, “Sleep Now In the Fire” blared through the speakers.

“They’re playing Rage,” the cowboy said, his jaw slack in disbelief, “in a Nazi bar. I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

“Calm down,” Ghost growled in warning. “Or get off the comms.”

“Not even a hint of irony…” he grumbled, but resigned himself to continue his seething in silence.

Soap finished off his bourbon and set the glass down with a loud clink. The bartender regarded him with a brow raised, presenting him with a silent question. He leaned forward, squinting at the liquor bottles behind her, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“Got any other scotch?” he asked.

The bartender turned to look at the scotch present. “Pretty sure this is it,” she said. “Thought you said you came here for the bourbon.”

“Aye,” Soap conceded, lips pulled in a charming smile as he idly swirled the large ice cube in his empty glass. “But I’m feelin’ a little homesick. Sure ya don’t have anything in the back?”

Ghost caught on to what he was doing. He took another sip of his drink and watched in silence. Maybe if he stared hard enough, he could unsettle the lady into cooperating.

The bartender frowned. “Think that’s all we got…” She caught on to Ghost’s stare, and shifted uncomfortably. “But, uh… sure, I can go look…”

She shuffled away, disappearing down the hall. The man remained in place for a moment, then followed her after he too caught Ghost’s stare. Ghost watched after him, and saw him slip into the second door—the one Ghost hadn’t gotten to explore. It looked like an office, from the momentary glimpse he caught before the door closed.

“Mean mug ya got there, Spooky,” Champ said. Ghost grunted, turning his gaze out the front windows. To most, it sounded like a noncommittal noise, but Soap recognized the hint of smugness buried under the gravel.

There was something truly satisfying about making Nazis squirm without even needing to lay a hand on them. Ghost still wanted to bash their heads in, of course, but that wasn’t in the game plan tonight. Unfortunately.

Now that they were alone in the bar, Soap wasted no time. He stood up and made a beeline for the lounge to stick a bug behind one of the frames hanging on the wall. He looked around, thinking if he should place another one and where, when he noticed some particularly unsettling posters. Lots of numbers. Dog whistles. Glaringly loud, to someone familiar with them, but innocuous enough at a glance to any poor sap that may mistakenly wander into the bar.

“Fuckin’ filth back there,” he muttered, returning to his seat. Ghost hummed in agreement, his stare now directed to the bourbon left in his glass. “This place makes my skin crawl.”

“Y’all are doin’ great,” Champ said. “Holdin’ up better n’ I would, that’s for sure.”

“Kinda wish you were in here,” Soap replied, “to provoke ‘em, then we could get our hands dirty.”

The cowboy laughed dryly. “If only. When I tell you my trigger finger’s itchin’ like I got a fire ant in my glove…”

Ghost shushed them with a sharp hiss. The bartender walked back in a second later, empty-handed. “Sorry, darlin’,” she said, leaning her hands on the counter in front of Soap. “Only scotch we got’s what ya see.”

Soap pushed a frown, head lolling dramatically to the side to exaggerate his disappointment. “Aw, that’s a shame. Guess I’ll have another a’ this.” He swirled his empty glass, then pushed it forward for the bartender to refill. Ghost finished the last of his drink, then wordlessly asked for a refill of his own, which the bartender obliged.

Together, they sipped at their new drinks, making casual conversation as they subtly surveyed the empty bar. The bartender, upon recognizing that her attention was not currently needed, settled at the far end of the bar with her phone. The other man was still locked away in the office. It would have been nice to get a bug in there, but it was seeming less and less likely that there would be any opportunity to make that happen.

Champ kept his vigil, watching steadily through his scope. His wet blanket and clothes were starting to feel a little uncomfortable against his skin, but he paid it no mind. It was nice when a breeze passed over him, graciously wicking away some of the heat bearing down on him.

