Shadows and Politics

(John's POV)

It had been thirty-seven days since we stepped out of the Arctic hellscape.

The cold still lingered in my bones. Not the frostbite kind—the kind that wrapped around your soul after a long fight. We came back to a world bathed in sunlight, soft wind, and the gentle rhythm of civilian life. People walked dogs. Kids laughed on bikes. Couples argued over groceries. It was peace... real peace. And it felt foreign.

I spent my days either inside the house or driving aimlessly in my GT replica, soaking in the silence. Soap and Ghost took to the mountains for a few weeks—said they needed the isolation. Price stayed near base, quiet as always. Nikolai was bouncing between safe houses, watching the world through security cams and encrypted chatter.

But the world never stays still.

One week into our vacation, we got the call. One last mission. No fanfare. No formal debrief. Just a cold message in a scrambled file: "Meet. We need to talk."

Now we sat around my table—home base. The same bar I used as cover once again transformed into a war room. Screens projected maps of a military installation in a desert region of the Middle East. Sand, fences, bunkers, and targets.

Our target was high profile. One of the highest.

General Herschel Shepherd.

The bastard.

He wasn't some faceless enemy. I knew him—at least, the version from my previous life. The same man who betrayed Ghost, who sent a retrieval team into a meat grinder and shot them in the back. And now here he was again… different universe, same stench of treachery.

This time, he was on the brink of triggering a war that could consume half the globe.

"It's not just black ops anymore," Price said, his voice low, eyes hard. "This is political. High command doesn't want the country to know its own general is a loose cannon. They want us to fix it. Quietly."

Soap leaned back, his expression sour. "So we kill one of our own and make it look like terrorism. That's the game?"

Ghost, ever the shadow, crossed his arms. "Not the first time it's been done."

Nikolai snorted. "But it might be the dirtiest."

I tapped the tablet in front of me, zooming in on Shepherd's location. "He's hunkered down in a FOB outside Zakrah Desert. Private security, loyal troops, and a burn phone network. He knows something's coming."

"He always does," Ghost muttered. "What's our play?"

I stared at the red marker on the map. "Strike fast. In and out. Make it look messy—like a cell attack. Explosives, faked comms intercepts. Leave no trace of us."

Price nodded slowly. "We kill him, and this ends. Civil war averted."

"But our hands are dirty," Soap added, voice bitter.

I met his eyes. "They always were."

For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of it pressed down on all of us. This wasn't about protecting the innocent anymore. This was for the balance of power. The illusion of control. And we were the scalpel the Council chose.

"Let's prep," Price said, rising from his seat. "We move in forty-eight."

(Unknown POV – Eteon HQ)

A dimly lit room flickered to life with the electric hum of activation. Concrete walls. No windows. No names.

In the center stood a circular table with twelve shadowed figures seated, their faces obscured by darkness and digital blur. Each wore the insignia of a forgotten age—power consolidated in the shadows.

Then the screen at the far end blinked alive.

Waves danced across it like sound bars, rising and falling in rhythm with an artificial voice.

"They destroyed Facility Zero-Seven," the voice said.

The figures remained silent.

"They eliminated over two hundred augmented assets. Terminated one of our field commanders. Extraction efforts failed."

"They left no digital trail," another voice, synthetic and calm, spoke from the right.

"Because they're trained," said another. "Operatives with no past. Ghosts."

The AI modulated. "This 'John'—we don't know who he is. We don't know where he came from. But he's dangerous."

"And his team?"

"Ex-SAS, mercenaries, and war dogs. But their loyalty is not to any flag."

A long pause.

Then the central voice returned. "Find them. Trace their origins. If they strike again… we eliminate them. Permanently."

The screen faded to black.

(Unknown POV – Desert Base)

Hot air curled around the steel walls of the forward operating base. Outside, the sun scorched everything in sight—baked sand, smoking tires, dust-filled lungs.

Inside, General Herschel Shepherd sat at his desk, flanked by photos of wars past and shelves lined with classified documents.

He read the report in silence.

Another village raided. Another victory chalked up.

He leaned back, sipping bourbon from a steel mug. "Still don't get it," he muttered. "We have the firepower, the momentum… and they want to stop me?"

The burner phone on his desk buzzed.

He answered without looking. "Yeah?"

The voice on the other end was hushed, panicked. "It's started. Brass knows. They're coming for you."

Shepherd's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Politicians. The Council. They're using operatives—off-the-books killers. They're moving now."

He scoffed. "Let them come. They send dogs, I send them back in body bags."

"General—these aren't regulars. We don't know who they are—"

"I don't care!" Shepherd snapped, standing abruptly. "They want to make me a martyr? I'll make them pay first."

He ended the call and threw the phone against the wall, shattering it.

He turned to the window, staring into the burning horizon.

"Come on then," he growled. "I've got bullets with your names on 'em."

(John's POV)

Forty-eight hours later.

We stood on a ridge overlooking the compound.

Drones buzzed overhead. Camouflaged tarps shielded them from radar sweeps. Nikolai tapped on his pad, relaying camera feeds to our visors.

"He's here," Nikolai confirmed. "Room with two guards. Top floor, western structure."

Ghost cocked his rifle. "Time to breach."

"No." Price held up a hand. "Let's make this look like a terrorist strike. Breach loud. Nikolai, rig the trucks."

Nikolai nodded and slipped away.

Soap double-checked his det-cord. "Hope Shepherd appreciates the fireworks."

I adjusted my holobud disguise, taking the form of a rebel warlord from a local cell the CIA had quietly dismantled years ago. The goal was to implicate them—plausible deniability.

"Final mission," I said, loading a custom mag into my rifle.

"Feels like the start of something," Ghost replied.

"We go in quiet," Price instructed. "But we leave loud."

The silence before the storm wrapped around us like a heavy blanket.

I looked once more at the burning sky, the base, and the man we were about to erase.

"Let's end this."

[To be continued.]