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December 20, 1989

Miraflores Locks, Panama Canal, Panama

Alex Mason

He knew how it was going to end. The men who'd managed to grab him hadn't bothered to remain silent. Instead they'd been laughing about their plan, about fooling his friend and brother-in-arms into killing him. Mason didn't doubt that they would succeed. Woods was so set upon seeing the man responsible for his torment dead that he wouldn't hesitate. Wouldn't question whether or not Noreiga's information was wrong. He'd fire, one shot through the head, and it would all be over.

Having that knowledge didn't mean that he was giving up. He had a young son at home and he was going to do his best to get back to David, which meant fighting this every step of the way. Still, at heart, Alex Mason was not an optimist. He knew how situations like this general turned out, and he knew that the guilt would eat away at Woods until their was little left of his friend. If Woods survived what was probably to come, and he likely would, then he would question every single move he made until it would drive him mad.

Aside from the damaging psychological affects that would have on Woods' mental state, there was also a chance that it would cause damage to his son. Woods was legally the boy's guardian should anything happen to Mason in the field, and he couldn't be that if he was wracked with guilt. Worse yet, Menedez might still be coming after Woods for revenge. That, mixed with Mason's involvement in the mission that had gotten the man's sister killed, could put David right in the firing line.

The last thing Mason wanted to do was to put his son's life in danger. His late wife, Camille, had died from a mission gone wrong. It was part of the reason he'd originally retired and the reason why he'd made the promise to David not to leave. Now he'd broken that promise, in the name of rescuing Woods and while he'd accomplished that goal, it was going to result in his death. His son would probably never forgive him for that, but that didn't matter anymore. David could hate him, so long as he survive the storm that was coming.

He struggled between his two captors as they led him down what sounded like an empty street, a scratchy feeling bag over his head. The struggle wasn't solely physical though. Part of him was stretching, reaching desperately for something that had lain dormant within him for a long time. He hadn't seen the specter in question for a long time now, though he'd heard the voice attached once during an interrogation for this particular assignment. It left him hoping, with everything that he had left, that the figure would answer his call one last time.

The first bullet smacked into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Under the wave of pain there was confusion. Woods hadn't missed a standing target with no one in his way for years. What had happened? Then a voice near his ear said, "You called me?" and he understood.

"Take care of him," Mason rasped, chest burning with every movement. Then a second bullet slammed into his chest, jolting his body against the unforgiving ground once more.

The world around him was fading into nothing more than shadows when the voice said, "I promise." Unseen by the people involved in the drama around him, Victor Reznov rose from beside Alex Mason's still frame and vanished.

Two hours later in what appeared to be an abandoned building, the windows rattled and the walls groaned. A man who thought he could saunter out, triumphant, fled in terror, leaving more people than expected alive. Events were set in motion that night. Things that could not be changed. Things that forever shifted the events that were to follow.

August 10, 2009

Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan

David Mason

The day started much the same as the ones before it, as was common in military life. It wasn't something that David Mason minded. Growing up after his dad's death with a crippled Frank Woods as a parent meant life had been on a strict schedule. Missing pain medication or an appointment with a therapist or doctor could have meant that David would have been taken away. To prevent that, life had been on a strict schedule. The only time everything hadn't worked like clockwork had been the few times David had gotten sick.

When he'd joined up with the military, his life hadn't changed all that much. It still revolved around a strict routine and David was still taking orders from someone older than him. The difference was that, despite all their shouting, no one could match the Frank Woods version of instruction. It had something to do with the delivery of the statements and the absolute casualness of the insults, but David wasn't quite sure what the correct combination was. Regardless, his guardian's training had allowed him to soar through Basic without even blinking and ignore even the harshest insults thrown his direction.

The result was that David had established himself as one hell of a soldier and could have allowed him to rise quickly through the ranks had he chosen that path. It had made him enemies of most the other recruits, but it had won him the friendship of one Michael Harper. The other soldier was thirty-one to David's twenty-eight and, much like Woods, gave off an aura that insisted he hated absolutely everyone around him. David, having lived with Woods as his guardian since he was eight, had known better. He'd ignored the gruffness, pushed through the mission, and somehow come out the other side with a new friend. He had a feeling that if Dad had still been alive, he would have found the entire situation hilarious.

David had been transferred to Afghanistan twelve days after the mission and Harper'd been sent to somewhere in Iran four days before that, muttering about terrorists and idiots with guns the whole time he'd been marching out of the mess hall. David had been trying not to laugh as he watched Harper go, wondering if that was how Woods had behaved before every mission. If so, his Dad had put up with a lot.
Afghanistan was dry and hot, but the heat was never what woke David every morning since he'd arrived. Instead, just before muster, it was the chilly of a cold hand on his shoulder and the inescapable feeling of someone shaking him. It failed to send him into a blind panic anymore. Instead he blinked open his eyes, staring up towards the ceiling of his tent. Fire Base Phoenix was, by no means, a temporary military compound, but it had been filled beyond capacity so the later arrivals were currently house in one or two man canvas tents. Personally, David didn't have a problem with it. The desert landscape cooled off at night and the tents wouldn't be the main target of any assault against this military encampment. It was a position many of his companions didn't share but David had never been one to care too much about what others thought of him.

He rolled out of his cot moments after waking, and was walking out the front of the tent just as his bunkmate, Mark Waller, was rousing himself. Waller and David didn't exactly get along. Their first night together, Waller had stumbled in drunk off his ass and David, who'd been exhausted and trying to get some rest in an unfamiliar place, had almost shot him with the handgun he kept loaded under his pillow. Waller had proceeded to take revenge the next day by taking a knife to pretty much everything David had brought with him. David had barely resisted retaliating and their relationship had simmered down to little more than an aura of animosity shimmering between them in the desert heat. They got along best in the hours that they were sleeping or preparing to sleep, so David did his level best to get out of the tent before Waller was fully awake every single day.

Donna Hale, one of the few people he actually liked on base, waved at him the instant he entered the mess hall. The mess hall was another tent, but this time because the old one had somehow burned down and no one had gotten around to building a new one. David waved back, grabbed his food, and headed over to join her. The laid back brunette was sitting next to her best friend from home, Andrew Levine. Andy was just about as even tempered as Donna and neither one seemed to care about David's peculiarities or his superiority to most his contemporaries. They were the only people he could consider his friends here in Afghanistan.

"Do you still have that demonstration today?" Andy asked and David nodded.

Earlier last week he'd agreed to help out Sergeant Foley with a demonstration for the locals that were assisting them. It was a way to fill all the extra time he'd had since the recent amount of attacks had dropped off, so he'd jumped at the chance. "Yeah," he told his companions. "I have to be over there in an hour."

"Sounds like a good way to waste an hour," Donna commented before taking a swig of her water.

"That's what I thought," David agreed and she grinned at him.

"Things been too quiet for you?"

"You know me," he replied casually. "Never happy unless I'm doing something."

Donna shook her head at him but changed the track of the conversation instead of pushing it. David appreciated that. He didn't want to explain why he felt he had to stay busy. Other people didn't need to deal with his psychological issues. He didn't want them to even try. He could work them out just fine on his own.

An hour after his leisurely breakfast, he headed over to the shooting range. Sergeant Foley was waiting with a private named Hamad when he arrived. Foley beckoned David over before turning to the local recruits and said, "Welcome to 'Pull the Trigger 101'. Mason here is gonna do a quick weapons demonstration to show you locals how it's done. No offense, but I see a lot of you guys firing from the hip and spraying bullets all over the range. You don't end up hitting a damn thing and it looks like an ass." Then he turned to David and added, "Mason, show 'em what I'm talking about."

David grabbed the M4A1 in question, turning to face the targets as he settled into a good stance. He shifted so he could aim down sights before remembering the whole point of this little demonstration and forcing himself to fire from the hip. It took him a whole mag to take down two targets, something that would have had Woods swearing and waving his arms animatedly from his wheelchair as he demanded to know what the hell David was thinking shooting like that.

"See what I mean?" Foley said from behind him. "He sprayed bullets all over the damn place. You've got to pick your targets by aiming deliberately down sights from a stable stance. Mason, show our friends here how the Rangers take down a target."
David shifted into the stance Foley wanted, ignoring whatever the man said behind him. This time he took out target after target without hesitation or inner cringing. Once finished he stood and reloaded as, behind him, Foley announced, "That's all there is to it. You want your targets to go down? You gotta aim down your sights."

The demonstration was fairly straightforward and David moved through the rest of it without really thinking, just moving automatically. These were all things Woods had taught him when he was a teenager, even how to properly throw a frag grenade. Already having that skill set was something that set David apart and it continued to set him apart even in Afghanistan among soldiers more experienced than he was. Case in point, at the end of the demonstration Foley barked, "Nice work Mason. Now get over to The Pit. General Shepherd wants to see you run the course."

David nodded, hiding his confusion behind a blank mask as he made his way around the group, skirting his way around an ongoing basketball game. Like most of the basketball games on base, it was happening before the full force of desert heat hit around midafternoon. Beyond the court were the stairs that led down into The Pit. Corporal Dunn, Foley's right hand, was waiting at the entrance to the course, settled on top of an ammo crate.

"Welcome back to The Pit, Mason," Dunn drawled, not bothering to look up. "Heard General Shepherd wants to pull a shooter from our unit for some special op. Anyway, he's up in observation. " That said, Dunn jerked his head towards the starting line and went back to studying the ground. For some reason, the corporal had taken an almost instant dislike to David. As much as Foley liked to laud David's ability, Dunn disliked him.

David checked his weapons before heading silently towards the starting line. "You know the deal," Dunn called after him, sounding exasperated at having to say the usual spiel. "Timer starts when you take the first target down." David lifted a hand in acknowledgement before aiming and taking down the first target.

Dunn didn't even bother to announce when David cleared an area. He had, grudgingly, done so the first couple times around but David had already moved ahead each time, not waiting for someone to announce that the area was clear. "By the time someone yells clear, people are already dying elsewhere," Woods had stated more than once and David had taken the statement to heart. Besides, he wasn't one to wait around and tell him the room was clear when he'd already known it was.

He cleared The Pit two seconds faster than his previous time, gritting his teeth in frustration. He'd made a couple stupid mistakes during the run that had cost him a faster time. Mistakes Woods would have been haranguing him about for days. Most people wouldn't notice, including Dunn who was scowling in what appeared to be disbelief over the time, but David knew the mistakes were there.

"Head upstairs and regroup with your team," Dunn growled, still scowling at the time, and David brushed past him without bothering to reply. The corporal wasn't worth the time it would take to come up with a good reply.

Outside The Pit, several battered looking Humvees were roaring up in a cloud of dust. It was the first sign of trouble David had seen in a week and, under the sweat from his run, his skin chilled. Humvees bustled in and out of Fire Base Phoenix on a regular basis, but never quite at this speed. Something was wrong, and David had no doubt that Foley would plant them all firmly in the middle of it.

Men tumbled out of the Humvees the instant they stopped, easing wounding brothers and sisters-in-arms out as best they could. David stretched out an arm, stopping one of the nearest men not helping one of the wounded, and demanded, "What happened?"

"They blew the damn bridge," the man replied, eyes wide with residual terror. Then he darted away before David could press him for more information. The man behind the one David had apprehended was one of the few people he'd gone to Basic with that hadn't outright hated him.

Aaron Walden paused in midstep murmured in a low voice, "BCT One is trapped across the river in the red zone. And we've lost contact."

"Shit," David muttered and got a confirming nod from Walden before the other soldier hurried by him, obviously on a mission.

"Everyone get to your vehicles," he heard Foley bellow over the chaos surrounding him. "We're moving out!"