Another vehicle—a black sedan, not luxury, but not exactly cheap either—pulled into the bar’s parking lot, taking up a space on the side of the building. Champ tried to peer in through the windows, but they were tinted too dark for him to get a good look inside.

“Incoming,” he mumbled into his comm. “Three fellas.” He swept his crosshair over all of them as they stepped out of the car and approached the door. They all had blazers and jeans on, but Champ did catch a glimpse at a hand tattoo. A Russian flag, and some writing that he couldn’t catch. “At least one of ‘em’s Russian. An’ all of ‘em are packin’.”

The three men walked into the bar, pausing momentarily as they noticed Ghost and Soap seated at the counter. The two soldiers pretended not to pay them any mind.

“My god… that fucker is huge…!” one of them said in Russian, garnering a few snickers from his companions.

“Americans. What do they put in their food to make such a big man?” another commented. Champ snorted at that one.

Ghost had a distinct and familiar feeling that he was the topic of conversation, despite the language barrier. A low, quiet growl settled in the back of his throat.

“They think you’re American, Spooky,” Champ supplied, which made Ghost growl louder, offended. “Marvelin’ at how big ya are.”

“I’ve killed for lesser insults,” the Brit grumbled, to the amusement of Soap and Champ.

The bartender, having put her phone down, stepped up and greeted the three newcomers with a smile. She spoke with a sense of familiarity, welcoming them back in. They must have been the Russians she’d mentioned earlier. The men returned the greeting and ordered their drinks, then settled at a table in the back lounge. Between the distance and the music on the jukebox, the soldiers couldn’t hear them well—not that they had any idea what they’d be saying anyway.

Champ, however, pulled out one of his earbuds and popped in another, connected to the bugs. He cycled through the channels until he found the bug nearest them—the one Soap had placed under the frame in the lounge—and listened in. It didn’t matter too much, since everything was being recorded anyway, but he listened regardless. It might save them some processing and administrative time with Laswell later.

“Don’t recognize any of ‘em,” Soap noted, and Ghost agreed with a nod.

“Nor I,” Champ replied. His earlier amusement was gone, tone now stony and serious. “But one of ‘em just mentioned somethin’ about a meetin’ happenin’ later on tonight. Got a good feelin’ these bastards’ll lead us to somethin’ good.” Which meant, unfortunately, that he had to leave even more patrons of the Nazi bar alive. For now.

Soap pulled out his phone and sent off a text to the secure group chat Laswell had set up earlier. Members included herself, Price, Nikolai, Champ, Ghost, and him.

>> Bugs set. >> Got three Russians in here talking about a meeting later.

laswell << Understood. We’ll be monitoring the bugs from here on out. << Good work, gentlemen. You can leave when ready. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.

Ghost glanced over the messages, one brow quirked, then downed the rest of his drink and dropped another couple of bills on the counter. Soap followed suit, trailing after the lieutenant, out of the bar without so much as a goodbye to the bartender.

“All done?” Champ asked. Ghost looked up, scanning the gaudy balloon letters for the cowboy’s rifle.

“Affirmative,” he grunted. “Laswell’s takin’ over from here.”

Champ hummed thoughtfully. “Think I’m gonna stick around for a while longer,” he said after a moment. “See who’s comin’ to this meetin’. Y’all can head out if you want to, though.”

Soap and Ghost exchanged glances. While Soap wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of another several hours of stakeout duty, he couldn’t deny his own curiosity regarding the meeting. He nodded to Ghost, then replied, “We’ll stay too. Got nothin’ better to do.”

“Sounds good. Move my truck though, will ya? It’s been there for a hot minute.”

Soap agreed, and led the way back to the grocery store parking lot where they’d left the truck. He climbed into the driver’s seat and, after adjusting it to accommodate his larger size, shoved the keys into the ignition. Blessed AC blasted from the vents, immediately staving off the suffocating heat in the cabin.

Ghost lingered outside, staring across the street to the rooftop Champ was on.

“All good, LT?” Soap asked, rolling down the window.

