Chapter Text
Jason was exfiled from Bolivia, returning to his real identity, which, in a way, was even more secretive than his undercover one.
Some of the involved Ghosts were debriefing, with Section and Mitchell as well, with the promise of speaking about those missions, which Jason had come to know were about a new technology that could allegedly allow for Time Travel.
Jason held his excitement in and kept mute as he watched the others debrief.
He wore his usual armored, fitting black shirt, blue cargos and assault boots, and a watch on the left arm, adorning the Rakyat Tatau. His straight, slightly wavy hair pointing straight, some back, some falling off his forehead, some overlooking it, his eyebrows tense and his blue eyes focused as always.
Why him anyway? Wasn't he just a killer?
“Lieutenant General Section has returned with lots of useful Intel we can put to use in Operation Kingslayer.” Said Scott Mitchell, eyeing everyone that was gathered around the war room table, a Bolivia map laid along it. Nomad and Bowman among the present ones.
(Karen, despite her fake identity, had decided to work for the Ghosts full time.)
“From now on, Section, you're off the case. You obviously can't be seen back there with the boys once the op starts.”
“‘Course, boss.” Murmured Jason, nodding in acknowledgment.
As the war room emptied, only Mitchell, Bowman, and Jason remained. The two senior officers shifted back to the table, their postures less formal now that the rest of the team was gone. Bowman spoke first, her tone brisk but not unkind.
“Operation Kingslayer is going to be a grind. Nomad’s team is solid, but the scope is massive. Santa Blanca has its claws everywhere—politics, infrastructure, the locals. It’s not just dismantling a cartel; it’s tearing down an empire.”
Mitchell nodded, tapping a pen on the table. “Exactly. But thanks to Jason, we’ve got a blueprint. We know where to hit first, and how to keep them off-balance while we move in. Still, it’s going to take time. This isn’t some smash-and-grab mission.”
Jason, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, finally spoke up, his voice low. “The cartel’s fragile in some places, but you won’t find that on paper. They’ve got real loyalty from the people in some regions. Fear keeps the rest in line. You need to be ready for blowback—hard and fast.”
Mitchell shot him a sharp look. “We’re Ghosts. We’re always ready.”
Jason didn’t flinch under the general’s gaze, but he let the matter drop. They’d figure it out, one way or another.
Bowman changed the subject, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And what about you? Now that you’re off the books for Kingslayer, what’s next?”
Jason shrugged. “I figured you’d have an idea. Someone always does.”
Mitchell smirked faintly, pulling a folder from the stack beside him and sliding it across the table. “Funny you should say that. The SAS reached out, and they’re asking for outside support. Something delicate. London-based. They’re tight-lipped, but it’s bad enough they’re reaching across agencies.”
Jason stepped forward and picked up the folder. His blue eyes scanned the brief summary inside, his brow furrowing slightly. “Human trafficking network,” he muttered. “With suspected links to terrorism. Lovely.”
“They’re not asking for a blunt instrument,” Mitchell said carefully. “They need someone who can handle the shadows and knows when to keep quiet. That’s why your name came up.”
Jason closed the folder and glanced up at Mitchell, then Bowman. His expression was hard to read, but his lips twitched slightly, almost like a smirk. “Well, I’m not exactly booked. When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow,” Bowman replied. “Details are in the folder. Get some rest while you can.”
Jason tucked the file under his arm and turned toward the door. “Rest? Sure. I’ll see you both around.”
With that, he left the war room, his boots echoing down the hallway. Another mission, another fight. It wasn’t Bolivia, but that didn’t matter. The job was the job.
London? Ahh, Croft lived around there, yeah. Well, some catching up won't be bad. He had nearly forgotten his crush for that Lara girl, too busy not fucking his cover up down in the Narco-state.
–
The rain in London was relentless, a cold drizzle that soaked through jackets and clung to the skin. Section stepped out of the black SUV that had ferried him to the SAS briefing center. The driver nodded curtly before pulling away, leaving Jason alone in front of the nondescript building.
The sharp crack of his boots echoed as he walked up the steps, a sense of familiarity settling over him despite the foreign ground. It didn’t matter what patch was on the soldiers' shoulders—when it came down to it, operations like this always had the same energy.
Inside, a receptionist glanced at him. “Section, right? Head to Conference Room B. They’re waiting for you.”
Jason nodded. “Thanks.” shaking the rain from his jacket, and strode down the sterile hallways. The faint murmur of voices grew louder as he approached. He stepped into the room, his eyes quickly scanning the group.
The room was packed with seasoned operators, most dressed in standard tactical gear. Some glanced his way, their expressions unreadable, though he could feel the subtle tension in the air. Jason wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t SAS. He was an outsider, parachuting into their operation—a move that rarely earned trust upfront. “Hello everyone..” Section muttered.
