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The damn Insurrection, Ghost thought bitterly, he shouldn't have trusted them from the start. But without concrete evidence of their ill intent, he'd had no choice but to play along.
Price had told him to keep his radio on, just in case. At least the old man trusted his gut feeling when everyone else dismissed his suspicions as just another manifestation of his broody nature. Still, he didn't like his team going into that joint op blind. So he'd insisted on being the lone Taskforce 141 representative on the mission. A simple convoy ride into Moscow to infiltrate an enemy base and steal intel. Intel that would then be shared between their forces, cementing the alliance. But it had been a ruse, one he realized too late as a bullet tore into his side mid-transport. The damn recruit who'd shot him had been a plant, someone whose wide-eyed innocence he should have seen through. Sloppy, he thought, rage building even as blood seeped between his fingers.
The Insurrection assassins moved swiftly, hijacking the convoy and cutting off all communication as they fled back to their base. His radio, phone - anything that could reach Price - gone. No way to call for backup even if any could reach this frozen hellscape in time.
Ghost slumped against a tree, breaths coming harsh and ragged. He needed to stop the bleeding, find transport and warn Price ASAP. The two-day flight here meant the traitors had a long head start back to the 141 headquarters. He estimated an hour at most before they could launch an attack. With a pained hiss, Ghost forced himself to his feet, only for footsteps to give him pause. He focused on where the footsteps were, pistol raised and eyes cold beneath his mask despite the screaming pain in his side. He wouldn't die like some wounded animal. Heart pounding, blood slick between his fingers, one thought drove him - warn Price. He had to, no matter what it took.
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