“You move the truck,” he said, “I’m gonna check up on the Yank.” He strode off before the Scot could answer, following in Champ’s earlier footsteps to the restaurant. There was a ladder in the alleyway at the back of the building that he scaled, bringing him to the roof. Champ’s location wasn’t immediately obvious, the cowboy having taken some measures to hide himself behind some discarded crates. As Ghost approached, he spotted the wide-brimmed hat first. The rest of him, laid out in sniper’s prone, was hidden under his still-damp blanket.

Then Ghost heard a click. It was a familiar noise. Too familiar. He stiffened immediately, before realizing that it had come from under the blanket. The cowboy hat was turned slightly in his direction.

Ah yes, he’d neglected to inform Champ that he was coming up, and he’d essentially, albeit unintentionally, just snuck up on him. While he was lying down, no less.

“At ease, Marine,” he growled. (Marine. Not soldier. He knew that American servicemembers, former or otherwise, could be tetchy about their branch and their titles.) “It’s just me.”

The cowboy hat tipped down, a sigh escaping from under it. “Heavens to Betsy, Spooky, don’t fuckin’ do that.” There was another click—this time, the sound of a pistol decocking under the blanket. Champ’s figure visibly relaxed as he turned his attention back to his scope. “I was two seconds from shootin’ ya, I suwanne.”

(Who the fuck was Betsy? Suwanne? Christ, he was just as incomprehensible as Soap.)

Ghost huffed and stepped up to Champ, taking a knee at his side. “I’d have been on top of you in one.”

“Bullshit. I had at least three.”

“Hmn.” He called his own bullshit, but didn’t press the matter. “Move,” he said, nudging Champ’s ribs with his knuckles.

The cowboy tensed, head whipping around first to Ghost’s hand, then up to his face. His eyebrows shot up over his sunglasses, surprised to see Ghost still in his “civilian” mask, but he didn’t comment on it. “Wha…?”

“Give us a look,” the Brit clarified. “Take a break.”

“Don’t need a break. ’M good.”

“Not askin’.” He nudged again, a bit harder this time. “Move over.”

Champ still didn’t move. “Five minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

For a second, Ghost thought that Champ was going to argue with him some more. And Champ wanted to. He side-eyed the lieutenant, lips pressed together under his bandana, then reluctantly shuffled away from the rifle. The whole front side of his clothes was just as wet as the back, but from sweat, rather than rain water. It was a bloody hot day, same as yesterday.

Ghost took up the space behind the rifle, settling in with practiced ease, and peered through the scope. He could see the bartender and the other man back behind the bar, and one of the Russian men leaned against the counter.

“They sayin’ anythin’ interestin’?” Ghost asked.

Champ tilted his head, listening in on the lounge bug where the other two Russians continued their conversation. “Nah… talkin’ about their recent sexploits. The other fella, though…” He switched around until he was listening though the bugs in the front bar, so he could hear what the first Russian and the bar staff were saying.

And his face blanched.

Ghost glanced back over his shoulder, one brow lifted.

“Ain’t that—...” Trailing off, Champ fished out his phone and rapidly typed into the group chat.

>> the name LASKIN ring any bells? >> that’s an idaho congressman, yeah?

“Champ, what’s goin’ on?” Ghost prompted.

“Might have just gotten a name.”

Laswell sent a response.

LASWELL << Harold Laskin. US Representative from Idaho, yes.

>> mmk. one of these russians just namedropped

LASWELL << We won’t know if it’s him for sure until he shows up. If he does at all.

“Champagne, report,” Ghost ordered. He would check the chat himself, but someone had to keep an eye on the bar front.

“Sorry—” Champ stowed his phone and pushed a hand under his hat, through his hair. “The bastard in front mentioned that someone named Laskin would be around later for a meeting. Laskin’s also the name of a Representative from Idaho.” He scowled under his bandana and shook his head in disgust. “Fuckin’ nasty piece a’ shit. Ultraconservative. Racist, misogynistic, homophobic, transphobic—the works.”

