Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

The inside of Simon’s head was, as usual, a fortress of controlled silence and observation. But as the city skyline melted into endless stretches of dusty plains and scrubland, a tiny, long-forgotten part of that fortress began to stir. A part that remembered Saturday afternoons spent in front of a flickering television, bathed in the grainy, sepia-toned glory of old Westerns. It wasn't the gunfights that had captivated him then; it was the sheer, untamed space of it all. The idea of a man, a horse, and a horizon that promised nothing but freedom. He’d never admit it, not even under torture, but a flicker of that boyish excitement was sparking deep in his chest.

Price, the old bastard, had called it a ‘vacation’. A mandatory one. “You’re all wound tighter than a watch spring,” he’d grumbled, looking pointedly at the three men. “Laswell’s got a solution. We’re going to a ranch in Texas.”

Johnny had whooped, already envisioning himself as a modern-day cowboy. Kyle had shrugged with a good-natured smile, game for anything. Simon had just given a noncommittal grunt, the mask he wore—both literal and metaphorical—betraying nothing. Inside, though, the spark had flared.

The car trip was long, the air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the encroaching Texas heat. And then, they turned off the main road, down a dirt track that kicked up a cloud of reddish dust, and the ranch unfolded before them.

It was nothing like the manicured pictures he’d half-expected. This was real, raw, and beautiful in its functional simplicity. A sprawling, weathered wooden house with a wide wraparound porch sat nestled under a cluster of ancient oak trees. A massive red barn, its paint faded by decades of sun, stood sentinel nearby, surrounded by corrals and outbuildings. The air smelled of hay, dust, and something else... something clean and wild.

And there were animals. Everywhere. Chickens pecked lazily at the dirt near a coop. A few hogs grunted in a pen. And in the distant pastures, the main attraction: cattle, lazy and lowing.

“Ach, will ye listen to them!” Soap exclaimed, hopping out of the car and stretching. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Moooo!”

A few cows in the nearest field lifted their heads.

“Mooooo!” Soap called back, with profound seriousness. “I’m just talkin’ to them, LT. Understandin’ their bovine concerns.”

From the passenger seat, Laswell rolled her eyes, but a fond chuckle escaped her. “They’re probably just telling you to get off their land, Johnny.”

That’s when she appeared.

The screen door of the farmhouse squeaked open and slapped shut. She came down the porch steps, a vision that made Simon’s breath catch in his throat. She was dressed in practical, worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a simple plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her skin was sun-kissed, and a bright, genuine smile was directed at them all. She moved with an easy, confident grace that spoke of a life lived in harmony with this land.

She welcomed Price first with a firm handshake, then Laswell with a warm hug. She turned to Gaz, shaking his hand, her smile never dimming. Soap got a laugh and a handshake that he turned into an exaggerated, gallant bow. Then, her gaze fell on Simon.

He felt frozen. He’d seen beautiful women before, of course. He’d known women who were sharp, dangerous, and alluring. But this was different. She was like a ray of the Texan sun given human form—warm, bright, and capable of leaving a man scorched. She approached him, her eyes—crinkling at the corners. She offered her hand. He took it, his own large, calloused hand enveloping hers. Her grip was firm, her skin warm. She didn't flinch at his skull-printed balaclava, her gaze meeting his directly for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she moved on, leaving him feeling like he’d just been branded.

Two days later, Simon found himself leaning against the wooden railing of a corral, the morning sun warm on his shoulders. The ranch had a rhythm, a slow, steady heartbeat that was slowly seeping into his bones. He’d spent the time observing, as was his nature. He’d helped Gaz mend a section of fence, the work simple and satisfying. He’d listened to Johnny’s continued, one-sided conversations with the livestock.

But it was the horses that held his fascination. They were in a large paddock next to the main corral, powerful creatures of muscle and grace. A sleek black one trotted along the fence line, its mane flying, while others stood dozing in the sun. One in particular, a light brown mare with a gentle face and a dark, flowing mane, seemed calmer than the rest. She’d occasionally amble over to him, sniffing his outstretched hand before returning to her grazing. He watched the way they moved, a sense of pure, untethered freedom he’d only ever seen in movies.

He was so engrossed he didn't hear her approach. A soft footfall in the dirt was his only warning before she was there, standing beside him, her arm brushing lightly against his as she rested her elbows on the top rail.

She followed his gaze to the horses, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She tilted her head, her eyes full of gentle curiosity.

Simon shook his head, the motion slight. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “City boy. Never even been close to one.” The admission felt strangely intimate.

Her smile widened. She turned to face him fully, and before he could process it, she was reaching up, lifting a straw cowboy hat from where it had been hanging on a fence post nearby. She stood on her toes and gently, carefully, settled it onto his head, her fingers briefly brushing against the fabric of his balaclava. The wide brim cast a shadow over his masked face. Her eyes sparkled with playful teasing, a silent message that it was for his own good—protection from the sun, or perhaps from looking too much like a fish out of water. She found the whole situation, the giant, intimidating man in a cowboy hat, utterly endearing.

