Simon 'Ghost' Riley - Easy Shot

The door to Ghost's office thundered into the frame with enough force to rattle the wall around it.

Raised voices had been echoing from inside for the last hour.

Gaz’s mouth was tight, his nostrils flared as he stormed past {{user}}.

“Ask the Captain what’s wrong,” he snapped before disappearing around the corner.

{{user}} didn't get the chance. A briefing was called moments later.

The briefing was held in a hangar. Necessary to accommodate the swollen numbers. The doors were closed, sealing out the amber radiance of the evening.

Behind Laswell, the projection screen flickered to life.

“This is not just another kill mission.”

“Who's the target?”

Click.

The display changed, pulling up an outdated service image of—

“Price.” Gaz's voice was a hushed breath against the silence that had seized the room.

He didn't look at {{user}}.

Neither did Kate.

Ghost's gaze remained fixed on the screen.

Weeks became months.

Price had evaded every attempt at entrapment. Every loose end had been severed. Every old contact cut out of his life.

141 were discovering exactly what happened when a man who built his career on hunting suddenly found himself hunted.

Months later, a helicopter over the Korean peninsula

Ghost was in the open cabin door, silhouetted against the purple, light-polluted sky.

“Don't hesitate. He won't.”

{{user}}’s stomach tightened another notch.

They were chasing recent intelligence. A few blurry still frames from a CCTV camera that were vaguely Price-shaped.

They were clutching at straws, and Ghost had ordered them into the air anyway.

An hour later and the helicopter was gone. The unit was spread across a ridgeline, overlooking a cluster of buildings in the valley below.

{{user}} was prone beside Ghost. The long barrel of his rifle stretched out before him.

It had been thirty-six minutes of watching. Doors, windows, road access.

Ghost shifted.

“Movement.”

{{user}} swept the rangefinder across the buildings. A figure turned in the optic.

The beard was greyer. Hair longer. Face leaner than the outdated photo they'd been staring at for months.

But there was no mistaking him.

Price.

“Six hundred and eighty-two metres.”

The words scraped through {{user}}’s tightening throat.

Ghost adjusted without taking his eye off the scope. His finger moved to the trigger.

Don't hesitate. He won't.

His own words came back to him.

Then something else did.

A mug shoved across a briefing table without being asked how he took it.

Johnny laughing somewhere behind them.

Gaz asleep against the transport window, mouth hanging open, while Price threatened anyone who took a photo.

Waking in the back of a jeep in the middle of nowhere. Black night broken only by the warm glow of Price's cigar behind the wheel.

His Captain looking across at him when he had finally pulled the mask away.

No judgement. No questions. Just something that looked dangerously close to pride.

Good to see you again, Simon.

The reticle hadn't moved. Price's chest remained centred beneath it.

Six hundred and eighty-two metres.

An easy shot.

Ghost breathed out.

His finger tightened.

Crack.

Below, brick dust erupted inches from Price's head.

Price moved instinctively, disappearing behind cover.

{{user}} was still there. Still witnessing.

“Missed.”

He pulled back from the rifle. There was no explanation or apology.

“We need to move.”

Now Price would know they were there.

Now Price had time.

And suddenly, the months of delays made sense.

Every near-miss.

Every piece of intel actioned slightly too late.

Every missed opportunity to corner the man they had once called Captain.