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes. He dragged the crosshair over the Russian man still leaning against the bar, then the two workers. This new information didn’t exactly confirm that the staff were privy to the Ultranationalist plot—hell, there wasn’t any hard evidence yet that there was an Ultranationalist plot unfolding in this bar—but things were not looking good for them. For any of them.

“I’m stayin’ right here tonight,” Champ said. “Gonna keep a look out. See if I can get a visual confirmation.”

“Laswell can get confirmation from the bugs.”

“No such thing as too much evidence,” Champ replied. And Ghost couldn’t argue with that.

“Oi,” Soap’s voice cut in over the comms, “I’m parkin’ down the street at a pharmacy. You boys gettin’ along up there?”

Champ answered before Ghost could, “Yep. Like white on rice, the two a’ us.”

Neither Ghost nor Soap responded immediately, neither of them knowing what exactly that saying meant. Their confusion made Champ chortle.

“I’m gonna assume that’s good,” Soap said eventually. “So ya think this Laskin guy’s the government official we’re chasin’?”

“He fits the bill,” Champ replied. “Definitely wouldn’t be surprised, given the shit he says on the regular.” He searched the Representative up on his phone and skimmed over an article about him. “His district’s up north, in one a’ the reddest parts of the Redoubt.”

He went on to explain what exactly the “Redoubt” was, and some talking points and policies the Idaho Rep often spewed. It left the soldiers with bitter tastes in their mouths and a burning in their guts. How someone like that could be elected into government was beyond any of them.

Ghost made a disparaging comment on the state of the American government, but Soap chimed in to remind him of the UK’s political turmoil as well. None of them had any room to speak, and yet all the room to speak.

Kettle calling the pot black, or whatever.

The topic of Champ’s life in the US came up, as it naturally would, but the cowboy just scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t live here,” he said with a shake of his head. “I live in St. Petersburg.”

“In Russia?” Ghost watched him in his peripherals, a little surprised.

“Yeah. I mean, that’s where my boss lives. An’ they got free healthcare. Sure, it’s got plenty a’ problems of its own, but…” he shrugged his shoulders. “Ain’t too bad. ‘Cept the winters. Russian winters’re miserable.” Just the thought sent a shiver up his spine.

“That explains why you speak the language,” Soap said. “Dual citizenship?”

“Naw. Got a work visa.” Champ glanced down at his watch, then looked over at Ghost, still prone with the rifle. “Alright, Spooky, my break’s over. Up an’ at ‘em.”

Ghost didn’t stir yet. Instead, he addressed Soap, “Sergeant, we’re gonna keep a lookout for a while longer.”

A groan filtered in through the comm, the Scot none-too-happy about this news. “How much longer?”

“Until we see who this Laskin bloke is.”

Champ frowned. “Y’all don’t gotta stay. I can do this on my own.”

“And leave you without backup?” Ghost huffed. “Better yet, leave you alone with that itchy trigger finger? Don’t think so.”

An offended noise left the cowboy’s lips. “'Ey! I don’t need a goddamn babysitter, a’right?” He moved in, pushing a hand to Ghost’s shoulder to encourage him to move. The Brit stiffened, muscles going rigid, like a wall of stone. Champ froze much in the same way. Ghost’s eyes slid away from the scope, down to that hand, then up to Champ’s face.

Most people didn’t touch him if they could avoid it. Only Johnny dared to lay his hands on him. Sometimes Price.

Champ kept the contact for a heartbeat more, then pulled his hand back, but he remained nearby. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, voice firm and unwavering, even under Ghost’s scrutiny. “We agreed, right? It’s been nearly twenty.”

A noise behind them made the cowboy flinch, his gun out of its holster and cocked with a flash. Ghost tensed further, his shoulders tight, ready to swing the sniper rifle around in an instant if he needed to.