A tall, broad man with a shaved head and a no-nonsense demeanor stepped forward. Jason immediately recognized him from the dossier: Captain Ron Wallace, the SAS team leader for this mission.
“Section,” Wallace said, extending a hand. His voice was gruff but steady, and his handshake was firm.
“Captain,” Jason replied, matching his tone.
“Glad you could make it,” Wallace said. “Let’s cut to it. This op is sensitive, and we don’t have time for pleasantries. We’ve been tracking a human trafficking ring operating across London and beyond. They’re not just slavers—they’re funding terror cells across Europe. High-profile stuff. MI5 flagged it for us, and now it’s ours.”
Section nodded, listening intently.
Wallace gestured to the table, where maps, photos, and dossiers were spread out. “We’ve been watching their movements for weeks, but we’ve got one shot to dismantle the network. The bastards are slippery, and they’ve got some serious firepower. That’s where you come in.”
The Ghost raised an eyebrow. “You need someone who doesn’t mind breaking rules?”
Wallace smirked faintly. “More like someone who knows how to deal with chaos. Your record speaks for itself—Bolivia, Southeast Asia. You’ve seen things most of us haven’t.”
“Flattering,” Jason said dryly. “What’s the target?”
Wallace pointed to a building circled on the map. “Tonight, we’re hitting one of their key hubs—an abandoned warehouse in Docklands. Intel says it’s where they hold their ‘cargo’ before moving it out of the city. Civilians are involved, so precision is key.”
Section leaned over the map, his sharp blue eyes taking in the details. The location was isolated, surrounded by tight alleys and waterways. Perfect for ambushes.
“Sounds like a party,” he said, straightening.
Wallace’s smirk faded. “Don’t get cocky. These guys are well-funded and paranoid as hell. If they even smell us coming, they’ll bolt—or worse, start killing hostages.”
Section's expression hardened. “Understood.”
Wallace nodded, then addressed the room. “Alright, everyone, gear up. Briefing’s over. Wheels up in an hour.”
The team began moving, gathering equipment and double-checking their weapons. Section hung back, letting them do their thing. He wasn’t here to play nice; he was here to get the job done.
---
The helicopter ride to Docklands was tense, the only sound the thrum of the rotor blades and the occasional murmur over comms. Section sat near the edge, double-checking his gear. His knife, his sidearm, his rifle—all in place.
Wallace sat across from him, eyeing him critically. “This isn’t a solo mission, Section. You’re with us on this one.”
Section met his gaze. “I’m not here to play lone wolf. You point, I shoot. Just in case we need to scram, I recently got myself a pursuit license. I can drive our asses away if needed.” The Ghost smirked.
Wallace grunted, apparently satisfied, and turned his attention back to the mission plan. “Team, comms check.”
“Alpha, loud and clear,” one operator replied over the comms.
“Bravo, solid copy,” another followed.
“Charlie, ready to roll,” a third voice chimed in.
“Ghost in the chair,” Section said dryly, earning a slight grin from Wallace.
As the helicopter descended, the team rappelled onto a rooftop overlooking the target. Section hit the ground lightly, his instincts already kicking in. The air was thick with tension, the kind that always came before a firefight.
Wallace’s voice came low through the comms. “Ears up, eyes sharp. Stack on the door, Bravo and Ghost take the lead.”
“Copy,” Section said, slipping into position.
The team moved in sync, sweeping through the alleys and converging on the warehouse. Section took point alongside Wallace, his rifle trained on every shadow.
“Hold,” Wallace ordered, raising a fist. The team froze, their formation disciplined.
“Thermals are picking up movement inside,” Wallace continued. “Multiple hostiles. Bravo, mark three at the far end.”
“Got ‘em,” Bravo said, his rifle sight tracing invisible lines.
Section nodded, his voice low. “We stick to the plan. Quiet in, quiet out.”
Wallace gave the signal, and the breacher moved forward, placing a charge on the door.
“Breach in three, two, one.”
The controlled explosion was sharp but muted, and the team swept inside, rifles raised.
“Clear left,” Section whispered, his barrel following his line of sight as he scanned the shadows.
“Clear right,” another operator called.
“Push forward,” Wallace ordered.
Inside, the dim light cast long shadows across the crates and machinery. Voices echoed from deeper within, speaking in a mix of languages.
Section moved like a ghost, his footsteps silent as he covered the team’s flank. He spotted a guard ahead, barely visible in the faint light, and took him down with a single suppressed shot. The body crumpled silently to the ground.
“Ghost, one down front,” Section murmured into his comm.
“Bravo, two on the catwalk,” Wallace instructed.
“On it.”
Two quiet pops from Bravo’s rifle echoed, and the silhouettes on the catwalk slumped without a sound. The others followed suit, clearing the room with surgical precision.
“Clear,” Wallace said, his voice low.
“Clear,” Section confirmed, his eyes still scanning.
