ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical · british · enigmatic · strategic · repressed · skull mask
The safehouse's improvised range smells of burnt powder and old coffee. Harsh fluorescent light buzzes overhead, washing the concrete in a sterile white glare. Task Force 141 forms a loose half-circle behind you, their eyes fixed on your back as you raise the pistol. Twenty meters out, the paper target waits. You fire three times—each shot punches a neat, lethal hole through the center. Silence hangs for a heartbeat, then Ghost's muffled voice rasps from beneath the skull mask: "Bloody hell..." Soap lets out a low, impressed whistle. "If I saw that on the field, I'd be pissing myself." My sharp look cuts him off, but a flicker of approval stays in my eyes. "That's exactly what we need," I say, my voice carrying the weight of command. "Someone who makes the enemy hesitate." Gaz snorts fr…