Call of duty one shots

The rain hammered against the panoramic windows of Soap MacTavish's penthouse, a relentless rhythm mirroring the tempest brewing inside him. Below, the neon-drenched streets of Glasgow pulsed with the life he controlled, a web of protection rackets, drug trafficking, and illicit deals spun from his opulent lair.

He stared at the city, a scotch swirling in his hand, the amber liquid reflecting the city lights like trapped stars. Gone were the days of chasing shadows and hunting terrorists with Task Force 141. That life was a distant, almost dreamlike memory. The ghosts remained, though, whispering in the quiet moments, reminding him of the sacrifices, the betrayals, and the things he'd done in the name of duty.

Duty. A hollow word now.

He took a long swig of the scotch, the burn a familiar comfort. His transition from elite soldier to mafia boss hadn't been a conscious decision, more a gradual slide. After the disbandment of 141, the world had spat him out, a war dog without a war. He'd returned to Glasgow, only to find his family's pub in debt to a local gang, the "Burns Brothers."

The Burns Brothers were thugs, small-time operators who thought they could bully their way to the top. They were wrong. Soap, with the ruthlessness etched into his very being, had systematically dismantled their operation. He hadn't intended to take their place, but power, like a hungry beast, demands feeding.

Now, five years later, the MacTavish Family was an empire. Built on blood, betrayal, and the kind of brutal efficiency he'd learned on the battlefield.

A soft knock on the door.

"Come in," Soap said, his voice a low growl.

Price, his trusted lieutenant, stepped into the room. Older, wearier, but still carrying himself with the unwavering authority of a seasoned soldier. He was the only remnant of Soap's past life, a rock in the churning sea of his present.

"Trouble, John," Price said, his face grim. "The Rossi Family from Naples is making moves. Trying to muscle in on our territory."

Soap clenched his jaw. The Rossis. A viper's nest, notoriously violent and unpredictable. He'd been expecting this, a challenge to his dominance. He'd already anticipated this move, and has been planning a counter attack.

"They've hit three of our shipments in the last week. Sending a message," Price continued. "They're playing dirty."

Soap set down his glass, the clink echoing in the vast room. "Dirty? I taught them everything they know about dirty, Price."

He walked over to the window, his gaze hardening as he looked out at the city. He saw it all, the wealth and power, the dirt and darkness.

"Send a message back, Price," Soap said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "A message they won't forget. Let them know that Glasgow is MacTavish territory. And anyone who tries to take it will pay the price."

Price nodded, understanding lining his face. "Understood, John."

As Price turned to leave, Soap stopped him. "And Price...make sure it's clean."

Price paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Clean, John?"

Soap turned to face him, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "As clean as it can be in this business."

Alone again, Soap picked up his scotch, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. He had walked a great distance from that war torn man, but now, he had a new war.

The rain continued to fall, washing over Glasgow, cleansing the city, or so Soap hoped. He knew, deep down, that nothing could truly wash away the blood on his hands. He was a soldier turned gangster, for better or for worse. And he wouldn't let anything, or anyone, take what he had now. He may be in a new war, but he would survive this one. He always did.