Chapter Text
OPERATION REPORT – [REDACTED]
Mission: Secure intelligence on missing weapons shipment
Location: [CLASSIFIED] Estate, South London
Date/Time: [REDACTED]
Team: Capt. J. Price, Lt. S. Riley (“Ghost”), Sgt. J. MacTavish (“Soap”), Sgt. K. Garrick (“Gaz”)
The estate was a concrete maze. Narrow stairwells, blind corners, lines of laundry strung like tripwires across open courtyards. Hostile presence confirmed on every level.
141 moved fast. Ghost led, silent and precise, clearing doorways with the barrel of his rifle. Soap covered angles with that restless energy he never managed to hide, finger tight on the trigger, mouth shut for once. Price and I followed up, methodical, sweeping bodies, securing weapons, checking for intel.
Resistance was heavy but disorganised. Local crew. Cheap AKs, worse discipline. We cut through fast. Controlled bursts. Short, sharp orders over comms.
On the third floor, Price stopped at a downed hostile slumped against the railing. One shot to the chest, barely breathing. Searched him quick. Pulled a packet of papers and a taped-up USB from the jacket.
“Target intel secured,” Price reported. “Shipment’s flagged in Peckham, no location confirmed. Crew’s sitting on it till transfer.”
Assessment: local crew acting as custodians only. Unlikely to be primary owners. Probable role: storage and handoff.
That should have been the end of it. Job clean. Exfil simple.
But nothing stays simple. Not here.
An explosion tore through the stairwell below: gas canister rigged under the lift shaft.
Likely pre-rigged countermeasure. Indicative of elevated threat awareness despite otherwise low discipline.
The blast shook the entire block, sending dust, glass, and twisted metal raining down the stairwell.
“Contact rear!” I shouted, hitting cover.
Soap pushed forward, scanning for survivors. Price hauled the intel to his chest, already calculating the next move.
Smoke filled the corridors. Shouts echoed across the estate. The entire crew knew we were here now.
Exfil had just become compromised.
What an absolute balls up.
Soap was standing behind the till, bright orange cap, yellow chicken stitched on, leaning like he’d done this his whole life.
“What can I get you, bossman?”
See, most blokes loved being called that. Bit of respect, bit of banter. But the way Soap followed it up with a wink? That could go either way.
This one was a proper South London geezer: grey tracksuit, thick gold chain, sharp fade. Tried to play it cool, but the moment Soap got close, he coughed, muttered: “wings, chips, yeah” like he was ordering contraband instead of lunch.
Soap snapped upright, shoulders squared, voice sharp as a rifle crack: “Two wings, one chips, sir!” Like he was on parade.
A reply came just as sharp from the kitchen, gruff as ever: “Order received. Stand by.”
Oil hissed in the fryer like live rounds hitting water. Somewhere in the back, metal clattered. Could’ve been a pan. Could’ve been a breach charge. With us, there’s usually not much difference.
Meanwhile, Soap carried on like this was just another Tuesday night shift.
That’s Johnny MacTavish for you. Mad Scottish bastard. My best mate. Callsign Soap. Don’t ask me why. He’ll give you a dozen explanations, something about “keeping things clean” , but the truth is, he’s the kind of lad who can make a mess out of anything.
Explosives? Loves them. Trouble? Attracts it. The team’s patience? Tests it daily. And through it all, he grins like he’s immortal, which, judging by the amount of shrapnel he’s walked away from, he might actually be.
Take Amsterdam. Back alley deal gone sideways, four big fuckers with knives and accents thicker than their skulls. Me and Price were covering the exit, Ghost watching like a hawk. And Soap? Johnny bloody MacTavish walked straight up, winked at the biggest one, and asked if he fancied a pint after.
They laughed. Shouldn’t have.
Ten seconds later: knives on the floor, blokes on the floor, Johnny still grinning like it was a stag do. And when Price asked what the fuck that was all about, Johnny shrugged and said, “Icebreaker, sir.”
That’s Soap in a nutshell: walks into a fight like it’s foreplay, talks his way into trouble then fights his way out again, leaving the rest of us wondering if he’s brave, stupid, or both. It doesn’t matter. When the walls come down and the air’s full of smoke, Johnny’s always there: loud, reckless, covered in soot, but somehow still standing.
Before the tracksuit lad could square up his change, Johnny leaned over the counter, smirk tugging at his mouth, and asked, casual as you like, “So, got big plans for the night?”
That’s when Ghost shifted.
He’d been parked by the door the whole time, arms folded, still as a statue. Same skull mask, same black kit, only difference was the hi-vis bouncer jacket: SECURITY blazed across the back. As if anyone needed telling.