David hesitated a moment, feeling a cold chill brush against his shoulder, before moving forward to join his unit. It didn't matter that he had a terrible feeling about this whole mess. He was a soldier, and he had a job to do whether he liked it or not.

August 10, 2009

The Red Zone, Afghanistan

David Mason

The Red Zone was not an area anyone, soldier or civilian, wanted to remain in for very long. David was no exception. Just like all the other newcomers to Fire Base Phoenix, he'd been told the horror stories about the casualties inflicted on soldiers by the local militia should they remain too long in the area. He did not intend to be one of those casualties. Unfortunately the explosions around him were making that difficult.

David pushed himself to his feet, shaking away his disorientation as best he could and ignoring the yelling around him. OpFor soldiers were spread out all over the place across the river, firing the kind of weapons that made a person want to hunker down behind shelter and not come back out. He pushed the instinct down and crouched behind a pile of sandbags, knowing that the faster they cleared the surrounding area, the safer they'd be.

"Get shooting private," a voice behind him snapped as he took the time to aim. "Rangers lead the way." Mason turned his head, more startled than anything else. Most people called him Mason, almost as if they'd forgotten he was still a private. He found himself face to face with the infamous General Shepherd, trying to decide whether or not he'd been handed an insult. The hiss of a bullet passing his face reminded him that it didn't matter right now. He could worry about Shepherd later. At the moment, he needed to focus on staying alive.

They cleared the bridge in ten minutes flat, just another standard mission, and David headed up the stairs towards the waiting Humvees. Donna waved at him from the passenger window of one of the vehicles and David picked up the pace, jogging over to join his companions. Andy was driving and the last member of their crew, Waller, was sitting stiffly in the seat behind Andy staring blankly at the windshield. David slipped into the open seat and then stood, taking control of the minigun as he tried to ignore the air of animosity coming from the other passenger seat.

The order was given to move out and the vehicle rumbled to life, bumping awkwardly over the makeshift bridge. Idle chatter filled the comms as the Rangers around him waited for a building to be destroyed. David blew out his breath and took a careful look at the sights of the minigun, hoping they were close to accurate. One of these could do a lot of damage but if your aim was too far off, it was only property damage. And property damage could become KIA's if there was enough of it raining down.

"It's the same one as last time," Donna informed him when she noticed him looking. "Andy called it when they rolled 'em out."

"Nice," David said, really meaning it. The last time they'd been dragged into a mess, the Humvee they were in had happened to be one of the new ones with good sights on the minigun. If this was indeed the good one, then they were in the clear.

In front of him, Andy and Donna bumped fists. Above him, an F-15 roared by and leveled a building to the thunderous cheers of the men around him.

"Alright," Corporal Dunn announced over comms. "We're Oscar Mike."

"Let's get this over with," Andy muttered and the Humvee jolted slightly, David shifting his weight into a steadier stance, keeping an eye out for trouble. The area around them was quiet, too quiet, and there were militia men standing on a nearby balcony, staring. He swallowed hard, heartbeat picking up. Something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong.

As if cued by that thought, the first sniper bullet hissed by David's head, smacking into the wall to his right. It was followed by several more and instant panic from the Rangers around them. Despite how much Foley and Dunn liked to call Navy Seals and Delta Force Nancy Boys, but their groups of Rangers were made up of barely tested soldiers. "Spin 'em up boys," Dunn ordered, sounding almost jubilant over the comms. "We're going in!"

David did as he was told, the minigun roaring to life as he sprayed the rooftops, sending OpFor soldiers ducking for cover. The Humvee rumbled around corners as Andy tried to shake the enemy, David doing his best to cover them. While the minigun kept the rooftops clear, there were balconys filled with enemies as well and their Humvee was taking heavy fire, despite Andy and David's best efforts.

"Roll down your window," he heard Donna snap irritably.

"What?" Waller sounded like he was running on blind panic and David had never heard Donna snap at another human being before, not even in the middle of a war zone.

"Stop huddling in your seat like a sniveling coward and roll down your window," the only female in their crew growled. "We all know you don't like us, but if you want to survive, you and I are going to have to help David."

"I'm being boxed in," Andy suddenly yelped and the Humvee jerked back, speeding backwards down the way they'd come. That was, apparently, all it took to convince Waller that his life was in danger because a moment later two more sprays of bullets joined David's minigun fire. It might not have been the smartest thing any of them had ever done, but it sent the OpFor members diving for cover, several of them letting out surprised shots as they moved. A couple of them went down under a hail of bullets, but it wasn't enough.

Especially not when someone over the comms screeched, "Holy shit! They've got RPGs!" A moment later a massive explosion sent the Humvee toppling sideways. David managed to get his arms around his head as the ground rose up to meet him. Pain washed over him in a wave and distantly he could hear someone screaming but he couldn't tell who over the ringing in his ears. The screaming cut off just as suddenly as it had started, leaving only the ringing behind. David tried to push himself up but his arms trembled and ached under the effort and his stomach was churning. Some part of him, distantly, registered that his companions were dead. That Donna had probably been the screamer who'd been suddenly silenced, but he felt detached from the entire situation.

"Get up, get up!" someone yelled, breaking through the haze that had washed over him, and David forced his body to move, reaching out an arm to grab the offered hand. He was pulled to his feet by a soldier he didn't recognize and guided toward a building, despite a hail of gunfire.

"You okay, Mason?" Dunn called, actually sounding like he felt something other than disgust towards David for the first time since they'd been introduced.

"Yeah," David managed to spit out, trying to convince his hands to stop shaking.

"The rest of his vehicle were dead, sir," the soldier who'd assisted him piped up and Dunn actually winced. Most people on Fire Base Phoenix knew that Donna and Andy were David's only real friends. It didn't matter how much you hated a guy, you didn't wish someone seeing their friends killed on anyone.

"Sorry about that Mason," Dunn said, voice low. David nodded in acknowledgement and then ducked as a spray of bullets rattled over his head.

"There's movement upstairs," another man said, voice high pitched and full of panic.

"Then clear the upstairs," Dunn barked out, making the soldier flinch. "Mason, you still got a weapon?" Lifting the gun earned him an actual grin from the corporal. "Give Timmons a hand in clearing the upstairs then."

David flashed him a quick salute then and led the way towards the stairs, knowing they had one shot at this. If he and Timmons couldn't clear the upstairs then they were both going to be dead. The two exhcanged a glance, Timmons looking surprisingly determined for a guy that had been panicking just a moment ago, and headed for the stairs. David took down the first guy brave enough to poke his head around the corner and Timmons downed the next two in short succession, tensed muscles relaxing a little. David made a quick hand signal and Timmons nodded, leading the way carefully up the stairs. There were two more men lurking but David and Timmons made quick work of them, both breathing out soft sighs of relief when the rest of the rooms were empty. Timmons held out a fist and David bumped his against the other soldier's without really thinking about it. It was something he and Andy had done more than once when they'd successfully cleared a training course. That thought sent a pang of hurt through his chest. Andy was dead. He wasn't going to be fist bumping anyone ever again.

They made their way down the stairs in silence, the sounds of gunfire echoing around them. No one would be staying in this building for long, if for no other reason than because they didn't want to be surrounded. Sure enough, Dunn gave the order to move moments later and the six of them who'd made it to cover cautiously slipped out a back door. There were just as many OpFor men out back as there were in the front but they weren't expecting resistance there. They'd just surrounded the house to box their enemy in, and the remained of the squad mowed them down.

Dunn led the way into another building, this one occupied by Foley and two other members of their company. "There's trouble from the schoolhouse," Foley announced. "We've gotta clear it out so the rest the survivors can get clear."

Beside David, Timmons let out a shuddering breath but none of them protested. They'd all likely lost someone today and if they could get out without losing any more people they might be okay. "Let's move," Dunn ordered and Foley led the charge out the door and across the street to the schoolhouse.

They cleared room after room, David going numb to the sound of death screams and gunfire after a few minutes. The schoolhouse was swarming with soldiers and militia men, all soon to be killed. Beside David, Timmons went down with a bullet to the leg. He dropped back to help the man, Dunn and another soldier covering them, and somehow stumbled out of the building alive. They stumbled slowly down the street, Dunn, Foley, and two other remaining soldiers clearing the way for David and Timmons. They moved in complete silence, exhaustion weighing down every step. It felt like hours since David had been eating breakfast with Donna and Andy, both still vibrant and alive.

They made it to the rally point, every muscle in David's body aching. General Shepherd was waiting for them, looking unruffled by everything that had happened today, and David felt something warm burn in his chest. "Nice work today boys," Shepherd said, tone smug as if he'd done all the work himself. The fire burning, turning into something that felt suspiciously like hatred, as Shepherd added, "Private Mason, you're with me." He might be going with General Shepherd, reassigned to follow his orders, but any ounce of respect he had for this man was gone. The feeling of a chilly hand tapping his back, as if to warn him to watch it, confirmed it for him. Something bad was happening, and General Shepherd was going to throw him right in the middle of it.

August 11, 2009

Tian Shan Ridge, Kazakhstan

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

For what felt like the millionth time that day, Gary Sanderson, more commonly called Roach by the men of his unit, found himself wondering why he couldn't go on a mission somewhere warm. Even in August, when most places were still experiencing summer heat, the Tian Shan mountain range was covered in a thick layer of snow. He shivered even under his layers and wrapped his arms tighter around his chest in an attempt to preserve body heat. To his right, crouched on the narrow ledge, was Captain John MacTavish, smoking. The older soldier looked as if he weren't standing in the middle of a snowstorm in enemy territory. Sometimes Roach really hated his captain.

"Break's over Roach," MacTavish said, snuffing out his cigar and standing. Roach stood as well, cold muscles protesting, and followed MacTavish. The pair inched their way along the cliff face until they could go no further. MacTavish stopped Roach a few feet away, ordering, "Stay here and spot me." When he didn't get a response, he turned away from readying his ice picks to fix Roach with a stern look. "Wait for my go."

Roach nodded and resisted the urge to point out that he wasn't normally one of the stupid ones, waiting impatiently in the cold as MacTavish started the climb. A few feet up, the captain called down, "All right, ice is good. Follow me." Roach didn't need much urging. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could get out of the cold.

An MiG thundered overhead when MacTavish was nearing the end of the climb and Roach tensed as the vibration from it almost sent the captain tumbling to the ground. If he fell off, his downward path was going to take him directly into Roach and then they'd both be dead. After a heart stopping minute, MacTavish regained his perch and continued climbing as if nothing had ever happened. He vanished over the top and Roach followed a couple minutes later.

The younger soldier resisted the urge to groan when he caught his breath and noticed exactly what MacTavish was staring at. There was an edge of a cliff and their destination was, without a doubt, on the other side. Just what he wanted to deal with on a mission like this. "Good luck mate," MacTavish said, aiming what looked like a suspiciously mischevious smile at Roach. "I'll see you on the far side." Roach opened his mouth, intended to demand exactly what MacTavish was talking about, only to find out.

The younger soldier watched in awe and terror as MacTavish took a running start and then launched himself into the air, flying across the distance as if he wasn't so much as bothered by gravity. Roach took a moment to shake his head over the situation and do his best to stop his hands from shaking before backing up a step. He sprinted towards the cliff and launched himself off the edge, flying through the air. It wasn't going to be enough.