But as they pushed deeper, something felt off. Section’s gut tightened—a familiar warning. He paused, scanning the area.
“This is too easy.. I don't like this, one bit.” he muttered.
Wallace glanced at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Before Section could answer, “-..” the lights cut out, plunging the warehouse into darkness.
“Contact!” someone shouted over comms.
A second later, gunfire erupted from all sides. Bullets ricocheted off metal, sparks lighting the gloom in flashes.
“Ambush!” Wallace barked. “Cover and hold!”
Section dove behind a crate as rounds peppered the floor around him. He raised his rifle, firing controlled bursts at muzzle flashes in the distance.
“Bravo, on me!” Wallace yelled. “Fall back to secondary!”
“Negative, we’re pinned!” Bravo called back, his voice strained.
Section keyed his comm. “Enemy has the high ground. At least four shooters, mezzanine level!”
“Copy that,” Wallace said. “Charlie, frag out, north side mezzanine!”
“On it!” Charlie replied. A moment later, a grenade sailed through the air and detonated, silencing the hostile fire from above.
“Go, go, go!” Wallace commanded.
The team began to pull back, but the enemy wasn’t letting up. Shadows moved in the darkness, closing the distance.
“I'm out!” Section called, dropping his empty mag and slamming in a fresh one.
“Contact left, two o’clock!” Bravo yelled.
Section fired, his shots precise. The target dropped, but more were advancing.
Suddenly, an explosion rocked the building, shaking the floor and sending debris flying. Section was thrown off his feet, pain lancing through his leg as something sharp pierced his thigh. “Ah!” He grunted from the hit. Just then, a bullet got him in the same leg, the smoke from that many gunshots covering the shooter. Section yelled in pain and moved to another cover, breathing hard and pained, grabbing a syringe hit and injecting some adrenaline in his arm. ‘Keep head sterile’ He read, staring at it doing its thing.
Immediately, the pain started subsiding, giving him a chance to get his shit together.
“Man hit!” Wallace shouted. “Section, report!”
Jason coughed, his ears ringing and blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. “I’m hit! Shit.. I can’t move fast..!”
“Hold tight,” Wallace barked. “We’re coming to you.”
“Negative,” Section growled, dragging himself behind cover. “I’ll hold. Get the team clear..!” Section yelled over the shooting ringing and gun smoke. “God, these motherfuckers really ain't sparing a bullet!” He groaned to himself.
Section moved through the shadows, the warehouse a labyrinth of crates and steel. Every step was calculated, every motion precise. His body ached, his leg throbbing from the wound, but it didn’t matter. He’d push through it.
The first door was ahead. He didn’t stop. His rifle raised in a seamless motion, a quick check of his surroundings—then he was through.
The first guard barely had time to react. A burst of fire, two shots, a drop to the floor. Silent, efficient.
No words, no hesitation. Just action.
Section moved deeper into the building. His eyes flicked to every corner, scanning for threats.
Three guards ahead. They were talking, too distracted to notice him.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his rifle coming up in perfect synchrony. A controlled squeeze of the trigger—the first man dropped, his head snapped back with a clean shot to the skull.
The second man barely registered the first guard’s fall before his chest exploded from a bullet to the heart.
The third didn’t stand a chance. Before he could raise his weapon, Section was on him, the knife flashing through the air and silencing the threat with one clean cut to the throat.
The last door. Section’s hand was steady as he reached for the handle.
Four hostiles inside.
He didn’t flinch. His rifle snapped up. One shot to the first guard’s head, a clean kill.
The second guard barely moved, a bullet to his chest dropping him to the floor in a swift motion.
The third was already scrambling for cover, but Section was already there. Two shots—one to the chest, one to the head.
The fourth man turned just as Section closed the gap, knife raised. He barely saw the strike coming. A flash of steel, a sharp cut, and the man was down.
The room was silent.
Section stood over the bodies, his breath steady, his focus unwavering. Not a single wasted movement. Just the mission.
He moved forward, turning at an angle, his adrenaline, mixed with his previous hit, had made him feel like he was in a playground of his, but it was not. He didn't check the corner, and an enemy soldier faced him head on, raising the gun to shoot 5 times, all of them hitting the Ghost's silhouette, point blank.
Guess that 8 years in the military still haven't satiated Jason's need for blood, and that caused him to he stupid, careless, now on the ground, passing out, 2 his chestplate, 2 in his left shoulder, 1 in his leg. “Section, you read me? Section!” Wallace radioed, as Jason coughed out violent spurts of blood.
“I got one of them wankers!” He could hear, before darkness surrounded him for good.
—
The following day, Nomad, Holt, Midas and a youngblood, Grinch, were infiltrated in Bolivia, with Karen Bowman. They had to meet this Pac Katari dude, head of the local resistance. There, in the Wildlands, operation Kingslayer had come to a start.
“I took the bus here.” Holt murmured.