She then pointed decisively at the gentle, light brown mare. Slipping between the rails, she approached the horse, speaking to it in low, soothing tones, gathering a lead rope and a bridle. With efficient, practiced movements, she had the horse ready. She led the mare into the main corral and turned to Simon, gesturing for him to join them.

For the next half hour, she was a patient teacher. She showed him how to hold the reins, how to stand, where to put his weight. She demonstrated the basics of steering and stopping, her movements fluid and natural. Simon listened, absorbing every detail with the focused intensity he applied to any mission. The theory made sense. The practice, however, was another matter.

Simon approached the mare’s left side, gripping the saddle horn as she’d shown him. He put his left foot in the stirrup, took a breath, and pushed off. Or tried to. The horse, sensing his awkwardness, shifted its weight. Simon, a man who could scale a two-story wall with ease, aborted the attempt, his boot slipping from the stirrup with a clumsy thud.

He tried again. This time, he pushed up, but he leaned too far forward, his centre of gravity all wrong. He ended up draped over the saddle like a giant, defeated sack of potatoes, his long legs kicking comically in the air for a second before he had to push himself back off.

From the fence, a distinct Scottish cackle cut through the air. Soap was watching, tears of mirth in his eyes. Even Gaz was trying and failing to hide a smile.

Simon shot a glare in their direction that could curdle milk, but it was useless. He looked back at her. She had her hand over her mouth, but her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. There was no malice in it, only pure, unfiltered amusement. And something else... affection?

He huffed, a sound of frustration, but the corner of his own mouth, hidden beneath the mask, twitched. It was ridiculous. He was a highly trained Special Forces soldier being bested by a placid horse and a pretty woman with a cowboy hat.

He adjusted the hat on his head, took a firmer grip on the saddle horn, and focused on her encouraging eyes. Third time's the charm. He planted his foot, pushed up with a powerful thrust of his leg, and swung the other over in one, surprisingly graceful motion. He was up. Seated in the saddle, the world looked different. The horse shifted beneath him, a living, breathing creature of immense power that he was now, tentatively, in charge of.

He straightened his back, the straw hat casting a cool shadow over his masked face. He looked over at Soap and Gaz, who were still grinning like idiots. With a deliberate tilt of his head, his voice a low, deadpan rumble that carried across the corral, he said, "Don't see what the fuss was about. It's just... elevated standing."

The mare, as if on cue, let out a soft snort and took a single, placid step sideways. Simon’s grip on the reins tightened instinctively, his body going rigid for a second until he found his balance again. He refused to acknowledge the stumble, his gaze fixed ahead with an air of supreme dignity that was utterly at odds with the cowboy hat perched on his head.

The inside of Simon’s head was, as usual, a fortress of controlled silence and observation. But as the city skyline melted into endless stretches of dusty plains and scrubland, a tiny, long-forgotten part of that fortress began to stir. A part that remembered Saturday afternoons spent in front of a flickering television, bathed in the grainy, sepia-toned glory of old Westerns. It wasn't the gunfights that had captivated him then; it was the sheer, untamed space of it all. The idea of a man, a horse, and a horizon that promised nothing but freedom. He’d never admit it, not even under torture, but a flicker of that boyish excitement was sparking deep in his chest.

Price, the old bastard, had called it a ‘vacation’. A mandatory one. “You’re all wound tighter than a watch spring,”** he’d grumbled, looking pointedly at the three men.* “Laswell’s got a solution. We’re going to a ranch in Texas.”

Johnny had whooped, already envisioning himself as a modern-day cowboy. Kyle had shrugged with a good-natured smile, game for anything. Simon had just given a noncommittal grunt, the mask he wore—both literal and metaphorical—betraying nothing. Inside, though, the spark had flared.

The car trip was long, the air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the encroaching Texas heat. And then, they turned off the main road, down a dirt track that kicked up a cloud of reddish dust, and the ranch unfolded before them.

It was nothing like the manicured pictures he’d half-expected. This was real, raw, and beautiful in its functional simplicity. A sprawling, weathered wooden house with a wide wraparound porch sat nestled under a cluster of ancient oak trees. A massive red barn, its paint faded by decades of sun, stood sentinel nearby, surrounded by corrals and outbuildings. The air smelled of hay, dust, and something else... something clean and wild.

And there were animals. Everywhere. Chickens pecked lazily at the dirt near a coop. A few hogs grunted in a pen. And in the distant pastures, the main attraction: cattle, lazy and lowing.

“Ach, will ye listen to them!” Soap exclaimed, hopping out of the car and stretching. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Moooo!”

A few cows in the nearest field lifted their heads.

“Mooooo!” Soap called back, with profound seriousness. “I’m just talkin’ to them, LT. Understandin’ their bovine concerns.”

From the passenger seat, Laswell rolled her eyes, but a fond chuckle escaped her. “They’re probably just telling you to get off their land, Johnny.”

That’s when he appeared.

The screen door of the farmhouse squeaked open and slapped shut. He came down the porch steps, a vision that made Simon’s breath catch in his throat. He was dressed in practical, worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a simple plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle from a life of hard work. His skin was sun-kissed, and a bright, genuine smile was directed at them all. He moved with an easy, confident grace that spoke of a life lived in harmony with this land.