Roach knew that the instant his body approached the cliff. He hadn't quite built up enough speed and he was too far down on the cliff. He crashed into the ice, just barely, and slammed his pick into the ice in a blind panic. For a moment, it held. Roach sucked in a relieved breath and then let it out in a frightened yelp as he began to slide. One pick slipped free and, after two desperate attempts, he managed to get the other one to stick in the ice. Unfortunately, now he was stuck and his arms were screaming in pain. His hand was slipping free from the end of the pick when MacTavish grabbed his wrist, throwing him up the cliff.

The rest of the climb was a blur and when he reached the top, Roach flopped back in the ice, trying to calm his frantically pounding heart. "You alright there?" MacTavish asked, joining him and Roach lifted a hand to give him the okay sign, forcing himself to rise and check his weapons. "Check your heartbeat sensor," MacTavish ordered and Roach activated the new device, watching the screen come to life. "See the blue dot, that's me. Any unrecognized person-"

"Will show up as a white dot," Roach finished with his captain. MacTavish nodded, unfazed by his subordinate's exasperation, probably used to it considering some of the morons they had to work with.

The two soldiers made their way up the hill, the heartbeat sensor displaying two white dots standing close together. "Roach, these muppets have no idea we're here. Let's take this nice and slow. You take the one on the left. On three. One...two...three." On three Roach took down the left one almost at the exact same time MacTavish's bullet took down the right one. "Nicely done."

Roach breathed out as he felt something brush against his senses, as if trying to get in. For a moment, he almost let his guard down. Then he remembered Hannah's face, her bright green eyes laughing at him right before the bullet smacked through her skull. He slammed his shields back into place, ignoring the captain's twitch, and moved forward again. A moment later MacTavish followed, keeping his bonds to himself. Nine months ago, Roach might have accepted the attempt, slipped into the bond, but a lot of things had happened since then. He wasn't about to open himself to the same hurt that he had before.

They continued forward and two more blips appeared on the radar. "Same plan," MacTavish murmured and Roach nodded, already aiming for the unfortunate man on the left. On the count of three both of them took down their targets, leaving two more bodies to be covered by the quickly fallen snow. "Nice work," came the praise again but this time nothing brushed up against his shields. Roach felt a combination of relief and disappointment that he pushed away. He could deal with his fucked up emotions later. Right now, they had a job to do.

Snow smacked against their faces as they moved, the storm growing worse. The chill sank into Roach's bones and he was pretty sure he was never going to be warm again at this point. At last they reached the base the only guards already killed by their hands. It was relieving, in a way, not to have to make his shivering body still so he could aim. "Let's split up," came the order. "I'll use the thermal scope and provide over-watch from this ridge. Use the cover of the storm to enter the base. You'll be a ghost in this blizzard, so the guards won't see you until you're very close." A pause and then, "Keep an eye on your heartbeat sensor. Good luck."

Roach nodded once and then slipped through the thickening snow into the base. Navigating the area was only made difficult by the disorientation the snow caused and a single vehicle filled with men which had left him huddled behind a parked vehicle to avoid being caught.

He'd seen what happened to people that were captured by the enemy. Felt it too. It wasn't pretty.

MacTavish kept mostly quiet during Roach's trek, only speaking up to state that he'd take down one of the men or, once, to inform Roach that he'd hacked into the comms. Roach changed his track to southeast but didn't otherwise respond, focusing on the task at hand. If he focused enough, he could forget the empty ache inside his chest where Hannah'd been once, burning bright.

He placed the C4 without any problem and relaxed a little when MacTavish said, "No kills, no alerts. Impressive Roach." He grinned, for a moment feeling something other than the empty, hollow ache Hannah and the others dying had left behind. "I'm picking up more radio traffic about the satellite. Standby." A pause. "Got it. Sounds like the satellite's in the far hanger. Race you there. Oscar Mike. Out."

Roach made his way cautiously through the snow, skirting around a tower as he did so. "Roach, I'm waiting behind the hangers in the southwest corner of the runway," MacTavish's voice announced, making him jump and then swear softly. He picked up the pace and rounded the corner of the hanger to find the captain waiting. "Took the scenic route, eh?" came the light jab and Roach snorted, shivering as a gust of wind cut through all his layers and added to the chill he already felt.

"Let's just get this over with," he grumbled and MacTavish nodded before leading the way into the hanger. There was one guard, which the captain took down with relative ease, and parts of the ACS that had fallen into enemy territory spread out across the area.

"Go upstairs and look for the ACS module," MacTavish ordered but Roach was already ahead of him and scrambling up the stairs. The hanger was moderately warmer than outside, if only because it blocked the wind but it did little to still the shivers that continued to wash over him.
The ACS module was sitting around a corner and Roach grabbed it, triumphant, in time to hear MacTavish say, "Roach, I've been compromised. Keep a low profile and hold your fire."

Crouching low to the ground, he crept around the corner and hid behind a crate, looking down at the scene below. MacTavish was surrounded by Russian soldiers, too many for Roach to take down without risking MacTavish's life. "This is Major Petrov," one of the Russian's bellowed, voice echoing off the ceiling of the hanger. "Come out with your hands up!" He paused momentarily, as if expecting his orders to be obeyed, but when Roach didn't move he continued. "To enemy infiltrators, we have captured one of your comrades. You have five seconds to comply."
Roach froze, heart pounding in his chest. His whole body shuddered, but this time it wasn't because of the cold. Instead he was almost feverishly hot, skin sticky with sweat. There was no wind in this part of the desert, and one by one they were all going to die. His stomach churned, the image seared into his brain, but Major Petrov's apparent joy of hearing himself talk shook him out of the beginning of a flashback.

"We know you are up there. Surrender now, and we will spare your comrade. If you do not surrender, your comrade will die. Come out with your hands up."

"Well," he muttered, swallowing hard. "I guess it's time for Plan B."

"Very well," Major Petrov said, patience apparently exhausted. "I will give you five seconds before I execute your comrade." That was when Roach lifted the trigger from his pocket, squeezed the correct button, and the C4 blew the fueling station sky high. The explosion distracted the Russian's long enough for MacTavish to take them down.

Roach scrambled down the steps as MacTavish yelled, "Stay close and hug the wall! We'll use the MiGs for cover and cross the tarmac to the southeast." Roach signaled an okay and headed for the door, taking down a Russian on the way. He could hear them yelling and the thunder of approaching feet even under the soft wailing of the chilly wind. "Roach!" MacTavish yelled, catching the young sergeant's attention. "Follow me, let's go." The two broke from the cover of the hanger to sprint into the snowstorm, doing their best to take out the Russian soldiers as they ran. "Head for the MiG," came the order from his left. "I'll cover you!"

He launched himself into a sprint, trusting the captain to keep him from being shot in the back, only to have the MiG explode into flame. He yelped out a garbled curse word and scrambled back a couple steps, arms coming up to shield himself from flying shrapnel. He turned towards MacTavish and yelled, "What now?" A bullet hissed over his head, ruffling his hair, and he cringed a little.

"To the east," came the response and Roach was running without any urging. His heartbeat thundered in his chest and for the first time in a while, he felt so very alive. Vehicles continued to explode on the runway but he ignored them, taking out what Russians he could. The sound of a motor behind him had his head snapping around to take in the snowmobiles rumbling towards them. "Snowmobiles," MacTavish yelled. "Take 'em out."

Taking out the snowmobiles was surprisingly easy, considering how everything else had gone during this mission. Still, it stood to reason that something had to go well. Otherwise they'd be six feet under and the Russians would have the ACS module back. They scrambled down a hill, taking turns covering each other, but they were running out of options. And Russia wasn't running out of Russians to throw at them. That was when the Russian's decided to magically supply a solution.

It probably hadn't been their intention to help the infiltrators, but Roach wasn't going to complain. Instead he took the snowmobile, MacTavish following close behind, and they worked on getting away as fast as they could. Roach didn't need the encouragement from the captain to keep moving. The bullets whizzng by him as the Russians gave chase was encouragement enough. It was even enough for him to make the crazy jump to the next cliff where the helicopter was waiting.

Roach scrambled off the snowmobile, heart pounding wildly as the chopper's crew gathered around outside to rush he and MacTavish in."They've got the ACS boys," the crew leader bellowed. "We're outta here." For a moment, with adrenalin rushing through him, Roach could actually laugh as he boarded the helicopter. Then he turned to see MacTavish and reality sank in. This wasn't his crew, with Hannah turning to grin at him and jostle Aiden into laughing after some mission in the Andes. This was Task Force 141 business, and the hollow feeling was back.

August 12, 2009

Zakhaev International Airport, Moscow, Russia

David Mason | Alexei Borodin

The elevator landed them on the second floor of the airport and David readied his weapon, trying to ignore the way his stomach was churning. This was not something he had ever considered doing, but to maintain his cover as Borodin, he would have to throw his morals out the window. Still, everything about this mission felt wrong. Felt like a trap.

David had arrived in Russia the previous day to be greeted by Kiril, one of Makarov's men. The Russian had greeted David as Alexei Borodin, slapping him on the back and talking to him cheerfully in his native language. David had felt a brief flash of pure terror that he'd had to fight to keep off his face at that. He'd been learning Spanish since he was nine, and spoke the language fluently, but he didn't know a word of Russian. He'd thought it was going to get him killed. Then an icy chill had washed over him and his mouth had moved without his consent, spilling out a trail of equally cheerful sounding Russian back towards the other man. The experience had left David shaken but alive and able to make his report of Makarov's plans in the relative privacy of his hotel room that night.

What the Russian had in mind was nothing short of horrifying. He planned a massacre of Zakhaev International Airport in Moscow, planning on leaving none alive in his wake. It was the kind of thing that was likely to make even the most seasoned CIA deep cover operative nervous, and David had nowhere near that much experience. He could only hope he could pull this off. Especially considering the fact that his orders insisted he didn't kill Makarov. It wasn't the first thing that had him feeling like he was walking into a trap, but it was a large warning sign. Unfortunately he didn't have any choice. If David tried to back out now, Makarov or one of his loyal lieutenants would kill him.

Kiril turned towards the operative, an excited smile on his face as the elevator headed towards the second floor of Zakhaev International. "Ne volnuytes' tovarishch. Segodnya my prinesti slavu Rossii," the man said.

Before David could worry about having to respond, Makarov turned towards them and said, "Remember, no Russian." Both Kiril and David nodded as the elevator came to a stop and Makarov turned back in time for the doors to slide open.

For a moment, all was peaceful. People were standing patiently, or impatiently, in lines waiting to get through security so they could hurry up and wait for their flights. It was like every single one of the dozens of other airports David had been at in his career. Then Makarov started shooting. The lieutenants followed suit and David lifted his own weapon, trying not to think about what he was going to do. The airport was filled with screams and desperate people trying to escape. David did his best to kill swiftly and cleanly, his stomach churning and bile in his mouth.

One woman stared up at him with pained doe brown eyes, bleeding out on the floor. He put a bullet through her head and moved on, keeping up with Makarov almost on autopilot. If he thought too much about what he was doing, he'd shoot the target. Shoot to kill. And whatever Shepherd was planning would be ruined. He adjusted his aim, fired, and moved on. His mind was going numb to the screams, blank to the terror around him, and only the churning of his stomach remained to remind him who he was.

They made it outside, warmer air washing over David's clammy skin. A cold hand on his shoulder nudged him a step to the left, just out of the way of a bullet fired from a member of the FSB force sent to take them down, but when David glanced behind him, no one was there. He was left with a chill he couldn't quite shake as they cut down the FSB members like sitting ducks.

A helicopter arrived, bringing reinforcements, and Makarov grinned at them. "They're right on time. Check your weapons and ammo."

David went through the process of reloading automatically as Viktor, another one of Makarov's lieutenants, said, "I've waited a long time for this." His smile was wide and a little bit crazy, and Makarov chuckled in response.

