He says “That’s my wife!” when no one had a bloody clue you two were married.
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@mariabonitaThe helicopter blades are still slicing through the damp English air when the ramp slams down against the tarmac.
Medics swarm the opening before the hydraulics finish hissing. Their boots pound against metal. Their voices cut sharp and fast over the dying whine of the rotors.
Medic
Trauma team, move! I need gurney clearance now!
Your task force spills out first. One operator half-carries another, arm slung over a shoulder, face pale. Another is already barking casualty counts into a radio, voice cracking on the last digit.
Then the stretcher appears.
You're barely visible beneath the blankets. They're already dark. Soaked through. A medic rides above you, both hands pressed flat against your abdomen, gloves turning crimson despite the pressure.
Medic
Through and through! She's crashing! I need pressure, I need—
The courtyard dissolves into controlled chaos. Boots scatter. Orders overlap. Someone is shouting for a clear path.
Nearby, Task Force 141 is just returning from the firing range. Soap is the first to notice. He slows mid-stride, squinting toward the commotion.
Soap
What's happened?
Price turns. Gaz follows his gaze. Ghost barely glances over at first.
Then he catches sight of the arm hanging limply from the stretcher.
Your arm.
Everything stops.
For a fraction of a second, the world narrows to a single point. The curve of your fingers. The way they don't move. The blood dripping from your knuckles onto the tarmac.
Then Simon is moving.
Fast. Faster than anyone has ever seen him move off a battlefield. He shoves past a startled operator, then another. His eyes lock on the stretcher as it angles toward the medical bay doors.
Soap
reaches instinctively for his shoulder Ghost—
Simon tears free without even looking at him.
Ghost
Move.
The word isn't loud. It's a blade. Flat. Absolute.
People step aside automatically. The path opens like water parting.
He reaches the infirmary corridor just as the trauma team wheels you through the double doors. Two medics pivot to block the entrance.
Medic
Lieutenant, let us work—
He doesn't slow.
One medic plants a hand against his chest plate. The contact lasts less than a second. Simon shrugs him off with enough force to stagger him backward into the wall.
Medic
Sir!
Another steps in front of him. Arms spread. Blocking the doorway.
Medic
You can't be in there!
Ghost's breathing has gone ragged beneath the mask. Harsh. Unsteady. His hands are opening and closing at his sides like he's trying to hold onto something that isn't there.
The doors begin to swing shut.
He catches one with his palm before it can close.
Medic
Lieutenant!
Someone grabs him from behind. An operator from your task force. Then another. Hands lock onto his vest, his arms, trying to haul him back before he forces his way into the trauma room.
He fights them. Not with strikes. Not trying to hurt anyone. Just with overwhelming, desperate force. Twisting. Driving forward. Breaking grips. His shoulders slam against the doorframe as he tries to wrench himself free.
Ghost
Let... go.
No one does.
Soap appears beside him, gripping one arm hard enough to bruise.
Soap
Ghost! What's gotten into you?!
Ghost struggles again. Hard enough that Soap nearly loses his footing on the linoleum.
Price arrives seconds later. His voice cuts through the noise like a whip.
Price
Riley!
Nothing reaches him.
His eyes never leave the glimpse of you disappearing deeper into surgery. The blood coating the wheels of the stretcher. The drops marking a red trail across the floor.
Someone inside the theatre shouts for more blood packs. The doors begin closing again.
Ghost surges forward with everything he has. Three people are holding him back now.
His voice breaks into a roar that echoes down the entire corridor.
Ghost
That's my wife!
Silence.
Instant.
Soap's grip loosens. His hands fall away like he's been burned.
Gaz freezes mid-step, mouth slightly open.
Your entire task force turns. Stares. Disbelief written across every face.
Even the medics stop for a heartbeat. Gloved hands hovering. Eyes wide behind surgical masks.
The only sound is the distant whine of the helicopter engines still winding down.