From behind the lip of the roof, where the ladder hung over the edge, a dark tuft of hair popped up. A second later, Soap peered over the ledge, blue eyes wide and curious. Champ breathed out and decocked his firearm for the second time today. Ghost didn’t ease, though, until he heard the Scot’s voice call out.

“Hello?”

In lieu of a verbal response, Champ waved his hand to indicate where they were. Soap quickly made his way to them, three bottles of cold water in hand. He handed one to Champ, who graciously accepted, and set another down next to Ghost.

In his earlier eagerness to get set up, Champ had neglected to bring his own water with him to the roof. He put his battle of wills with Ghost on pause for the moment while he cracked the lid open and took a few long swallows under his bandana. He gasped softly when he pulled the bottle away from his lips, the chill settling comfortably in his core.

Damn, it was hot out.

“‘Preciate ya, Scotty,” he said, offering his fist for Soap to knock with his own. “Now could ya please get your boy to shove off so I can have my gun back?”

Soap looked between the two of them, his own bottle raised to his lips. He took a sip before speaking. “You hoggin’ the man’s rifle, LT?”

Ghost grunted, neither confirming nor denying—but there really was no denying it.

“Ghost…” Soap drawled, almost chiding.

“How’s this,” the lieutenant said gruffly, “We take shifts. Two hours per.” It was not a request, so much as a compromise offered out of courtesy, but that didn’t stop Champ from trying to argue.

“It’s my fuckin’—”

Soap interrupted, “Aye, you just wanna stare at Nazis through that scope, don’t ya, LT?”

His next grunt was definitely not a denial. “Can’t let the Yank have all the fun,” he mused.

Champ let out a frustrated groan, and anger-chugged another few gulps of water. He checked his watch, petty enough to deduct the twenty minutes Ghost had already stolen, and mentally noted when the shift change would be.

“Soap’s next,” Ghost replied flatly, as if reading Champ’s mind. “You already had four hours.”

“Feels like you’re tryin’a pull rank,” he grumbled, glaring at the back of the lieutenant’s head.

“Feel free to try and move me,” Ghost offered. And Champ was tempted. He really was.

Luckily for all of them, though, one of the Russians inside mentioned an important word: Ultranationalist.

Or maybe it wasn’t so lucky. Champ lunged, shoving at Ghost’s shoulder again with more fervor. “Move move move—” Taken by surprise, Ghost did roll onto his side, moving just enough for the cowboy to slip in under him and stare through the scope.

“Bloody hell, what—?” Ghost snapped, unhappy to be virtually lying on top of Champ.

“Confirmed they’re Ultranationalists,” Champ said. “They jus’ said so. I heard ‘em.” He scoured the bar, and growled when he couldn’t see any of the Russian men. Only the bartender remained in the front. Everyone else must have retreated into the lounge.

A heavy hand clamped down on the back of Champ’s harness, threatening to yank. It ignited a feral instinct in Champ’s gut. The cowboy snarled and shoved the hand off of him, his body tense, ready to retaliate.

“‘Ey!” Soap cut in, shuffling closer before things could escalate. “Let’s calm down, a’right?” He held his hands up to placate the both of them. Few and far between were the times when Soap was the calming voice of reason. “Champ, settle down.”

Play nice. Champ dropped his head, closed his eyes, and took a breath to steady himself. He reminded himself that he was supposed to work with the SAS. No fighting, per Nikolai’s very strict instruction. They were on the same side. They were working together. Allies, and all that.

He was fine. He was good. Water under the bridge.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Champ said, his voice calm and collected. He put on a smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the skin beyond the rim of his glasses. “Jus’ got… excited.” He scooted out from under Ghost and sat back up, hands swiping down his clothes to dust off any dirt. Ghost settled back into place behind the rifle, unfazed and unperturbed.

Soap reached over, hesitating for a moment to pat Champ’s chest. Neutral territory. Not aggressive. “All good?”

