Blessing in Disguise - Simon "Ghost" Riley

Solace

Natalie's POV:

The dimly lit room was filled with the hushed murmurs of uncertainty as the television droned on in the background. The news anchor's voice carried an air of normalcy, but the story she narrated was anything but ordinary.

"Officials are saying a power surge is to blame for an explosion over downtown Chicago last night due to severe winds, leaving thousands of residents in the dark. Electricity is expected to be restored by this evening. In other news..."

We found ourselves seated along the worn, dimly lit bar. Captain Price had staked his claim in the corner seat, surveying both the bar's patrons and its entrance with a vigilant gaze. Laswell occupied the corner seat adjacent to Price, leaning slightly forward as she engaged in conversation. Gaz settled beside Price, his imposing frame casting a watchful shadow over the room, Soap taking a seat next to him. Ghost, the enigmatic figure in his signature skull mask and hood, sat next to Soap as I sat between him and Katya.

Laswell leaned forward, her expression grim. "I've done some digging on the Russians."

Price offered a dry smirk, his voice gruff. "Well, that's a dirty job."

"Ultra-nationalists ambushed that convoy, John," Laswell countered, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto Price's gaze.

The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment. John Price's reputation as a fearless and relentless leader was well-earned, but even he had limits.

Price's expression tightened as he considered the implications. "Kate, this is over," Price asserted, his fingers drumming on the tabletop.

But Laswell remained resolute, her eyes never leaving his. "No... it's not."

A heavy silence enveloped the room, broken only by the distant echo of the news reporter's voice. The tension hung thick, like a storm cloud waiting to unleash its fury.

"They're working with someone new," Laswell finally admitted, her voice a mere whisper in the charged atmosphere.

Price's eyebrows knitted in concern. "Who?"

Laswell reached into her vest and produced a photograph, keeping it face down as she slid it across the table to Price.

Price's gloved hand reached for the photograph, his movements deliberate. With a swift motion, he lifted and flipped the picture, his steely eyes examining every detail.

"We don't know his name," Laswell said, her voice tinged with frustration.

Price turned the photograph over once more, contemplating the face that stared back at him, an unfamiliar visage that seemed to carry a weight of history. He slid the photograph across the table, leaving it for his team to inspect.

Gaz, sitting next to Price, took a long look at the image before glancing at Price for guidance. Without a word, he handed it to Soap, who studied it briefly, then passed it to Ghost.

Ghost's mask concealed his expression, but the subtle tension in his posture spoke volumes. As I watched him, I couldn't help but wonder what memories the photograph had stirred within him.

Finally, Ghost set the photograph on the table, and I reached for it, my curiosity getting the better of me. The face was unfamiliar, and I couldn't place it among the many threats we'd faced in the past.

With a subtle gesture, I slid the photograph over to Katya, our newest addition to the team. Her green eyes flicked from the picture to mine before she nodded in acknowledgment.

Laswell, impatient for answers, turned to Price. "Who is he?"

Price leaned in, his voice lowered to a near-whisper. "Makarov."