Peru, 08/02/2012, 03:04.
Marc "Ghost" Sanchez stared at the curtain of rain that was pouring down endlessly in front of him. Hidden in the shadow of a century old tree tilted on the side, he watched the jungle silently almost peacefully, despite the barking of dogs getting closer and closer. His hand familiarly squeezed the M9 handgun in his grasp ejecting the magazine, he looked at it briefly before putting it back in its place. His movements were nimble and swift almost like he had repeated it a thousand times before, which he did.
'Great' He thought bitterly. 'Two bullets left plus one more in the chamber. Not enough to make a difference'.
Closing his eyes and concentrating on his hearing for a while, a picture of a map of his surroundings appeared in his mind. If the greatest genius on the planet could see this they would cry in disbelief. That's not something they would be able to do, so seeing someone who didn't have the IQ of a genius do it so easily would certainly crush their vision of the world. This was an ability he could only accomplish with time, experience and near death experiences. This was also the reason he managed to survive until this day, just a few weeks shy of his 40's birthday, which in his line of work was way past the average life expectancy.
Twelve dogs, thirty five men within an eight hundred feet distance around him, that was the maximum range he could sense. And more people keep coming in. Opening his eyes again he began looking at his hands covered in blood, his blood. Moving a little bit to the side pain shot through his body, especially from his right shoulder and right hips, where he got hit in his escape.
A bitter smile spread across his face. A rough face that demonstrated a hard-led life. Brown hair, brown eyes and clearly of spanish heritage. 5'9'' with a toned athletic body. He vas the kind of people you meet every day in the streets and you don't remember him the second after you have seen him. Which in his job was worth gold.
"Well, it seems that this is the end for me" He said in a cold, unemotionally voice while his right hand reveal a M67 hand grenade that he took from his pocket.
Without a hint of hesitation he casually removed the pin and watched the spring-loaded safety lever separate from the grenade. A light seemed to appear in his cold, brown eyes for a second before disappearing. His life started to flash in front of his eyes while he started counting.
"3"
He remembers being born on the first december 1974 in the city of Dallas, Texas.
He remembers his mother dying while giving birth to him.
He remembers his father dying when he was 6, when he was being shot from a hit and run on the street in front of him.
He remembers being in the care of his uncle, his mothers brother, a military man strict but caring in his own way.
He remembers being trained by him since his 10th birthday because he was being bullied.
"2"
He remembers kissing Jessica Northfeld behind the school when he was fourteen. His first kiss.
He remembers winning first place in the state shooting competition that same year followed by another 4 years in a roll.
He remembers enrolling in the US marine corps when he was eighteen.
He remembers being selected for SEALS training for exceptional aptitude at nineteen.
He remembers gaining his nickname "Ghost" for his aptitude at adapting and remaining unnoticed regardless of the environnement.
He remembers his first kill at twenty in his first mission in the middle east.
He remembers being wrapped up by the CIA for Black Ops at twenty-five.
"1"
He remembers his first mission for the CIA, killing an african warlord at twenty-six.
He remembers the death of his uncle at twenty-nine from a heart attack.
He remembers his kill count going over one hundred and thirty-two.
He remembers his last mission in Peru, killing the lord of a drug cartel who knew too much.
He remembers the CIA abandoning him in enemy territory because he knew too much as well.
He remembers the most important rule: "NEVER GET CAUGHT".
He remembers removing the pin.
"0"
He remembers no more.
Peru, 08/02/2012, 03:04.
Marc "Ghost" Sanchez stared at the curtain of rain that was pouring down endlessly in front of him. Hidden in the shadow of a century old tree tilted on the side, he watched the jungle silently almost peacefully, despite the barking of dogs getting closer and closer. His hand familiarly squeezed the M9 handgun in his grasp ejecting the magazine, he looked at it briefly before putting it back in its place. His movements were nimble and swift almost like he had repeated it a thousand times before, which he did.
'Great' He thought bitterly. 'Two bullets left plus one more in the chamber. Not enough to make a difference'.
Closing his eyes and concentrating on his hearing for a while, a picture of a map of his surroundings appeared in his mind. If the greatest genius on the planet could see this they would cry in disbelief. That's not something they would be able to do, so seeing someone who didn't have the IQ of a genius do it so easily would certainly crush their vision of the world. This was an ability he could only accomplish with time, experience and near death experiences. This was also the reason he managed to survive until this day, just a few weeks shy of his 40's birthday, which in his line of work was way past the average life expectancy.
Twelve dogs, thirty five men within an eight hundred feet distance around him, that was the maximum range he could sense. And more people keep coming in. Opening his eyes again he began looking at his hands covered in blood, his blood. Moving a little bit to the side pain shot through his body, especially from his right shoulder and right hips, where he got hit in his escape.
A bitter smile spread across his face. A rough face that demonstrated a hard-led life. Brown hair, brown eyes and clearly of spanish heritage. 5'9'' with a toned athletic body. He vas the kind of people you meet every day in the streets and you don't remember him the second after you have seen him. Which in his job was worth gold.
"Well, it seems that this is the end for me" He said in a cold, unemotionally voice while his right hand reveal a M67 hand grenade that he took from his pocket.
Without a hint of hesitation he casually removed the pin and watched the spring-loaded safety lever separate from the grenade. A light seemed to appear in his cold, brown eyes for a second before disappearing. His life started to flash in front of his eyes while he started counting.
"3"
He remembers being born on the first december 1974 in the city of Dallas, Texas.
He remembers his mother dying while giving birth to him.
He remembers his father dying when he was 6, when he was being shot from a hit and run on the street in front of him.
He remembers being in the care of his uncle, his mothers brother, a military man strict but caring in his own way.
He remembers being trained by him since his 10th birthday because he was being bullied.
"2"
He remembers kissing Jessica Northfeld behind the school when he was fourteen. His first kiss.
He remembers winning first place in the state shooting competition that same year followed by another 4 years in a roll.
He remembers enrolling in the US marine corps when he was eighteen.
He remembers being selected for SEALS training for exceptional aptitude at nineteen.
He remembers gaining his nickname "Ghost" for his aptitude at adapting and remaining unnoticed regardless of the environnement.
He remembers his first kill at twenty in his first mission in the middle east.
He remembers being wrapped up by the CIA for Black Ops at twenty-five.
"1"
He remembers his first mission for the CIA, killing an african warlord at twenty-six.
He remembers the death of his uncle at twenty-nine from a heart attack.
He remembers his kill count going over one hundred and thirty-two.
He remembers his last mission in Peru, killing the lord of a drug cartel who knew too much.
He remembers the CIA abandoning him in enemy territory because he knew too much as well.
He remembers the most important rule: "NEVER GET CAUGHT".
He remembers removing the pin.
"0"
He remembers no more.