“Dandy,” he said. He pressed his earbud into his ear, tuning back into the Russian conversation. Their voices were hushed now, but the bug could still hear them. “They’re discussin’ what the meetin’ might be about. Guess they don’t know yet.”

“That goes for all of us,” Ghost said. “Let’s hope this Laskin bloke shows up soon so we can find out.”

Over the next few hours, things stayed relatively quiet. At around eighteen hundred, more people started to filter into the bar. Some of them showed their filthy politics more freely than others on their skin, their clothes. When Soap got a turn behind the rifle, he entertained himself with the thought of wiring the place up with explosives and blowing it to shit with all the Nazi and Ultranationalist fucks inside.

Oh, how he loved it when he got to utilize his demolitions expertise. It wasn’t nearly often enough, in his opinion.

As tidbits of information came in through the bugs, Champ updated the group chat. Sure, Laswell had her team also listening in on her end, but Champ figured he was faster, being able to translate and relay directly. She didn’t complain.

By the time Champ (finally) got his turn with the rifle— his goddamn rifle!—again, the sun was sinking in the sky. As he settled down behind the scope, he let his mind clear and shift back into the sniper mindset. Calm. Focused. Alert.

He could have done this by himself. A few hours spent in sniper’s prone was nothing compared to the days-long stretches he’d pulled in the past. But… despite the tense moment in the beginning there, and his reluctance to accept help, he found he didn’t mind the company. He’d spoken the truth last night when he’d told Nikolai that he liked these SAS fellas.

He and Soap got along well. They were chatty, perhaps to Ghost’s annoyance. They talked easily. Bantered.

Hell, Ghost even told one of his trademark jokes, which Champ got a kick out of. Soap, not so much, but the Scot still had an amused twinkle in his eye as he criticized Ghost’s shit humor.

Another vehicle pulled into the bar’s steadily-filling parking lot. The fact that it was filling at all disgusted Champ, but he’d long-since resigned himself to swallow the anger and focus on the mission. This new vehicle stood out amongst the others in the lot. It was a high-end luxury model. Something expensive. Champ settled his crosshairs over the window, and his breath caught in his throat. Inside was a pale, middle-aged man with short hair dyed brown, presumably to hide any grays. He had a sharp nose and a weak chin, puffy cheeks, thin eyebrows, beady eyes. He was a skinny man, his suit doing little to bulk up his frame.

He looked like a weasel. Fitting, given the approximate translation of his name.

“Laskin’s here,” Champ growled. His trigger finger itched with a new ferocity, but he kept it still. “It’s the Rep.”

“Wha—for real?” Soap leaned over Champ, peering through the giant O. “Holy shite… tha’s him a’right.”

Ghost didn’t bother to look, trusting the other two to confirm it. Instead, he sent a message to the group chat.

>> Got a PID on Representative Laskin. He’s just arrived at the bar.

LASWELL << Understood.

PRICE << Do not engage, boys.

LASWELL << This is good. Pull back for now. We’ll monitor their conversations from here.

>> Roger.

“Laswell says to pull back,” Ghost relayed, stowing his phone. Soap turned his head around to look at Ghost, his brows furrowed. Champ remained where he was, watching the Rep enter the bar and disappear into the back. “There’s nothin’ we can do right now,” he continued.

Fuckin’ bullshit. Champ clenched his teeth and glared through the scope. This sucked. Ghost was right—to an extent; they could definitely do something right now, but then they’d all likely end up on the run from the cops. They had their PID. Laswell was listening in.

The three of them, right here, right now, were now effectively redundant. Their job was done until they got more intel.

“Puta madre,” he spat. Reluctantly, the cowboy pushed himself up to his knees and lifted his rifle. Practiced hands folded it up and stowed it away in its hardcase.

They dropped down from the roof and discretely headed back to Champ’s truck. Soap, still having the keys, was given the okay to drive them back to Camp Sasha. Champ climbed into the back, lying down across all three seats, while Ghost took up shotgun.