He doesn’t say anything, but he’s looking.
The tracksuit lad glanced at Soap, then jerked his chin toward the door. “What’s his problem?”
Which was an excellent fucking question. What is Ghost’s problem?
Hard to say, considering his file’s just one blacked-out page after another. All words redacted except the occasional and . But I’ll give you the run-down, far as I can.
Simon Riley. The Ghost . Northerner. Doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t need to. You’ll see the mask before you hear the man, and if you don’t, well, that’s because you’re already dead. He’s the kind of bastard who’ll walk through fire without blinking, and clean up a hallway of bodies like he’s late for tea.
Want proof?
Warsaw. Hotel stairwell. Six floors up. Mission was meant to be clean: quick in, quick out, no drama. Then someone got twitchy and opened fire. Rest of us were pinned behind a vending machine, trying not to get shredded.
And Ghost? Ghost stood up, walked straight into the line of fire like it was a bit of drizzle.
No words. No noise. Three tangos down in five seconds. Knife, silenced pistol, elbow to the throat. Efficient like a machine, only scarier because he does it quiet.
By the time we caught up, he was wiping the blade on the carpet. Looked over his shoulder and said, deadpan, “They were in the way.”
In civvies, he looks like a bloke you’d cross the street to avoid. In a hi-vis jacket, he looks like the last bouncer you’ll ever see.
But apparently Tracksuit didn’t get the memo.
He flicked another glance at Ghost, quick, wary, then turned back to Johnny.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Johnny didn’t miss a beat. Cocked his head, eyes dragging over Ghost like he was sizing him up for more than security detail.
Then he smiled: real slow and filthy. “Not a thing wrong with him,” he said. “Trust me.”
Tracksuit looked confused.
And I swear, Johnny would’ve kept going if it weren’t for the voice that cut in from the back:
“MacTavish. Pack it in.”
Sharp as a slap. Carried over like a proper bollocking should.
Johnny didn’t flinch. He flicked his eyes toward the kitchen and called back, “Customer service, sir.”
“Less of the service. More of the customer.”
And that, ladies and gents, was Captain John Price. Fearless leader, deadeye marksman, and reluctant chaperone to highly trained maniacs with access to explosives. Piss him off, and he doesn’t shout, he just stares at you like you're a particularly stubborn landmine. Then asks if you'd like to try that sentence again.
Respect where it’s due: even Ghost listens when Price speaks.
Take that time in Belgrade. Safehouse compromised, corrupt local militia coming through the walls like termites. We’re all scrambling: Ghost locking down the back, Soap wiring up the hallway like it’s bonfire night.
And Price?
Price grabs the nearest chair, breaks the leg off clean, and posts up by the front door like he’s expecting visitors. First bloke through doesn’t even get a word out.
Price drops him with one hit, steps over the body, and mutters, “Get in, then.”
Cool as anything.
Then, without missing a beat, turns to me and says, “Gaz, love, if I go down in this dump, tell the Quartermaster he still owes me that bottle of Lagavulin.”
Now, did he actually say that?
Maybe.
Or maybe that’s just how I remember it: cooler, funnier, less “we’re all going to die in this shithole.”
Back in the shop? He runs the fryer like a weapons bay. Apron on, sleeves rolled, same unlit cigar between his teeth. He’ll tell you off for over-salting the chips.
Disrespects the food , he says. Dead serious.
Johnny finally peeled himself off the counter, while Tracksuit shuffled off to wait by the window, trying not to make eye contact with anything human.
“Honestly,” Price muttered from the kitchen, voice carrying through the serving hatch, “you lot are lucky I don’t run this place like a barracks. Be peeling spuds until your hands blister.”
Soap edged nearer, stage-whispering to me, “Wouldnae mind a bit of blisterin’ if it came with Ghost supervisin’.”
I gave him a look. “You're gonna end up in a shallow grave behind the bins if you keep that up.”
“Romantic,” he said, then clicked his tongue. “Team-buildin’, that. Bondin’, even.”
Ghost, still unmoving at the door, tilted his head. That same slow, ominous shift that could mean anything, but usually meant stop talking or I will end you .
Soap beamed. ‘See? He likes me.’
‘No. He tolerates you. Barely. On days ending in Y.’
And who am I? Kyle Garrick, callsign ‘Gaz’. Yeah, that’s right: Kyle . Unfortunate enough that I’d rather go by Gaz.
I’m the one backing up the Captain while Soap flirts with danger and Ghost just is danger. Price gives the order, I make sure it happens. They make the mess, I keep it from turning into an international incident. Not glamorous, maybe, but someone’s got to keep the wheels on while those two are busy setting fire to the engine.
