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 the 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 map of his surroundings took shape in his mind. If the greatest genius on the planet could watch this, they would cry in outrage saying it was impossible or simply an hallucination created by the astronomus amount of stress that he experienced in his life. Which would have been true and a smart hypothesis made by smart people, the only thing that could exclude those explications was that it was real. This was an ability that was born from a life lead fighting in the most dangerous places on this planet and survived where a lot of people did not and where the odds were against him. This ability also helped him survive a lot of things in the last decade when he started developing it and his missions were getting even more dangerous.

Six dogs, thirty five men within an eight hundred feet distance around him, that was the maximum range he could sense, that's what he was going to have to face which with three bullets left in his gun was going to be impossible. 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 was 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 line of work was worth more than any currencies.

"Well, it seems that this is going to be the end for me" He said in a cold, unemotionally voice while his right hand revealed a M67 hand grenade that he took from his vest.

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. It was like an entire window had opened inside his mind and things that he had forget or never knew was revealed to him.

"3"

He remembers being born on the first of 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 mother's brother, a military man strict but caring in his own way.

He remembers being trained by him since his 10th birthday because he was too restless.

"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 five titles in that category.

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 at thirty-two years old.

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 that was drilled into him: 'NEVER GET CAUGHT'.

He remembers removing the pin.

"0"

The grenade exploded and with that, he had nothing left to remember.