"Haven't we all."

A silent scream built up in David's chest but he forced it down as they passed through another door, heading through the concourse to a gate area and then out the door and on to the warm tarmac. "For Zakhaev," Makarov proclaimed and then turned on the unfortunate policemen. Riot shields wouldn't save them this time.

The officers went down, though the riot shields did stave off the inevitable longer than David had expected. It also allowed a couple to nail Kiril and Lev in the head. David didn't feel any regret for letting them die. These men had willingly joined Makarov, willingly agreed to this massacre, and a part of him wished they'd suffered longer before they'd died. Once the opposition was gone, Makarov led the way through another door, David and Viktor following. An ambulance was waiting, no sirens or lights on, and when the door swung open, David recognized Anatoly from the night before.

"Good, you made it!" the man exclaimed as Viktor led the way. "Get in. We sent a strong message with this attack Makarov."

Makarov stepped into the ambulance and offered a hand that David was about to take when an icy touch on the back of his neck had him freezing. Makarov withdrew his hand, expression not changing as he withdrew an M9 from somewhere and aimed at Mason. "That wasn't a message." David heard the bang of the gun and felt someone yanking him back and down. "This is a message." The bullet sank into his shoulder as the doors of the ambulance slammed shut and the vehicle rumbled to life.

He could hear the thundering of approaching footsteps as more FSB agents approached but he couldn't gather the strength to move. Makarov had known, from the beginning, that he was American. How? Shepherd and David himself were the only ones who were supposed to know about this mission. There was a logical conclusion there, but as blood continued to drip from David's shoulder, his blurry mind found itself unable to make the proper connection.

The cold hand was back and David felt a tug on the collar of his shirt, pulling his wounded body back. The FSB agents had to be close, but his vision was beginning to go so it was difficult to tell. "Stay awake," a voice with a Russian accent hissed as their movement paused. "If you want to live, stay awake." David's eyelids had begun to droop but now he forced them open, hissing in pain as every inch he was dragged jostled his wounded shoulder. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, one helped only a little by the pain, and time began to blur.

Stacked wooden crates eclipsed his vision of the entrance where the ambulance had been only moments before he heard yelling from the FSB. David's rescuer leaned him up against his wall and crossed in front of him to stand guard near the crates. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone he'd known as a boy but hadn't seen since then. David studied the figure, trying desperately to pull all his facts together, but he couldn't manage it. He couldn't even tell friend from foe at the moment, and when one of the FSB agents got a little too nosy, it took him a full minute to realize that his rescuer had snapped the man's neck.

David found himself staring at the limp body the other man had dragged out of sight, uncomprehending. Part of him understood what was going on, but that part felt distant and difficult to reach, especially with the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. After another minute, his far too familiar rescuer, stood and crossed to David, ripping the bottom of his once pure white shirt into strips and using them to bind the wound. A low cry of pain escaped him at the actions but his arms felt too heavy to lift so he did not attempt to fight. Once satisfied, the man rocked back on his heels so that David could make out his face for the first time. There was a name tugging at David's mind, trying to get free, but he couldn't quite reach it as the man smiled fondly and said, "Rest friend. I will keep watch."

He wanted to protest, to insist that they move because this couldn't be a safe place to be, but blood loss had sapped his strength. His eyes drifted closed without his consent, and David found that he couldn't muster the will to force them open. His fate rested in the hands of his Russian rescuer now.

August 12, 2009

Task Force 141 Headquarters, Undisclosed Location

John "Soap" MacTavish

The ACS retrieval mission had been a success and Shepherd had planted an inside man with Makarov. That was what had been happening in the world when John MacTavish had fallen into his bunk, exhausted, the night before. What was happening in the morning when Ghost pounded on his door to rouse him was a completely different story. "Shepherd wants to see us, now," was all Ghost had said when MacTavish had opened the door, wide awake despite having just been roused. Years of sleeping in dangerous areas had taught his body to go from sound asleep to wide awake in a matter of seconds, and meant that he rarely woke slowly and peacefully anymore.

Together, he and his lieutenant had stepped into Shepherd's office. The general had been scowling at a Russian news station that seemed to be covering an airport shooting. If he'd had the ability to drop somebody by glaring at them, quite a few people would have been dead. "You requested to see us, sir," MacTavish prodded when Shepherd continued to ignore them, watching the television coverage instead.

"Sit down," Shepherd ordered gruffly. "It's too early to stand on ceremony." The two sat and Shepherd gestured towards the television screen, demanding, "Do you know what this is?"

"No, sir," MacTavish replied when it became obvious that Ghost wasn't going to bother to respond.

"Zakhaev International Airport," Shepherd said, eyes not leaving the screen. "Hundreds killed by Makarov in a massacre that will be making headlines for days. Two of that bastard's lieutenants were reported dead by the FSB. A third, my CIA plant, is presumed dead. There was a blood pool and trail, DNA traced back to Mason, but no sign of the operative. Still, the Russians have used it as a fucking excuse to attack." Shepherd then turned towards MacTavish and Ghost, scowling. "I need Makarov, or we're gonna end up in World War III with the full force of mother Russia against us."

"And how do you expect us to find him?" Ghost demanded, and MacTavish knew he was scowling even under the ever present balacava.

"He put a bullet through the operative," Shepherd replied, tone sharp. "One that traces back to arms dealer Alejandro Rojas. You'd know him as Alex the Red. I expect you to grab him, get what intel he has, and get out. Or is that too hard for you lieutenant?"

MacTavish snapped an arm out to stop Ghost from lunging out of his chair and asked, "What about your operative?"

"As far as I'm concerned, David Mason is dead," Shepherd said coldly.

"And what if he's not?" MacTavish countered, squeezing Ghost's arm in an attempt to silently warn the other man to calm down.

"You wanna waste time looking for a dead man? Fine," Shepherd snapped, patience obviously spent. "But grab Rojas first." Then he scowled at them both and growled, "Dismissed."

MacTavish grabbed Ghost and pulled the other man out of the room without another word, waiting until they were down the hallway to say, "I don't like it any better than you, but Shepherd's right, we do need to find Makarov."

Ghost knew the Scotsman well enough to hear what MacTavish wasn't saying and his muscles relaxed into cold calculation. "What are you suggesting?"

"You, me, Royce, Meat, and Roach go after Rojas. We won't need a sniper, so we can send Archer and Toad after Shepherd's supposedly dead operative. Maybe Frost with 'em."

He waited silently as the Brit considered the plan, probably considering all the ways it might backfire on them. At last the masked lieutenant said, "I'll wake 'em up, get 'em moving. We have to go fast if we're going to pull this off under Shepherd's nose."

"I'll get our team, you get the other," MacTavish ordered and Ghost was gone before he could even finish the sentence. MacTavish didn't stick around to look for the other soldier. Ghost was right. If they were going to pull this off under General Shepherd's nose then they were going to have to move fast. The general had eyes everywhere. Especially when it came to the 141. Task Force 141 was Shepherd's pet project, and little went on within it that he didn't know about.

Roach was easier to rouse than Royce or Meat. Maybe it was because the newest member of their task force had still been hyped up on adrenalin from their last mission or maybe because he was just a light sleeper. Whatever the reason, while Royce and Meat were still grumbling and forcing sleep heavy limbs into clothes, MacTavish found himself standing in the kitchen area of their base listening to the gurgling of the coffee maker with Roach.

The young sergeant shifted his weight uncomfortably but didn't speak, and MacTavish found himself studying him. Gary Sanderson had been Shepherd's latest find and was, currently, one of several former SAS soldiers in Task Force 141. The mission in Kazakhstan had been the first time MacTavish had worked with him and it had been an interesting experience, to say the least. Roach, and MacTavish would shake his head at the moniker except he hadn't ended up with a better one, hadn't been the most talkative since he'd arrived at headquarters, trailing behind Shepherd like a lost, dejected puppy. He also hadn't been very open.

Wolves were, generally speaking, social creatures. Whatever combination of wolf and human DNA that MacTavish, Ghost, and many others on the task force were made up of weren't any different. Popular culture might often portray werewolves as solitary creatures but that was far from the truth. That made Roach's self imposed isolation even stranger. He was one of them, but he had actively rebuffed any attempt at connection, even if it might only have been a fragile one. Frost, one of the few humans on the 141 and the only person who'd known Roach before he'd been recruited, had shrugged when MacTavish had attempted to breach the subject with him. Ghost had been equally puzzled after a few training sessions with the newcomer. The result was that a day ago John MacTavish had gone on a mission with a soldier he didn't really know.

The coffee maker stopped grumbling and sputtering, the sudden silence signaling its job was finished, just as Meat and Royce stumbled into the kitchen. "There had better be a bloody good reason for dragging us out here," Royce growled, heading straight for the coffee maker. The Brit tended to be a little touchy in the mornings and his feelings over the bond were always positively prickly until he made it through his first cup of coffee.

"We've got a mission," MacTavish replied, watching as Meat leaned against the counter and yawned. Steven Walther, who had somehow earned the moniker Meat while he'd still been part of Australian special forces, was the only other human currently on base. That didn't stop him from spending his spare time antagonizing his teammates, or stealing the coffee pot from Royce and grabbing his own mug.

Ghost arrived moments later, completely silent, with Archer, Frost, and a bleary eyed Toad trailing behind him. "It's too early for this," Toad mumbled, slumping against the counter next to Meat. The Frenchman looked like he'd been fished out from underneath his covers, brown hair spiked up at awkward angles and nightshirt hanging off one shoulder almost as if it were a fashion statement. Meat rolled his eyes at the statement but handed over his mug of coffee, pouring himself a fresh one.

The group gathered in the kitchen contained all but two members of Task Force 141. Elias Walker, who went by Scarecrow, was on leave at the moment and wouldn't be back on base for another five days. Brandon Alderman, more commonly called Chemo, had gotten banged up fairly badly on the last mission he'd been on and was currently on medical leave. Everyone on base and able bodied was about to leave, some right under Shepherd's all seeing eye.

MacTavish scanned the team, noting that most were reasonably awake, before saying, "We have a possible lead on Makarov." That got him the instant, undivided attention of Task Force 141. "Alexander Rojas, called Alex the Red, supplied the bullets for Makarov's most recent attack, a massacre at Zakhaev International Airport early this morning. Ghost, Roach, Meat, and myself will be going to Brazil to track Rojas down and find out what he knows."

"Wait a minute," Frost grumbled as the statement sank in. "You woke all of us up this morning just to tell us that some of you are leaving?"

"I have a different mission for the rest of you," MacTavish replied, fixing Frost with a dark stare. Since Westbrook was human, it didn't have the same effect on him that it would have had on one of the others, but it still was enough to silence him. "Shepherd had a man inside Makarov's operation. David Mason was sent in and shot during the airport massacre. Shepherd has already decided Mason is dead, but no one has found a body. Archer, Toad, Frost, your job is to head to Moscow and track down either Mason, or a body to bury."

"Whatever you say, sir," Archer said, stretching and nudging Toad with his elbow. "Get packing boys, or we'll never make it out of here before Shepherd notices we've gone." Toad grumbled at the elbow but obediently finished his coffee and led the way out of the room. Frost was the last to go, pausing to mouth something to Roach before vanishing into the hallway.

MacTavish watched them leave before turning to his team for the coming mission. "Head to mission control," he ordered. "We've got an operation to plan."