“You don’t trust me to drive?” Ghost asked, staring at the cowboy through the rearview. Champ met his gaze for just a moment, then tipped his hat down over his eyes as if to hide.

“Never said that,” he said simply. Though true, it wasn’t a convincing answer. It wasn’t much of an answer at all.

“So let me drive,” the Brit pressed. He didn’t actually care to drive at this very moment, but this had been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Champ hummed a high, uneasy note. Ghost twisted in his seat to face him directly. “Who said somethin’ about my drivin’?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Spooky,” Champ said, retreating further under his hat. “No one’s said nothin’.” That almost sounded convincing. Soap snickered as he started the truck up.

“Was it Soap?”

“Oi—!”

“Wasn’t no one,” the cowboy insisted. “Don’t get yourself in a tizzy. It ain’t nothin’.”

Props to him for refusing to snitch under Ghost’s questioning. But the lieutenant was still annoyed. (And he still suspected Soap.) He was about to grill Champ more, but the man lurched suddenly, curling in around his middle with a groan.

“Ah! Oh… fuck …”

“Champ?” Soap glanced back, immediately concerned.

“It’s a cramp. M fine,” Champ said, his voice a little strained. “Jus’... ah, fuck, I don’t think I’ve eaten’ anythin’ since…” he paused for a long moment to recall his last meal. “Shit. Before y’all got here, I think.”

Soap damn-near slammed on the breaks, but he had a reputation as the good driver to uphold. That left Ghost to stare deadpan at the cowboy.

“You fuckin’ jokin’?” he asked. Champ looked up, his brows furrowed behind his sunglasses.

“Uh huh. Guess I forgot… It’s fine, though. I’ll—”

“You forgot?” Ghost repeated dubiously. Fuckin’ hell. “‘Ow the fuck did you forget to eat for… over thirty two hours?”

Champ could only shrug. “‘M fine. Just a cramp. I’ll eat when we get back to base.”

Base was a half an hour drive away, though. Wordlessly, Ghost righted himself in his seat and searched up local restaurants on his phone. Truth be told, he needed to eat as well. Neither he nor Soap had had anything (other than bourbon and water) since the muffin several hours ago.

“Chinese restaurant comin’ up on the right,” he instructed. Soap flicked on the turn signal and got over. Champ looked like he wanted to protest, but he thought better of it. He was hungry, after all. So he folded his arms behind his head and leaned back, making himself comfortable in the back seat.

Once they pulled into the parking lot, Soap volunteered to go in and place the order. He was getting a sesame chicken, Ghost wanted a sweet and sour pork, and Champ opted for a Sichuan tofu, extra spicy. That earned him a couple of raised brows.

“What?” he said, looking between the two soldiers. “ Trust me, I can handle spicy shit.”

“You vegetarian?” Soap asked.

“Naw. I jus’ like tofu.” He hiked his hips up to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket, and handed the Scot a hundred-dollar bill. “Get some krab rangoons and some spring rolls too. No change.”

Soap accepted the cash and, with their order in mind, strode into the restaurant to place it. He was back in a few minutes, the worker behind the counter having told him that he could wait in his vehicle if he wanted to. He and Ghost fell into idle chatter—Soap doing more of the chatter than Ghost—while Champ was happy to fall into a light doze in the back seat.

Fifteen minutes later, a worker handed off their food through the driver-side window. The smell immediately made Champ perk up. His stomach let out a low growl, reinvigorated. Soap settled down the communal foods on the center console, then handed Ghost and Champ their individual meals. Champ, with chopsticks in hand, tore into his tofu like a ravenous, half-starved dog. Soap, despite having actually eaten that day, chowed down similarly, albeit with a fork.

Ghost… hesitated.

Soap noticed first, slowing his pace and swallowing his mouthful. He looked between Ghost and Champ, frowning. Awkward. “Er…”

“It’s fine,” Ghost said. “I can wait.”

