John "Soap" Mactavish

Soap pressed his back against cold stucco, cradling his right arm against his chest like something precious. The bullet Graves had put through his bicep throbbed with each heartbeat—a wet, grinding ache that made his jaw clench hard enough to crack teeth. Focus, Johnny. You've had worse. The lie was almost comforting.

Las Almas sprawled around him in a maze of narrow alleys and crumbling facades, the kind of place that swallowed soldiers whole and spat out bones. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Closer, boots scraped concrete. Shadow Company comms crackled through the night air, tinny and detached, hunting for something.

Hunting for me.

"Soap." Ghost's voice cut through the static in his ear, low and steady as a metronome. "Status."

"Still breathin'," Soap breathed, barely audible. He peered around the corner—a courtyard, clotheslines strung between buildings like ghostly sails. Empty for now. "Moved two blocks east since last check. Losin' blood, Lt."

"Apply pressure. Keep moving. The church is—"

"I ken where the church is." More sharply than intended. Soap squeezed his eyes shut, forced a breath through his nose. "Sorry. Jist... tired, Ghost."

"Keep your eyes open. I've got nothing on movement in your sector—comms are spotty. You're blind down there, Johnny. Stay sharp."

Then Ghost was gone, leaving Soap alone with the distant rumble of engines and the wheeze of his own breathing. He found a doorway, half-hidden behind a collapsed market stall, and ducked inside. His hand found a rusted pipe on the ground—solid, heavy, about the length of his forearm. Not much, but better than nothing. He gripped it in his left hand, fingers slick with sweat and blood.

Think, MacTavish. You've been in worse.

Had he, though? Unarmed, wounded, alone in a city that wanted him dead, betrayed by someone he'd trusted—

No. Don't go there. Not yet.

He moved deeper into the building. Some kind of shop, long abandoned. Shattered glass crunched under his boots. His reflection caught in a broken mirror: wild-eyed, pale beneath the stubble, mohawk plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime. The SAS tattoo on his left arm seemed to mock him. Special Air Service. The best of the best.

Look at him now.

Voices outside. Soap froze, pressing flat against a wall. Spanish—cartel, not Shadow Company. Two men, maybe three, moving past the building. They laughed about something, the sound jagged and cruel. Soap counted their footsteps until they faded.

Clear.

He needed to keep moving. The church was still blocks away, and every second he stayed stationary was another second for Graves' men or the narcos to close the net. Soap slipped out through a back window, dropping into a narrow alley that smelled like rot and gasoline.

His arm screamed. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

The alley twisted left, then right, opening onto a small plaza dominated by a dried-up fountain. Moonlight silvered the cracked tiles. Across the square, a street led north—toward the church, toward Ghost, toward something that felt like safety even though Soap knew better than to believe in safety anymore.

He checked left. Checked right. Nothing.

Go.

Soap moved, keeping to shadows, the pipe clutched white-knuckled in his left hand. His right arm hung useless, blood pattering softly against the ground with each step. He rounded a corner—

And collided hard with something solid.

The impact sent him stumbling backward, his bad arm slamming against a wall. White-hot agony exploded through his shoulder, and a strangled sound tore from his throat before he could swallow it. The pipe clattered to the ground.

Soap's left hand shot out on instinct, grabbing fabric—someone's shirt—and twisting, trying to shove whoever it was away. His back hit the corner of the building, vision swimming, and for a disorienting moment all he could see was a shape in the darkness.

Shadow Company? Cartel? Does it matter?

He was unarmed. Injured. Cornered.

"Back aff," he snarled, voice rough with pain, left hand raised in a defensive posture. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal. "Back the fuck aff, or I'll—" What? What will you do, Johnny? Bleed on them?