As the engines thrummed in the background, (Y/n) found an odd solace in the monotonous rhythm. It was a brief respite from the oppressive presence of Al-Qatala. She had been returned to Las Almas, at the behest of El Sin Nombre. Tonight, a grand party was to take place in a lavish cartel house. It was an event where influential figures with ties to the cartel would gather to strike deals. This, (Y/n) knew, was the critical piece of intel that the Task Force needed.
Without hesitation, she set to work, employing morse code to relay a message about the upcoming party and the knowledge that El Sin Nombre held regarding Hassan's whereabouts. Each deliberate tap of her fingers on the transmitter held the weight of a strategic move, a crucial step towards the liberation of her comrades. In the midst of uncertainty, (Y/n) was determined to be their guiding light, a beacon of hope shining through the shadows.
As the plane began its descent to Las Almas, (Y/n) couldn't help but grumble under her breath at the less-than-ideal piloting skills of the person at the controls. Each jolt and bump seemed to confirm her assessment. A wry chuckle escaped her lips as she entertained the thought of how much smoother the landing would have been if she were the one at the helm. The discomfort in her throat, a constant reminder of the dryness, prompted another rueful cough. The need for water weighed heavily on her, a small but insistent ache.
"Meet with El Sin Nombre. Our contact will escort you back," Hasan stated, unfastening the cuffs that bound (Y/n). He then directed her towards an AQ operative. This individual wore a plain black balaclava, reminiscent of Ghost's, and was clad in a refined tuxedo.
"Quite the grand affair, isn't it?" (Y/n) quirked an eyebrow at Hassan.
"Not in your case," he chuckled, then turned and re-entered the plane. (Y/n) watched him, her gaze steady, before shifting her attention to the serene landscape. The gentle breeze danced through the trees, and birds soared in the distance, creating an illusion of peace.
As she was pushed off the plane, (Y/n)'s reflexes kicked in. She snapped her head around, her glare sharp and unyielding. Her voice held a steely edge, a promise of consequences.
"Touch me again, and you lose your head," she growled, her words a warning that hung in the air. With deliberate steps, (Y/n) moved away from the aircraft, her gaze never leaving the AQ member.
The airfield nestled in a secluded area, surrounded by trees and hidden from prying eyes. The aircraft present were predominantly private jets, a testament to the secrecy of this location. (Y/n) was keenly aware of her surroundings. She estimated she was approximately two miles from the Los Vaqueros base. The significance of this airfield was clear—it remained off the grid, known only to a select few, which was undoubtedly why Hassan had chosen it for this operation.
As (Y/n) stood on the secluded airfield, a current of anticipation and apprehension surged through her. She had done her part, sending out the Morse code message in the hopes that it would reach Task Force 141. The code, a series of numbers, held a deep significance—it was a method she and Laswell had established back when Shadow Company was first instated. It had been their secret language, a means of communication in the shadows.
Now, (Y/n) could only hope that the team would recognize the code and decipher its meaning. The weight of the situation bore down on her. Their plan hinged on this message. It was a fragile thread connecting her to the team she had once been a part of, a lifeline in the darkness.
She knew that time was of the essence. Every passing moment brought them closer to the cartel party, closer to Hassan, and closer to the answers they needed. (Y/n) held onto the hope that Task Force 141 would receive her message, that they would understand the urgency, and that they would come for her.
As the minutes ticked by, (Y/n)'s thoughts raced. She imagined the members of Task Force 141, gathered around a table, heads bent over the Morse code, working to unravel the message. The image provided a glimmer of solace in the midst of uncertainty.
With a steadying breath, (Y/n) turned her gaze back to the airfield. The landscape, bathed in the soft light of dusk, held a deceptive tranquility. It was a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. The hope that her message had gotten through pulsed like a heartbeat, a rhythm of possibility that echoed through the quiet airfield.
The compound was a hive of activity, a symphony of hurried footsteps and hushed voices. A row of trucks stood sentinel, their engines idling in anticipation. Yet, (Y/n) was ushered towards a solitary van, its doors yawning open like the maw of a beast ready to devour her solitude.
Inside, the air hung heavy with a mixture of apprehension and resolve. Her trained eyes swept the dimly lit space, a sentinel in search of prying eyes. Satisfied that she was alone, (Y/n) retrieved a phone, its screen casting a spectral glow in the confined quarters.
As the van's engine rumbled to life, (Y/n) braced herself for the journey ahead. The road stretched out before her, a winding path into the unknown. Yet, (Y/n) was not one to be daunted by the shadows.
Her fingers danced with purpose, navigating the digital realm with a grace borne of familiarity. The text message app blinked to life, awaiting her coded missive. (Y/n)'s message was concise, its significance known only to those privy to their clandestine language.
"Don't look for me, I'll find you -1268101622"
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
Specter's Redemption |Ghost x Reader|
Фанфик"There he is, Simon Riley." "There's no picture" "Never" "And (y/n)?" "Negative. Died six years ago." Laswell slide a piece of paper across the table to Price. "You have a call to make"