August 13, 2009

Moscow, Russia

Viktor Reznov

His whole body flickered as he cautiously leaned around a corner, watching a police car go by with wailing sirens. As of now, it had been twenty-four hours since the airport massacre and Viktor Reznov did not feel that he or his charge were far enough away from the scene of the crime to be safe. Unfortunately there was little the spectre could do about it. Moving a twenty-eight year old David Mason was much more difficult than moving an eight year old one, and David wasn't alert enough to move by himself. That was worrying. If Reznov couldn't get David to a safe place, and then get him proper medical care, the blood loss would kill him and Reznov would fail his single remaining task.

Every time he glanced over at the young man to reassure himself that David was still living, he was almost overwhelmed with a potent combination or irritation and guilt. The irritation was aimed towards himself, because he had made foolish mistakes. He hadn't realized that David had shut so much of himself off to deal with what was going on around him. He'd expected the young man to already start moving when he saw the gun, and the result had been that Reznov had not pulled his charge back and down fast enough to completely avoid being shot.
The guilt was also aimed inward. Twenty years ago, Viktor Reznov had promised a doomed to die Alex Mason that he would protect the man's son. It had taken time and effort to slip under the young Medium's already in place shielding so that his constant presence would not cause David unease. That work would go to waste if he could not think of some solution to their current problem. David would die and Reznov would be left alone again, with nothing but the guilt of failure to comfort him.

The police car had moved past them now, and Reznov stepped back into the shadows to assess David's condition. The bullet had gone clean through the young man's shoulder, which was both good and bad. The good was that no surgery would be necessary to remove a bullet. The bad was that there were both entrance and exit wounds for David to bleed out from and, while the blood flow had slowed, Reznov was still struggling to staunch the flow. Worse yet, rumbling thunder and dark clouds in the distance promised a coming storm. If the storm hit, it could spell the end to David Mason's life.

Another glance to the street showed it was empty, and a glance back at David showed that the young man was still unconscious. Chances were, most people wouldn't disturb the shadowed figure of a man in an alley. They'd assume he was a bum or drunkard and avoid him. That gave Reznov some time to look for possible help. He allowed his form to fade from view on the physical plane and rose above the streets. To the living looking down at the distant figures below, it would seem like they were little more than toys. The dead did not share the same limitations.

Reznov made his way methodically through the city, listening for any sound of someone that might help. Moscow boasted 10.5 million people, and that didn't normally include the trapped tourists and very alert soldiers that had swarmed the city in the hours since the attack. Hopefully one of them would be someone from the CIA looking for David Mason. If not, Reznov was going to have to come up with a new plan.

Zakhaev International Airport came into view before Reznov had any good fortune. "How are we supposed to find some bloody American in the middle of this mess?" The British accent was what first caught Reznov's attention and the words held it. The ghost headed downwards and found himself in a dark alley. Three men were standing there, hidden from the sight of FSB investigators.

"Blood trail led out of the back delivery room," another man spoke, this accent American. "We might be able to follow the traces of blood back to our missing man." Unseen by the men, Reznov shook his head. David had left a trail, but after two streets the Russian ghost had managed to hide the evidence for several blocks. It was doubtful that these three would be able to pick up the trail. Still, it would get them headed in the right direction and Reznov could interfere if necessary.

Reznov followed them through the twists and turns of narrow streets until the lost the blood trail and waited. "Well fuck," the American muttered while the third man added his own curses in what sounded like French to the mix. The only one who didn't seem bothered by the loss of the trail was the Brit.

"We'll split up and scour the area," the man ordered, keen eyes already fixed in the direction the ghost had taken David. "If you find something, radio in, but otherwise keep the chatter to a minimum. Otherwise, we meet back here in twenty minutes."

The British soldier didn't wait for any kind of response from his teammates, instead heading in the correct direction and leaving the other two to squabble over which way they were going to go. Reznov ignored them. For the moment, they were irrelevant. Instead he trailed after the man who'd chosen the right direction, waiting until the soldier found the remains of the blood trail. With a possible rescue attempt moving smoothly forward, the Russian ghost abandoned the man he was following and rose above the city again, returning to the place where he'd left David.

His charge had managed to battle back unconsciousness and was watching his surroundings with half lidded eyes, one hand on a weapon. Viktor Reznov was content to remain unseen as he watched over David, his tether to the mortal world so deeply embedded in the young man that he wouldn't notice the new presence. It was better that way.

David Mason was not ready to face the reality of what he was. Not yet. The first ghost the young boy had first encountered was the violent remainder of a soldier who had been Frank Woods first roommate in the hospital when the man had returned from Panama. He'd died overnight and accidentally terrorized an already traumatized eight year old David. The boy had suppressed the memory, along with the memories of his kidnapping by Menendez, but despite not remembering what had happened, David always tensed or acted skittish when a spirit he could feel was present.

There was only one exception to that rule. Her name was Avery Anne Poindexter and she was six and a half years old. She had been six and a half for approximately thirteen years. She had blond curls that danced around a round, china doll face and she was wearing and orange jumper. Her glittery orange hair clip was normally tucked away in one of David's pockets, kept safe from the dangers of the world.
When David had been fifteen, he'd helped out in a preschool for the summer. Unbenknownst to him, on one particularly sunny day the violent father of one of the kids had escaped from prison. The man had stolen a gun and killed half a dozen people in the first assault, one of them being the teacher. Out of the twelve other little children David had tried to save, only four had made it out. Avery hadn't been one of them. She'd almost made it out before her father had seen her and fired at her. David had tackled her, but had been too slow and the bullet had gone through her head.

In the aftermath, Daniel Poindexter had gone back to prison, and there had been fourteen people to bury. David had attended each of the funerals, looking solemn and guilty and out of place in the back of each while greiving family members and friends looked on. At the last one, Avery's, the little girl's mother had handed over the glittery hair clip. Jenny Poindexter had been a little bit psychic, just enough to understand that her little girl was hanging around. She handed over the clip at the end of the funeral saying, "She'll be happier with you than we me." Then the woman had turned and walked away, shoulders shaking. Eight hours later, she shot herself in the head and another gravestone was erected next to Avery's. The incident haunted the young man still, but the little blonde ghost was free to come and go as she pleased without startling him.

She was good for him. A six year old girl wasn't one to sit quietly and brood, and she often pulled David out of whatever funk he'd fallen into at that point in time. Generally she showed up once a month, standing on tip toes so she could lean over his shoulder to look at whatever he was doing. After a minute or so she would proclaim, "This is stupid" and drag David off, normally to do something outside. Since he'd enlisted, her visits had decreased in frequency, but she showed up at nights sometimes to cuddle up next to him until he drifted off to sleep. Aside from her periodic appearances, she remained housed safely inside the hair clip where she wouldn't disturb the Medium. It was a surprisingly considerate arrangement, especially considering that the person who was arranging it was a six and a half year old.

Approaching footsteps had David's hand tense around the handgun that he had left. Still invisible, Reznov stepped around the corner to see the British soldier approaching. Behind him were his two companions, both scanning the surrounding area for any sign of danger. Viktor Reznov smiled. Thus far, everything was going according to plan. Now everyone only had to survive the next few moments and, if these men were who the Russian ghost suspected, then David would be going home.

The first one to come around the corner was the Brit. His eyes fell immediately on David's limp form. The young man took advantage of that, as he'd been taught, and his handgun was up in an instant, aimed directly at the man. The Brit raised both hands immediately and said, "David Mason?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Call me Archer," the Brit said, voice calm. "My companions are Toad and Frost. We're Task Force 141."

Reznov smiled proudly in the shadows as David studied them warily, not lowering his weapon. The young man's caution would keep him alive in the troubled times that were to come. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

The Brit smiled, body relaxed, and replied, "You don't."

David's eyes narrowed but Reznov knew that his strength was giving out. He wouldn't be able to hold up the weapon for much longer. David lowered the gun before his hand began to shake but his gaze was still wary. Archer kept his hands away from his weapons as he crossed to kneel next to Reznov's charge and probe the wound. David hissed through his teeth in pain and flinched back from the touch but accepted the Brit's help to stand.

"Frost, call for evac," Archer said, voice tight. "When need to get out of here before Mason bleeds out."

August 13, 2009

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

Rio's advantages, as far as Roach could tell, over Kazakhstan were that at least it was warm and no one was trying to shoot him yet. Driving in the clogged city streets was slow going and their driver, a native of the area, was muttering under his breath in Portuguese as they tailed a white van, the same as they'd been doing for the past twenty minutes while MacTavish double checked the plates. Roach was sweating through his uniform, but after the bone numbing cold of the last mission he wasn't about to complain.

"Ghost, the plates are a match," MacTavish said from behind him as the van began to slow.

"Copy," came the reply. "Any sign of Rojas' right hand man?"

"Negative. They've stopped twice already. No sign of him."
Third time turned out to be a charm as the vehicle pulled to a stop. The door opened and two men jumped out, both carefully cradling guns in their arms. As they approached the building, Rojas' assistant walked over to them, hands up. Roach didn't speak Portuguese, and wasn't even close enough to try and guess what was being said, but he doubted it was anything good.

"Got a positive ID," MacTavish said. "Whoever these guys are, they aren't happy to see him." That was when Rojas' assistant pulled out a Desert Eagle and shot them both, apparently settling whatever argument they were having. Another man climbed out of the van, yelling and waving his arms, but Rojas' assistant shot him too. "Ghost, we have a situation here," MacTavish snapped as Rojas' assistant turned and fired towards their vehicle. One bullet put an end to their driver and Roach ducked even as MacTavish yelled, "Get down! Get down!" Over the wailing of the horn, the dead driver's body had compressed the steering wheel to set it off continuously, the young sergeant heard MacTavish shouting, "He's getting away. Roach, let's go!"

He scrambled out of the vehicle, thanking his usual luck for prevailing and keeping him from being shot, and sprinted after MacTavish and Rojas' fleeing assistant. "Ghost, our driver's dead," Roach could hear the captain saying over the radio as they ran. "We're on foot. Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can."

"Roger, I'm on my way," came the reply and Roach pushed on, following MacTavish around and corner and on to a bustling street. A car swerved to avoid them, the driver slamming a hand down on the horn, and suddenly Ghost was just there, running with them.

"He went into the alley," the older soldier snapped near Roach's ear and he nodded, changing direction and vaulting over the hood of another car in the process.

"Non-lethal takedowns only," MacTavish bellowed behind him. "We need him alive!" Roach picked up speed, hoping he'd be able to get close enough to tackle the man. No such luck. Rojas' assistant was in good shape and had gotten enough of a head start to make catching up with him pretty much impossible. "Roach," MacTavish's voice snapped. "Take the shot! Go for his leg!" Roach did.

The bullet exploded out of the barrel of his gun and smacked into one of the man's leg, sending him crashing to the ground with a scream of pain. Roach jerked to a sudden stop, body quickly covered in a cold sweat. Suddenly it wasn't Rojas' assistant screaming but Oliver. Wasn't the humid heat of Rio but the dry, burning warmth of the desert. Wasn't the constant emptiness that haunted him, but the feeling of something breaking into a thousand little pieces.

He was shuddering slightly as a hand on his shoulder her shook him free of a waking nightmare. "You alright Roach?" MacTavish asked and he felt the touch against his shields. Not really a press to get through them, just a gentle brush.

"Y-yeah," he breathed out shakily and stepped out from under the captain's hand to join Ghost in hoisting Rojas' unfortunate assistant to his feet.

He did his best to ignore the fact that Ghost was keeping an eye on him as they dragged Rojas' assistant to somewhere they could safely interrogate him. The last thing he needed was someone asking him what had just happened. This close to one incident, trying to explain what had happened could trigger another one. Then he'd get shipped back to some therapist who would tell him everything would get better with time and there was nothing he or she could really do for him. Been there, done that. It wasn't an experience Roach particularly wanted a repeat of.

