6. Fractured and Forced

                                    

                                          
The days following the mission in Las Almas were tense, the kind of tension that clings to you like a second skin. The successful takedown of Hassan Zyani should have been a victory to unite us, but the strain between Ghost and me was only growing. We weren't speaking more than necessary, and when we did, it was clipped, cold—just enough to get the job done but no more.
Ghost's rigid adherence to protocol grated on me. In his eyes, I was a liability—someone who acted on instinct rather than meticulously planned strategy. And in mine, he was an obstacle—an inflexible soldier who would rather follow the rulebook than adapt to the reality of the battlefield. Neither of us was willing to give ground, and the team felt it, too. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension, every interaction weighted with the knowledge that things could go wrong at any moment.
The next mission came down from command swiftly, giving us little time to dwell on our unresolved conflict. We were being deployed to a remote area in Eastern Europe, where intel had uncovered a possible arms deal that could have devastating consequences if it went through. The players involved were unknown, but the scale of the operation suggested something—or someone—big. We couldn't afford to let it slip through our fingers.
We were briefed in the early hours of the morning. The situation was straightforward: infiltrate the location, gather intel, and, if possible, capture or eliminate the high-value targets. It was a mission that required precision and stealth—qualities that Ghost and I both possessed, but executed in ways that couldn't have been more different.
The insertion was smooth. We moved through the dense forest surrounding the compound, the cold night air biting at our exposed skin as we advanced on the target. The rest of the team was in sync, their movements practiced and efficient. But I could feel the familiar tension whenever Ghost and I crossed paths, even in the silence of the operation.
As we closed in on the compound, things started to go wrong. A miscommunication—or perhaps a malfunction in our equipment—left us scattered across the perimeter. The compound was larger than we'd anticipated, with more patrols and better defenses. We were forced to adapt, breaking into smaller groups to cover more ground.
It was then that I found myself paired with Ghost, the two of us separated from the others by a combination of circumstance and necessity. We pressed forward, maintaining radio silence as we moved through the shadows, each of us hyper-aware of the other's presence but refusing to acknowledge it.
We reached a vantage point overlooking the compound's central courtyard, where several vehicles were parked, heavily armed guards milling about. I crouched low, scanning the area through my scope, searching for anything that might give us a clue about who was behind the operation.
Ghost, to his credit, was methodical, sweeping the area with the kind of precision that only came from years of experience. But where I saw opportunities—unguarded entry points, distracted patrols—he saw risks, moving with a caution that frustrated me to no end.
"There," I whispered, spotting a lone guard near a side entrance. "We can take him out, get inside before anyone notices."
Ghost didn't even glance my way. "Negative. We don't know what's inside. Could be a trap."
"Or it could be our way in," I countered, my voice low but edged with impatience. "We can't just sit here waiting for the perfect moment."
He finally looked at me, his eyes cold behind his mask. "We do this by the book, Wraith. No heroics."
I bit back a retort, turning my attention back to the compound. I could feel the anger simmering just beneath the surface, but I forced myself to focus. We had a job to do, and like it or not, I had to work with him to get it done.