Take Istanbul. Rooftop meet with an arms broker who thought “low profile” meant showing up with six bodyguards and a gold-plated Glock. Soap was supposed to be backup. Ghost was meant to stay hidden.
Neither of them got the memo.
Johnny clocked the gold Glock. Said, “That’s compensatin’ for something.”
Didn’t go down well.
Next thing I know, Ghost drops one from the scaffolding above, Soap launches himself into a fistfight with two more, and I’m left babysitting the briefcase full of uncut weapon specs while trying to talk down a trigger-happy escort with an itchy forefinger and a neck tattoo that said “Mum.”
Whole thing lasted three minutes.
By the end of it, Soap had a black eye, Ghost had vanished again, and I had to bribe a security guard with half a Twix and a forged MI5 business card just to get us out the back door.
And somehow, somehow , Price still blamed me for the blood on the documents.
The door chimed. Again.
This time, it was a kid, maybe sixteen, still in uniform trousers, blazer slung over one shoulder. Clocked Ghost. Gave him a nod, like you would to a particularly large dog you hoped wouldn’t bite.
He stepped up to the till. “Three-piece and a Rubicon.”
Soap barked it back. Kitchen replied: ‘Affirmative.’ God, they were bad at this.
A second customer followed. Office type, tie askew, eyes bagged from overtime. He stared at the menu like he wasn’t sure what day it was.
“Do you do wraps?” he finally asked.
“Sure,” Soap shrugged.
The man nodded like that was enough, paid up, then joined the other two waiting at the window. Tracksuit still keeping his eyes averted. The kid scrolling on his phone. Like this was any other takeaway on any other street in any other part of the city.
And alright, alright . I know what you’re thinking.
Did we get benched for that stairwell job? Shipped off, dishonourable discharge, little black mark in some MOD folder labelled “Don’t Mention This” ?
See, that intel from the stairwell job, the council block, the one that blew up under us? Yeah, that one. We were there chasing a missing weapons shipment, but the papers and USB gave us the details.
Turned out it was real kit. High-end. Prototype anti-air launchers. And who’s babysitting it? Not some cartel or shadow army, just a mid-level gangster, sitting on it like it’s vintage bloody wine till someone bigger comes to collect, or till he can flog it to whichever bidder’s got the worst intentions and the deepest pockets.
So now it’s on us to work out exactly where he’s keeping it, who he’s planning to hand it off to, and stop the sale before the capital starts looking like a live-fire range.
Which is why we’re here. Poultry vendors. Undercover.
Circus set us up with the chicken shop. Peckham crew drank there, dealt there. Good place to listen without being noticed.
Why a chicken shop? Because in London, everyone passes through eventually: kids, coppers, dealers, drunks. If you want warmth, salt, fat and chips, you end up here.
Want to know who’s running what? Who’s got money they shouldn’t? Who’s gone quiet after making noise?
You don’t need satellites.
What you need is a fryer, a front counter, and someone who knows how to listen.
My phone buzzed. MI6 drop. One word: Confirmed.
Price’s head popped round the fryers like a sergeant catching someone nicking biscuits. “Garrick?”
I nodded.
He grunted, then raised his voice. “Fryer’s broken. Shop’s shut. Out you go.”
Cue silence. The confused kind.
Office lad in a crooked tie squinted toward the kitchen. “I can hear it working.”
He wasn’t wrong. Oil still hissed. Smelled like chicken. Sounded like chicken.
Price didn’t blink. “That’s residual heat.”
“Sounds like it’s still cooking.”
“Aye, but it’s chicken , eh?” Soap explained, smooth as butter. “Can’t be takin’ risks, not with poultry. You ever had undercooked drumsticks? Lethal.” He tapped the till, slid the coins across. “There’s your money back. With interest. Leave us a nice Tripadvisor, yeah?”
The commuter sighed, but took the cash. So did the kid, muttering something cheeky under his breath.
But Tracksuit lingered. Bit too long.
Then, casual as broken glass in your shoe: “So, uh… what time d’you finish?”
Fucking hell.
Soap immediately flashed him that smirk: the one that gets him punched or helps him pull, occasionally both. “Why, you plannin’ a date, or just wanna fight me in a car park later?”
Tracksuit gave a weird little laugh. “Nah. Just—just askin’, innit.”
Ghost spoke. One word. Flat. Like a guillotine dropping.
“Out.”
Tracksuit blinked. Stepped back like he'd touched a live wire.
“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
He left without another word. Didn’t even take his refund.
Chicken shop: closed. Operation: live.