They found an empty garage and MacTavish tied up Rojas' assistant while Ghost began scrounging materials, including car battery cables. Roach decided that the less he knew about what was going to happen to the man, the better off he'd be, so he retreated out of the garage to stand with Royce and Meat. "This is going to take some time," MacTavish told them. "Go check the favela for any sign of Rojas. That's where this guy was headed."

He waited for their nods before pulling the garage door closed and a moment later, the first screams made them wince. "Let's go," Royce said, voice a little pinched with something Roach couldn't quite put a name to. "Remember, there are civilians in the favela. Watch your fire out there." They stopped short in front of a broken chain link fence, the concrete support that had been holding it up crumbling from wear and weathering. Civilians were standing in small groups beyond the fence, all blissfully unaware of the chaos that was about to break out around them. "Meat, get these civies out of here," Royce ordered and the Australian grinned at him.

"Roger that."

Meat jumped down into the courtyard area, yelled something in Portuguese, and fired his gun several times into the air. As the civilians scattered, Royce and Roach exchanged exasperated looks. "Not very subtle, is he?" Roach prodded and got a snort in response before they jumped down to join the Australian.

"It isn't his strong suit," Royce agreed softly, just before the local Brazillian militia flooded the area. Roach dived behind the nearest cover as bullets hissed over his head. "Bravo Six, be advised, we've engaged enemy militia at the lower village," Royce snapped over the comms.

"Roach, I'm with you! Watch the rooftops. Go!"

Roach broke from cover, taking down a couple militia men as he sprinted to the next patch of cover. They moved forward methodically, breaking from cover to cover and watching each other's backs. "Royce, gimme a sit rep, over!" MacTavish snapped over the comm channel.

"Lots of militia but no sign of Rojas," came Royce's frustrated sounding reply.

The militia were everywhere. It was as if every building they reached was crawling with men, all armed with guns and grenades. "Copy that. Keep searching," MacTavish said. "Let me know if you see him. Out."

"Roach, move up! Let's go."

Roach followed Royce's command without hesitation, ducking behind the next available cover just in time. A hail of bullets smacked into his cover and, somewhere behind him, a man screamed in pain before being silenced. "Meat is down," Royce's semi-panicked voice yelled. "I repeat, Meat is down!" Roach winced but moved forward at another break in the firing, knowing there was nothing he could do. Meat was already dead.

A minute later Royce's voice was back, this time saying, "Roach, I'm hit! They're all over me!" Then he fell ominously silent. Huddled around a corner as bullets raced by him, Roach bowed his head. This was quickly becoming a deadly mission and there was still no sign of Rojas. The young sergeant really hoped the arms dealer was around, because otherwise Meat and Royce had just died in vain. Taking a deep breath and then letting it out, Roach pushed forward again. Going back would mean certain death. The only thing he could do now, was move forward.

August 13, 2009

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

John "Soap" MacTavish

They both felt it the instant Royce died. It was almost like a strong wind abruptly blowing a candle out, leaving nothing but darkness behind. MacTavish found himself leaning against a wall as he hurried to cope with the sudden emptiness where Royce had once been and Ghost swayed a moment before stilling and shooting Rojas' assistant in the head. The man had told them everything he knew, including just spilling Rojas' location, but the information hadn't come soon enough to save Royce or Meat.

MacTavish pulled in a deep breath and then spoke over the comm link, saying, "Roach, we have Rojas' location. He's heading west along the upper levels of the favela. We'll keep him from doubling back on our side, you keep going and cut him off on top. There's no time for backup. You're gonna have to do this on your own. Good luck. Out."

"Roger that," came Roach's reply. The young sergeant sounded breathless and harried but still alive, at least for the moment. MacTavish blew out a breath and nodded at Ghost, the two of them exiting the room at a sprint. If they were going to catch up to Rojas and herd him, they had to move fast.

A quick lunge around a corner found MacTavish face to face with a startled looking member of the militia until Ghost shot the unfortunate militia man in the head, sending him crumpling to the ground. "Roach, this is their territory and they know it well," he barked over the comms, as much a reminder for himself as for the young sergeant out searching for Rojas. "Keep an eye open for ambush positions and check your corners."

There was no response and MacTavish picked up the pace, motioning for Ghost to split and head a different direction. There was a good chance that Roach was dead, leaving MacTavish and Ghost to hunt down Rojas alone, but the captain refused to believe that. Roach had survived the initial attack that had killed Royce and Meat, and he was on the move. He could survive this.

An RPG missile flew over his head to explode just outside the range where it would have injured him and MacTavish swerved around the corner to see Ghost duck under a second one, cursing vehemently under his breath. "The rooftops," the lieutenant snarled and MacTavish adjusted his aim to take out one of the men readying his RPG for another shot. A hail of bullets from a machine gun followed that, having MacTavish ducking for cover and Ghost darting off down another alley.

"Roach, watch the rooftops," he snapped over the comms. "We've had a few close calls from RPGs and machine guns positioned up high." A blur of motion caught his attention and, for the first time since the crazy chase had begun, he actually caught sight of Rojas. "I'm tracking Rojas! He's gone into a building. Ghost, you see him?"

"Roger that," came the reply. "He's climbing onto a roof carrying a black duffel bag."

"Well that outta slow him down," MacTavish said, darting across the street during a pause in the gunfire and scrambling into the building Rojas had gone into. "Roach, we're keeping him from doubling back. Keep moving to intercept. Go, go!"

"With all do respect sir," Roach panted out on the other line. "Shut up. You're going to mother hen me to death."

MacTavish shook his head at that, grinning in relief, and sprinted up the stairs that led to the roof so he could follow Rojas. Sprinting across rooftops, as it turned out, was only slightly better than running through the streets. There were still militia men everywhere, but the ones trying to shoot up towards the rooftop were less effective than the ones shooting down into the street had been. Taking out yet another militia member, MacTavish caught sight of Rojas switching directions, heading towards the part of the favela Roach was, at least according to the GPS on his wrist. "Keep going," he snapped to the young sergeant over the comms. "Rojas is headed towards your side of the favela."

"Roach, don't let the militia pin you down for too long," Ghost added. "Use your flashbangs on them!"

MacTavish found himself waiting for Roach's response and the moment of distraction cost him. Rojas managed to get out of his sight, and MacTavish's frantic scanning didn't bear any fruit. "I've lost sight of him again. Ghost, talk to me!"

"I'm on to him," came the relieving reply. "He's trying to double back through the alleys below."

"Roger that, stay on him!" MacTavish changed directions, heading in the direction Ghost had mentioned.

"I've got a visual on Rojas! He's cutting through the market," Ghost snapped.
Over Roach's breathless cursing MacTavish said, "Roger that. I'll head across the rooftops and try to cut him off. He's gonna have no choice but to head west."

"I'm taking a lot of fire from the militia," Ghost replied. "I don't think I can track him through the market. I'm gonna have to find another way."

"I'm pinned down," Roach snapped, adding to the conversation. "It's gonna take me a minute to get loose and catch up."

"Flashbangs, Roach," came Ghost's amused sounding reply, which earned him a low, irritated growl.

There was silence as they each worked through their current problems. MacTavish had picked up speed, dodging most of the bullets instead of taking the time to down tangos. They needed to catch Rojas fast, or the entirity of the Brazilian militia would converge on them before they could get away with their target.

"Be advised, I'm half a click east of the market," Ghost snapped, voice cutting through the radio silence. "I can see Rojas running across the rooftops on my right side."

MacTavish glanced at his GPS and changed his direction, saying, "Roger that. Roach, we're still corralling him closer to your side of the hill. Keep an eye open for Rojas. He's making his way across rooftops."

"Him and everyone else," came the irritated response but MacTavish didn't let it bother him. As long as Roach was talking, he was still alive and MacTavish could be irritated with him later.

"Sir, I've got Rojas in my sights," Ghost spoke up before silence could fully settle. "We can go for a clean leg shot. We can end it here!"

The idea was tempting, but could ultimately lead to their downfall. MacTavish had already lost two men today, one of them a packmate, and he refused to lose any more if he could at all avoid it. "Negative," he snapped back. "We can't risk it. Do not engage!"

"Bollocks," Ghost cursed. "Roger that!"

"Roach, keep moving uphill," MacTavish ordered as he managed to get ahead of Rojas, sending the man swerving in another direction. "I've cut him off. He's got nowhere to go but west over the rooftops in your area! He knows the area well, but we can trap him here. Don't stop! Go, go!"

"I see 'em," Roach panted out.

"He's making a run for it," MacTavish pointed out, probably needlessly. "He's headed your way. And don't shoot him! We need him alive and unharmed." He ignored Roach's muttering and snapped, "Roach, we're going to cut him off at the summit. Keep pushing him that way!"

"How?" came the exasperated yell that MacTavish could hear both over the comm line and filtering over the sound of gunfire. Roach was close to them, but judging from where the sound had come from, he was still on the ground.

"Find some stairs and get your arse on a rooftop," Ghost snapped, obviously frustrated by the whole situation.

"Trying," was Roach's harried, breathless response.

"Ghost, he's going for that motorcycle," MacTavish snapped, breaking into their little pissing contest.

"No he's not," came the matter of fact reply and moments later the tires were shredded.

"Nice," MacTavish managed to get out before Rojas changed directions again. "He's breaking to the right again. Roach, if you see him, do not shoot him. I need him unharmed." MacTavish lunged across a gap between buildings, the impact enough to rattle his bones. "We've got eyes on Rojas-" Which was, of course, when the man doubled back. "Shite, he's headed back towards you Roach! Keep pushing him uphill! Don't let him double back. We'll cut him off at the top."

"Roger that," Roach spit out as they all changed directions, still moving uphill.

"Where is he? Where is he?" Ghost demanded a moment later, frantic and furious in equal turns. MacTavish understood his frustration. This should have been an easy mission, just a grab and go, but it had gotten out of hand quickly and two men were dead. Furthermore, this was Rojas's territory, and he knew it well. The likelihood of him giving them the slip was high.

"Got a visual," MacTavish yelled when he caught a glimpse of their target. "He's over there, sliding down the tin rooftops!" Ghost was close enough to catch MacTavish's gesture and redirect towards the man.

"I've got another clear leg shot!"

"Negative," MacTavish forced himself to say, despite how tempting that option was sounding. "Not unless you wanna carry him back out with all this militia breathing down your neck. I need him unharmed!"

The stretch of rooftop in front of him was running out, leaving him to hurry and pick and direction. Pick the wrong one, and MacTavish knew that the chase would be all over. "Ghost, I'm going far right!"

"Roger that! He's gonna get away!" Ghost bellowed back.

"No he's not," MacTavish snapped, seeing his chance. He scrambled down a set of stairs to launch both himself and Rojas off a second story balcony. They crashed into a car below, the alarm giving one mournful wail before falling silent. Ghost lunged forward to help MacTavish pin the man to the car, Ghost keeping him at gunpoint.

"Are you kidding me?" Roach spit out, panting for breath. The young sergeant had turned his back on them, scanning for any sign of danger. "I ran all this way...just so you could...tackle him off a balcony?"

MacTavish shook his head, ignoring Roach's complaints as he radioed in, "Frontrunner, this is Bravo Six. We've got the package. I repeat, we have the package."

No response. Ghost tried next, snapping, "Command, ready for dustoff. Send the chopper. Coordinates to fol-Bollocks! The skies are clear! Send the chopper now!" Ghost turned to look at MacTavish and, though he couldn't see the expression, the captain knew it was furious. "Command's got their head up their arse. We're on our own."

