Call of duty one shots

The rain hammered against the stained-glass windows of the "Cathedral," the nickname given to Simon "Ghost" Riley's opulent but grim mansion. Each drop felt like a constant reminder of the blood spilled to get him here, to this throne of ill-gotten gains. He stood, a hulking shadow in the dimly lit library, the fire crackling a morbid symphony in the hearth. He wasn't the Ghost of Task Force 141 anymore. That man was dead, buried beneath layers of tailored suits, bespoke whiskey, and the cold, calculating gaze of a man who commanded fear. He was the Don, the head of the "Spectre" family, a criminal empire built on the foundations of old loyalties and brutal efficiency.

His hands, once steady on a sniper rifle, were now calloused from crushing rebellion. His fingers, which could field-strip an M4 in the dark, now traced the worn leather of a first edition of "The Art of War." Irony, he supposed. He was a master of war, just a different kind.

His right-hand man, Alejandro Vargas, a burly Mexican with a face carved from granite, entered the room. "Don Riley," he rumbled, his voice a gravelly counterpoint to the rain's persistent drumming. "We have confirmation. The 'Serpents' are moving on our territory again. Trafficking arms through the docks. They're getting bold."

Simon didn't even turn. He knew all this. He had eyes everywhere, ears in every corner of the city. "Boldness is just another word for stupidity, Alejandro. Remind them of that fact."

"And the leak, Don? We haven't found who's been feeding information to the Feds." Alejandro's brow was furrowed with concern. Even a shadow of doubt in the organization's ironclad grip was a cancer that needed to be excised.

Simon sighed, a rare sound that seemed to carry the weight of his past. "The mole is closer than we think. Someone we trust. That's what makes it difficult." He turned, his pale eyes, the only visible part of his face in the dim light, piercing Alejandro. "Be discreet. I want them found alive. I want to know why."

The silence that followed was palpable, broken only by the crackling fire and the relentless rain. Alejandro nodded, understanding the unspoken threat: failure wasn't an option.

Days blurred into weeks. Simon oversaw the "Spectre" family's operations with ruthless efficiency. He brokered deals shrouded in secrecy, silenced dissent with swift and brutal force, and maintained a fragile peace between the warring factions within his organization. He was a puppet master, pulling strings from the shadows, his past life a ghost haunting his every decision.

One night, Alejandro brought him the mole: Isabella, a young woman who had grown up alongside Simon, a loyal soldier in the Spectre family since its inception. He found her tied to a chair in the basement, her face bruised, her spirit broken.

Simon knelt before her, his voice barely a whisper. "Isabella... why?"

Tears streamed down her face. "They threatened my family, Simon. Said they'd expose everything, destroy them if I didn't cooperate."

The truth hit him like a physical blow. The Feds weren't after him. They were trying to hurt the people he cared about. The people he risked everything to protect.

He stood, his face a mask of controlled fury. "Release her, Alejandro. Take her and her family somewhere safe. Give them new identities. They're under our protection."

Alejandro looked surprised, but didn't question the order. "And the Serpents, Don?"

Simon turned, his gaze hardening. "Prepare the men. We're going to war."

As he walked away, leaving Isabella to her tears and Alejandro to his preparations, Simon knew he was teetering on the edge. He could try to hold onto this kingdom he had built, this fragile semblance of control. Or he could embrace the chaos, the blood, the fire that still burned within him, a ghost forever condemned to fight. The rain continued to fall, each drop a single drumbeat in the symphony of his damnation. He was Simon "Ghost" Riley, and whether he liked it or not, he was a man built for war. And war was coming.