Champ looked up, noticing Ghost’s untouched food. “Oh! Shit, sorry, here—” he shifted around and situated himself so that he wouldn’t be able to see the Brit’s face, his back pressed to the back of Ghost’s seat. “This work? Won’t peek, I promise.”

Ghost still looked uncertain, but Soap gave him an encouraging nod. With some apprehension, Ghost pulled down his mask to eat.

Like the mannerless military men they were, they each cleaned their takeout dishes in five minutes flat. The appetizers lasted a little bit longer, needing some negotiation on who got the fourth spring roll (Champ) and who got the last two rangoons (Soap and Ghost).

Once all of the garbage was stuffed in the bag and Ghost’s mask was back in place, Champ stretched out as much as he could in the back seat with a satisfied sigh.

“Good call, Spooky,” he said, not bothering to pull his bandana back up. His sunglasses had been replaced atop his hat, no longer needed with the sinking sun. “Only complaint’s that those workers pro’ly took one look at you, Scotty—” said Scot glanced at him in the rearview as he pulled out of the parking lot— “said ‘white European boy,’ an’ held back on makin’ the Sichuan really spicy.”

Ghost and Soap snorted in unison. “Dunno what ya mean,” Soap defended, “yours was plenty spicy! My mouth is still burnin’! You tried it too, LT!”

The Brit shrugged. “Wasn’t that bad.” He was a liar and Soap knew it. Champ could tell too. Ghost, cursed with a British palate, had even less of a tolerance for spicy food; he just had a supernatural talent for enduring the pain.

“Aw, off wit’ ya!” Soap groaned, slapping his lieutenant’s shoulder.

The rest of the drive back was relatively quiet. Despite the day being recon only, the three men felt a familiar, tired weight tugging them down. Pretending to play nice with Nazis, and watching the bar for hours through the scope of a sniper rifle was exhausting.

Rock and metal music spilled from the radio at a comfortable volume. Ghost eyed the screen when a band called “Ghost” popped up. Soap made a tongue-in-cheek comment about the lieutenant moonlighting as a singer. Ghost just rolled his eyes and turned to stare out of his window.

“...Are you ready to swear right here, right now, before the devil…?”

The band was okay. Not bad. A little uppity for metal.

In the back seat, Champ was conked out. Having done most of the overwatch throughout the day, he was feeling the mental drain. His hat sat on his chest, sunglasses set on the brim. The soldiers let him be until they pulled up to the camp gate, then Soap reached back and tapped his shoulder.

“Need your ID,” he said. Champ mumbled something unintelligible and fished the ID from his holster bag, handing it off to the Scot. Slowly he pushed himself up to sit, and stretched his back until it popped.

“Drop me at the stables,” he said. “You can take the truck back to the hotel.”

Soap nodded and turned down the road leading to the stables. “Give the ol’ mule a pat for me, yeah?” he said, slowing the truck to a stop.

“Will do,” Champ said with a salute. Hat back on his head, he popped his door open, but paused before stepping out. “Ah.” He reached down in the footwell and grabbed the plushie Ghost had tossed back there earlier. “Don’t forget this, Spooky,” he said with a grin, dropping it into the Brit’s lap.

“Fuck off,” Ghost grumbled, glaring down at the toy ghost. It smiled back at him, unfazed.

Champ left them for the stables. Soap pulled back onto the road and drove them to the hotel. He left Champ’s keys with the front desk worker, then he and Ghost headed straight to their room. They both were in need of a shower, eager to scrub off the residue from that goddamn bar.

Tomorrow, their work would continue.

#call of duty #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod oc #john mactavish #simon riley #kate laswell #hyena writes #hyena ocs #wayne champagne #idk what it is about this story that compels me to make such LONG chapters dkfgfdgjk #only two in & the whole thing is already over 25k words #that's more than the current 5 chapters of make it better 😵‍💫

10 notes · View notes