"I've got even better news," Roach piped up, tone dismal. "We've got company coming. And they aren't going to be very happy to see us."

"Bollocks," MacTavish muttered. "Ghost, get Rojas up. Roach, get over here. We're gonna have to find cover, and fast."
MacTavish kept an eye out for danger as Roach slowly backed towards them. He could hear men shouting and the pounding of footsteps heading their way. If they didn't find cover soon, they'd all be dead and MacTavish wasn't eager to leave the 141 in the hands of General Shepherd. The man might have been an effective commander, but he didn't give a damn about whether the soldiers under his command lived or died.

"There's a building, back the way I came from," Roach muttered, eyes still fixed in the direction the danger was coming from. "I had to clear it on the way here. They might not think to double back, at least not yet."

"Good enough," MacTavish muttered, shoving Roach into action. "Lead the way."

Roach broke into a trot and MacTavish motioned for Ghost to follow, the lieutenant still dragging Rojas. He'd gagged the man with part of his t-shirt, but the Scotsman could still hear muffled threats and curses being uttered under the gag. He stepped into line behind them, turning back every so often to make sure their pursuers hadn't caught up to them yet. "How far?" MacTavish muttered.

"Not far," came the hissed reply and Roach turned down another corner, shoving a door open. "In here!"

The building was relatively empty, shutters pulled and only a few dead bodies scattered across the floor. There was a set of stairs leading to the second floor, but there were no footsteps up above to signal that someone might still be around. Still, it was always better to be safe than sorry. "Roach, clear the upstairs, " he ordered before getting to work sealing off the lower floor. Roach ascended silently to the soundtrack of Rojas' muffled threats as Ghost wrestled the man into a chair.

A minute later the young sergeant returned to report, "All clear. Shutters are open but door between first and second floor is pulled closed."

"Good." MacTavish turned to Ghost and said, "See what you can get from him. Roach and I will watch the doors."

"Understood, sir," came the swift response and MacTavish smiled grimly. If Ghost couldn't get the information they needed out of Rojas in the time they had left, then no one would be able to. Now all they had to do was give him enough time to work, and make sure that they'd still have an escape window.

August 13, 2009

Northeastern Virginia, United States of America

Mike Harper

Sitting in a Humvee with a group of men freshly back in the states from Afghanistan was not exactly how Mike Harper had wanted to spend his day. He'd stopped by the base because this group had been the one David Mason had been assigned to. He had just discovered that Mason had been reassigned when the Russians had decided to launch their attack. Harper'd found himself recruited for the coming battle, and not at all thrilled about it. He'd been released on leave for a few days and had been hoping to spend some time with a friend. Now he was about to be fighting for his life.

Radio chatter was near constant as the Humvee rumbled around a corner and down a street. People were panicking, most of them because they'd spent their entire deployment in the states and hadn't actually seen this kind of combat. It would be a miracle if they came out of this alive. He was broken out of his thoughts by sergeant Foley yelling, "BTR! Get out, get out!"

Harper practically kicked the door out and lunged outside, running for cover just a minute before the BTR obliterated the first vehicle in their company. "Team this way," Foley yelled. "Let's go!" and Harper found himself following a private named Ramirez through the the back yards and over the fences and porches of private property. "Overlord, this is Hunter 2-1 requesting air support, over," Foley's voice said over their comm line.

"Hunter 2-1, air support is already engaged. Additional group support is en route to your position but has encounter heavy resistance, over," came the reply.

Harper rolled his eyes skyward as Foley said, "Roger that Overlord. Be advised, we've encountered enemy armor and are proceeding on foot, over."

"Overlord copies all. Good luck. Out."

"Sarge, did HQ just tell us to go F ourselves?" a man named Corporal Dunn asked as they made their way down a back alley until they connected to a wide street.

"You have to ask?" Harper jabbed, shrugging over the glare that was suddenly aimed in his direction.

"I've got a fix on a Raptor," Foley's voice snapped, drawing Dunn's attention away from Harper. "300 meters to the east."

"Roger that," Dunn replied.

A BTR came into view, blowing up the front of a house and Harper readied his weapon for trouble. He didn't need Foley to tell him not to attract the machine's attention, but there were sure to be troops to follow. Harper wanted to be ready to take out as many men as possible when they emerged. Foley led them at a run behind the BTR, ducking between buildings and alleys as the vehicle decimated the buildings and other vehicles around it.

"I got a visual on smoke coming from the crash site," Foley said, leaning carefully around a neatly trimmed hedge row. "That's where the Raptor went down." Harper resisted the urge to snort as they moved forward again. One of the things Harper appreciated about Mason was that he didn't feel the need to state the obvious. He just assumed everyone had a firm grasp of that, and moved on.

The BTR slowed to a stop at a roadblock and troops jumped out, weapons at the ready. "We've been spotted," Foley hissed. "Ramirez pop smoke. The rest of us will cover you." Ramirez tossed a smoke grenade towards the BTR, obscuring the vehicle from sight. Harper and the rest the crew broke from cover, using to smoke to hide them from the BTR's sight.

They ducked down an alley and Harper found himself face to face with a Russian paratrooper hanging from a tree in somebody's back yard. Harper bit down an amused bark of laughter and shot the hapless man before turning his attention towards the hostiles who'd spotted them from the other end of the alley. Foley's company contained decent shots and Harper felt himself relax some. He could trust these men to watch his back, for now.

"Incoming!" Foley yelled. "Truck, twelve o'clock." Harper turned in the correct direction and fired, taking out the first two tangos who stepped out. The others joined him until the truck was empty, dead bodies scattered in front of it. The gas station across the street and a block up, however, was far from empty. Russians poured out of its doors, almost falling over one another in their haste to get a good shot, and Harper ducked back with a muffled curse. A couple flashbangs had them reeling and Harper took them out with a few efficient shots, Ramirez jumping in to help him.

They ran past the gas station, a Nova, and past a couple buildings towards a local restaurant called Nate's, a large crater in the center of the front parking lot. A downed helicopter was several feet away from the crater, another group of soldiers using it as cover from the incoming enemy fire. "Private, gimme a sit rep," Foley bellowed at one of the men. "Where's Raptor?"

"We moved him to the meat locker," came the harried response. "It's practically bulletproof." Harper huffed out a breath at that. Practically bulletproof was probably not going to be bulletproof enough for this kind of situation.

"What's his status?"

"He's still unconscious. You got a medic?"

"Corporal Dunn, check it out. What else?"

"We got a supply drop on the roof with an M-5 sentry gun!" This time the private sounded a little more enthusiastic.

"Ramirez, get to the roof and check out the supply drop," Foley bellowed. "Harper, cover him!" Mike Harper sent the man a dark glare, daring at him to yell again before following Ramirez, who had taken off at a trot.

"He always yell this much?" Harper demanded under the echoing sound of gunfire.

"Pretty much," Ramirez called back, leading the way into the restaurant and into the back. A ladder with metal rungs led to the roof instead of a staircase. Harper took note of it, marking it in his mind as a decent defensive position, from ground troops at least, and then climbed after Ramirez.

Whoever had dropped supplies had dumped an ammo crate pretty much as close to the center of the roof as possible. Ramirez and Harper both refiled their stores as Foley's voice announced, "Heads up ladies, we got trucks to the south."

"Just great," Harper muttered, scanning the rooftop for something useful.

"They're using smoke to cover their advance," Corporal Dunn's voice added. Harper's scowl deepened in irritation as he narrowed his search down to something with a thermal scope. He crouched on the edge of the roof next to Ramirez once he found one, and aimed down sights, taking in the moving forms below.

"Pick a side," Harper ordered and Ramirez shifted his weight slightly.

"Right," the younger man said at last. Harper grinned, turned towards the left side, and fired. Footsteps and chattering behind them as they mowed down the Russians advancing on them.

"Tangos on the roof behind us," Foley yelled and Harper lunged to his feet, leaving the weapon with the thermal behind and switching back towards the one he'd brought with him. Ramirez was right behind him as they rushed to clear the roof of a Burger Town.

No sooner had they finished that when Dunn called, "Incoming, north side."

"Roger that," Foley yelled back. "Ramirez, move that sentry gun." Everything was going smoothly, or as smoothly as possible during a Russian invasion of the US, until Foley bellowed, "Our perimeter is breached! Enemies on the roof! I repeat, hostiles on the roof!"

Harper spun around, found a startled looking Russian three feet away, and punched him in the face. The Russian stumbled back, a hand snapping up to protect his already broken nose, and Harper shot him. Then he moved smoothly on to the next one, clearing his little area of the rooftop with brutal efficiency. He was left with a small pile of bodies and sudden silence, the other breached areas cleared as well.
He took advantage of the silence to scan his surroundings, his gave crossing over the shattered and smoking remains of buildings and cars below. The pavement was cracked and uneven just about everywhere, and that wasn't including the massive crater in front of Nate's Restaurant. Harper's eyes had just fallen on the restaurant in question when a missile smacked down in the parking lot, followed immediately by another one. The ground shook from the resulting shockwaves and Dunn yelped, "What the hell was that?"

"Get off the roof," Foley practically screamed. "Get off the roof!"

Harper and the team sprinted for the ladder that led the way back into the main body of the restaurant, none of them wanting to risk getting hit by one of those missiles. There was no coming back from something like that, and your family might not even get a body to bury. Dunn was the first on the main floor and already saying, "I have a visual on the enemy UAV operator remote piloting those missiles. He's inside the diner to the west."

Foley bellowed at Ramirez to take out the SOB in question, sending several of the team out, while Harper settled by a shattered window. He'd brought the sniper with the thermal scope down with him, still having the strap slung over one shoulder when he'd made the mad dash to get off the roof, and now he aimed down sights, smoothly taking out Russian after Russian. They were everywhere, running about screaming, shooting, throwing things, and generally making a nuisance of themselves, but Harper figured they had plenty to spare. Historically speaking, Russia had always had more people to throw on the line than their enemies, and it had never ended well for the other side.

A BTR rumbled by, but all soldiers that would have been considered targets by it were ducked out of sight so it passed in relative silence. "Get that control unit," Foley snapped over the comms. "Use it to neutralize enemy armor." A moment later the BTR, which had paused to turn around, exploded into flames from a direct hit. Some of the Rangers still in the building with Harper and Foley cheered at that only to be forced to duck as several surviving Russians aimed a hailstorm of bullets their way.

When the Russians had to pause to reload, Harper took a chance and rose up just enough to send a hailstorm of his own their direction. He was rewarded with a scream of pain and the distant thumping sound of something heavy dropping to the ground. The hail of bullets began again, only to halt when the second BTR burst into flames. They broke cover out of the diner, taking down the rest the nearby Russians as they crossed the street. "Enemy fast movers, take cover!" Foley yelled from somewhere to Harper's left and he dove to the side, tucking into a roll. When he slid smoothly to his feet, a cloud of smoke obscured Nate's Restaurant and Dunn chattering frantically over the radio.

"Everyone listen up, new plan," Foley announced brusquely over the airwaves. "Ramirez, take your team and secure Burger Town. We're gonna move Raptor over there. This location has been compromised." Ramirez was already nudging his teammates into motion as the man turned to Harper and the others. "Everyone else listen up! We're moving Raptor ASAP. Stack up by the south entrance to Nate's. We need to get the hell out of this building before those fast movers get back."