He welcomed Price first with a firm handshake, then Laswell with a warm hug. He turned to Gaz, shaking his hand, his smile never dimming. Soap got a laugh and a handshake that he turned into an exaggerated, gallant bow. Then, his gaze fell on Simon.

He felt frozen. He’d seen handsome men before, of course. He’d known men who were sharp, dangerous, and compelling. But this was different. He was like the embodiment of Texan warmth—solid, steady, and capable of leaving a man utterly disarmed. He approached Simon, his eyes—crinkling at the corners. He offered his hand. Simon took it, his own large, calloused hand enveloping his. His grip was firm, his skin warm. He didn't flinch at Simon's skull-printed balaclava, his gaze meeting his directly for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he moved on, leaving Simon feeling like he’d just been branded.

Two days later, Simon found himself leaning against the wooden railing of a corral, the morning sun warm on his shoulders. The ranch had a rhythm, a slow, steady heartbeat that was slowly seeping into his bones. He’d spent the time observing, as was his nature. He’d helped Gaz mend a section of fence, the work simple and satisfying. He’d listened to Johnny’s continued, one-sided conversations with the livestock.

But it was the horses that held his fascination. They were in a large paddock next to the main corral, powerful creatures of muscle and grace. A sleek black one trotted along the fence line, its mane flying, while others stood dozing in the sun. One in particular, a light brown mare with a gentle face and a dark, flowing mane, seemed calmer than the rest. She’d occasionally amble over to him, sniffing his outstretched hand before returning to her grazing. He watched the way they moved, a sense of pure, untethered freedom he’d only ever seen in movies.

He was so engrossed he didn't hear him approach. A soft footfall in the dirt was his only warning before he was there, standing beside him, his arm brushing lightly against his as he rested his elbows on the top rail.

He followed Simon's gaze to the horses, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He tilted his head, his eyes full of gentle curiosity.

Simon shook his head, the motion slight. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “City boy. Never even been close to one.” The admission felt strangely intimate.

His smile widened. He turned to face Simon fully, and before he could process it, he was reaching up, lifting a straw cowboy hat from where it had been hanging on a fence post nearby. He stood close and gently, carefully, settled it onto Simon’s head, his fingers briefly brushing against the fabric of his balaclava. The wide brim cast a shadow over his masked face. His eyes sparkled with playful teasing, a silent message that it was for his own good—protection from the sun, or perhaps from looking too much like a fish out of water. He found the whole situation, the giant, intimidating man in a cowboy hat, utterly endearing.

He then pointed decisively at the gentle, light brown mare. Slipping between the rails, he approached the horse, speaking to it in low, soothing tones, gathering a lead rope and a bridle. With efficient, practiced movements, he had the horse ready. He led the mare into the main corral and turned to Simon, gesturing for him to join them.

For the next half hour, he was a patient teacher. He showed Simon how to hold the reins, how to stand, where to put his weight. He demonstrated the basics of steering and stopping, his movements fluid and natural. Simon listened, absorbing every detail with the focused intensity he applied to any mission. The theory made sense. The practice, however, was another matter.

Simon approached the mare’s left side, gripping the saddle horn as he’d shown him. He put his left foot in the stirrup, took a breath, and pushed off. Or tried to. The horse, sensing his awkwardness, shifted its weight. Simon, a man who could scale a two-story wall with ease, aborted the attempt, his boot slipping from the stirrup with a clumsy thud.

He tried again. This time, he pushed up, but he leaned too far forward, his centre of gravity all wrong. He ended up draped over the saddle like a giant, defeated sack of potatoes, his long legs kicking comically in the air for a second before he had to push himself back off.

From the fence, a distinct Scottish cackle cut through the air. Soap was watching, tears of mirth in his eyes. Even Gaz was trying and failing to hide a smile.

Simon shot a glare in their direction that could curdle milk, but it was useless. He looked back at him. He had his hand over his mouth, but his shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. There was no malice in it, only pure, unfiltered amusement. And something else... affection?*

He huffed, a sound of frustration, but the corner of his own mouth, hidden beneath the mask, twitched. It was ridiculous. He was a highly trained Special Forces soldier being bested by a placid horse and a handsome man with a cowboy hat.

He adjusted the hat on his head, took a firmer grip on the saddle horn, and focused on his encouraging eyes. Third time's the charm. He planted his foot, pushed up with a powerful thrust of his leg, and swung the other over in one, surprisingly graceful motion. He was up. Seated in the saddle, the world looked different. The horse shifted beneath him, a living, breathing creature of immense power that he was now, tentatively, in charge of.

He straightened his back, the straw hat casting a cool shadow over his masked face. He looked over at Soap and Gaz, who were still grinning like idiots. With a deliberate tilt of his head, his voice a low, deadpan rumble that carried across the corral, he said, "Don't see what the fuss was about. It's just... elevated standing."

The mare, as if on cue, let out a soft snort and took a single, placid step sideways. Simon’s grip on the reins tightened instinctively, his body going rigid for a second until he found his balance again. He refused to acknowledge the stumble, his gaze fixed ahead with an air of supreme dignity that was utterly at odds with the cowboy hat perched on his head.