Harper stood guard, taking out Russian after Russian as they waited for Ramirez to retrieve the person in question. "Ramirez, we still got hostiles near the Burger Town. We have to move," Foley bellowed loud enough that Harper considered pulling out his earpiece and crushing it under his heel. There was absolutely no need to yell that loudly. The comm units passed on information perfectly fine at regular volume.
Foley ordered them to move on three as Ramirez's team emerged with Raptor, counting up to three. At three they launched into motion, Harper one of the men on the outside making sure that none of the Russians managed to shoot their precious cargo. They sprinted towards Nate's, pausing only once to take out tangos at a Taco To Go halfway there. Foley sprinted into Nate's heading for the meat locker and leaving the rest of them to stand guard. "Raptor is inside and secure," he announced. "The door is shut. You guys keep Ivan out. Friendly convoy is oscar mike."

"Yeah, yeah," Harper muttered, reloading his weapon. "Same old, same old." He'd done this dozens of times before in dozens of other places. He knew how this worked. Someone sat inside nice and cozy with the person being protected, and the others stayed around outside taking fire.

Sure enough, wave after wave of hostiles rushed at them, only to be mowed down by a steadily dwindling supply of bullets. Ramirez had a predator drone, which helped thin out the hordes for a while but enemies finally managed to take it out, narrowing their options down to just bullets again. Harper grimly considered the ammo he had left and prepared himself for the moment when he'd need to switch over to his secondary and a combat knife. Kills always got messy then, and the risk of being injured by the enemy was always higher. Still, this wasn't his first rodeo.

Two minutes later, as if summoned by Murphy's Law, Overlord announced there were helicopter's in the area. Harper gritted his teeth, reloaded his weapon for what was probably going to be the last full mag, and covered Ramirez with the others as the kid broke cover to find a Stinger. He'd have no cover on the rooftop where one of the other Rangers had spotted the suddenly necessary piece of equipment but it was their only chance for survival.

The first heli went down easy but the second, unexpected one sent everyone diving for cover. Harper took a deep breath and blew it out, silently calculating how long it should take Ramirez to reload, take proper aim, and fire again as the helicopter straffed the ground. Three minutes later it was whirling downward, trailing smoke and flame, as their convoy arrived. Harper and the others cleared the area for the approaching vehicles before reloading with what little ammo they had left. Harper stepped into a vehicle with a kid named Whittaker and Ramirez allowing tensed muscles to relax as their ride moved forward.

"Squad, we've still got 2,000 civies in Arcadia," Foley announced. "If you've got a family there, it's your lucky day. We're gonna go save them!" Harper closed his eyes, blew out a heavy breath, and mustered what patience he had left. This had been a long, irritating day this far, and it had just gotten longer.

August 13, 2009

Moscow, Russia

Michael "Archer" Scott

Getting out of Moscow with a shot American CIA operative who had been part of the Zakhaev International Airport massacre that had taken place a little over twenty-four hours previous was not going as well as Archer had hoped. Russian FSB agents were everywhere and the military police force was beginning to mix with the local one. Furthermore, David Mason was none too stable due to blood loss so the going was slow. "We're going to get killed this way," Frost muttered as he and Archer scouted out the next part of the journey, Toad staying back with Mason.

"I know," he replied softly. "But unless you can think of something better, we're stuck like this."

"I've got nothing," Frost said with a sight, leaning heavily against a wall for a moment as a couple FSB agents marched by. "It would help if we had a contact here but-"

"-we don't," Archer finished with him.

The two turned without speaking, making their way back through the twists and turns they'd taken to get here. Archer could feel time slipping away from him like sand out of a broken hourglass. They had an hour yet to get to the evac point but they weren't going to make it at their current speed, and if they missed evac they were sorry-out-of-luck. He pushed that unpleasant thought out of his mind as they rounded they final corner to rejoin Mason and Toad. "All clear?" the French 141 soldier questioned, relaxing somewhat from his tense stance. From behind him, David Mason's keen eyes studied them both as if he could glean the answer just by looking at them.

"Yeah," Frost spit out. "FSB all over the place though. Military police too." Toad turned to Archer, who nodded in confirmation, and then muttered something impolite in his first language. He offered an arm to Mason who took the offered help, steadying himself as best he could. While his condition wasn't as bad as Archer had originally thought, it was continually deteriorating and if they took too long, it would reach the point of no return.

"Let's move," Archer ordered, unwilling to continue that thought.

They practically crawled their way around corners, and Archer could feel his muscles grow continually tenser as time slipped by. His senses were on high alert and he was just waiting for something to go wrong. Despite their slow pace, the evac had gone smoothly, and he'd been in the military long enough to know nothing ever went this well. Sure enough, three FSB agents poured around a corner. Archer took out the first one, who'd jerked to a startled stop as if he hadn't expected to see anyone around. Frost got the next one and Toad somehow managed to get his handgun free to down the last one.

"Great," Frost muttered in the aftermath. "Not only do we have to lug this guy's ass around, but now we're leaving a trail of bodies for the FSB to find."

"Do they have a transport?" Mason's voice was rusty sounding, but it cut under Frost's grumbling without any hesitation.

"I beg your pardon?" Toad said after a moment of awkward silence.

"There were three of them, and none of us heard them coming. Possibly they had some kind of vehicle. Maybe one guy left behind in it while the others finished up scanning their assigned area."

"Check it," Archer ordered and Frost nodded, readying his weapon and making his way warily around the corner. After a tense minute of complete silence he returned, a triumphant grin on his face.

"It's a van. One guy in the driver's seat and engine running. Looks like this was their last stop before they were finished for the day."

"Take him out and we'll take the vehicle," Archer replied. "We've already left three dead Russians. One more isn't going to hurt things." Frost snickered at that and headed back the way he'd come from. The others followed at a slower pace, Mason still leaning on Toad. By the time the arrived, Frost had killed the driver and shoved him out of the vehicle.

"Your transport has arrived ladies," the American teased, grinning widely.

"Shut up and drive," Toad muttered with play indignation, helping Mason into the back seat and then following after him.

"Whatever you say Wooster," Frost shot back with a grin and Archer rolled his eyes towards the heavens good naturedly. Now that they had faster transportation, some of the tension hanging on them had eased up, allowing them to joke around a bit.

"You'd make a terrible Jeeves," was Toad's cross reply, muffled behind the closed door. Archer circled around the front of the vehicle, refusing to jump when Frost playfully revved the engine, and slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him.

"Let's move," he ordered and Frost's grin widened as he shifted the vehicle into gear.

They twisted and turned slowly through the Russian streets. FSB agents tended to walk across the streets without looking both ways so the going was slow. Frost grew tenser as the minutes shifted by, hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. They were approaching a blockade that, judging by the set up, was temporary. A couple FSB agents were stopping trucks while several more stood around looking bored, weapons at the ready. "We're gonna be made," Frost muttered, sending a worried glance in Archer's direction.

"Just stay calm," Archer replied softly. "And be ready for anything."

Frost blew out a shuddering breath and relaxed his grip on the wheel as much as he could bring himself to, pulling up slowly to the blockade. An FSB agent rapped on his window and Frost rolled it down saying, "Da?" Archer knew that the American did speak a few words of Russian. He could only hope that it was enough to get them through the blockade.

"Gosudarstvo vashe naznacheniye," the man ordered and Frost licked his lips, preparing to respond. That was when Mason rapped on his own window, drawing the man's attention and jerking his head to beckon the man over. When he hesitated, Mason gave him a dark scowl.
The man made his way around the vehicle, pausing outside the back passenger side window, and only then did Mason roll it down. "Chto eto?" the CIA agent demanded, Russian fluent and unhesitating.

"My dolzhny znat', punkt naznacheniya," the man replied.

"Moya kompaniya i ya rabotat' v s amerikantsem," Mason replied gruffly. "YA byl ranen vo vremya popytki zaderzhat' yego. Oni prinimayut menya yest' moya travma lecheniye." He gestured toward his wound once while he was speaking, motions languid and unworried.

"Amerikanskiy zhiv ?" the agent questioned incredulously.

"Da," Mason informed him. "Moi lyudi i ya v posledniy raz videl yego ryadom s aeroportom." The agent nodded in acknowledgement, stepping away from the open window, and barked something at the other men. They began to move the blockade and Mason rolled up his window.

"Drive," Mason ordered, voice strained. "And turn towards the hospital when you get through."

Frost rolled his own window up and then drove calmly through the blockade, leaving the FSB agents behind. "So," Frost said, signalling and turning towards what Archer assumed was a hospital. "You speak Russian."

"No," came Mason's strained voice from the back.

Archer twisted around in his seat to stare at Mason, but the other man had his eyes closed and was leaning heavily against the seat. "Then what was that?" Archer demanded and Mason blinked open exhausted eyes to look at him.

"I don't know." The reply was flat but his eyes were filled with as much confusion as Archer felt. The Brit sighed, realizing he wasn't going to get a proper answer, and settled back in his seat.

"Evac's in five miles," he informed Frost.

"Good," came the relieved reply. "Because I am definitely ready to blow this Popsicle stand."

Mason breathed out a quiet, pained laugh, and said, "You and me both. I think I've had enough Russian to last me a lifetime."

"That is probably a good thing," Toad commented dryly. "Because I think Russia has seen enough of you to last her a lifetime as well." Mason huffed out what was almost a laugh and then leaned his head against the window, eyes drifting shut again. His skin had a pale, bloodless tinge to it that Archer didn't like. The events of the last forty-eight hours had taken their toll on this man.

"Not far now," Frost breathed, as if sensing Archer's rising worry. The Brit nodded tightly and tried to force himself to relax. They were almost to the evac point and everything was going smoothly. They weren't going to lose the man they'd been sent to save now.

He breathed out a sigh of relief when Frost pulled free of Moscow and gunned the engine, sending the powerful SUV roaring down the road. The American swerved around a sharp corner, bumping on to a gravel road, but his speed dropped only slightly. A Pave Low came into view on the horizon, waiting for them just a few hundred yards away. Archer breathed out a sigh of relief, glad that MacTavish's arranged evac pilot had stuck around, as Frost pulled the car into a gravel grinding stop just feet from their ride.

The man waiting for them was someone Archer recognized from previous missions. Matthew O'Connely, nicknamed Ozone, was US Air Force and though he wasn't officially part of the 141 he worked with them often as an evac pilot. "Ready to get outta Russia?" he called from where he was sitting, a wide grin spread across his face.

"More then ready," Archer shot back with a relieved laugh. "You know where to take us?"

"Back to headquarters," came the blithe reply. Then Ozone took in Mason, who was leaning heavily against Frost, who was helping him out of the SUV, and added, "There's a med kit in storage back there. I'd use it."

Archer nodded in thanks and turned back to the SUV, slipping a small package out from where he'd hidden it just before they left. It had originally been part of a plan B strategy but now it would ensure that the Russian's would never track Mason via this vehicle. He carefully wired it to the correct position, stepped away, and headed for the Pave Low at a trot. "Ready to get airborne?" Ozone yelled over the sound of the heli's whirring blades.

"Ready," Archer yelled back and in seconds they were lifted off the ground. The sniper waited until the SUV was little more than a black square below before hitting the detonator and watching it explode into flaming wreckage.

"From Russia with Love?" Frost joked from his left as the flaming vehicle faded from sight. Archer snorted and shook his head a little before turning back from the view to go check on Mason. They'd made it out of Russia with the man still alive. It wouldn't do to have him die on them before they made it home free.

August 13, 2009

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The favela was in chaos. From their position, Ghost could see a large group of militia heading in their direction and, judging by the yelling, he doubted any of them were very happy. "Militia's closing in," he remarked to anyone who'd bother listening. "Almost two hundred of them, front and back."

"We're gonna have to fight our way to the LZ," MacTavish replied, ignoring Roach's muttering about terrible odds. "Let's go."

"What about Rojas?" Ghost questioned, jerking his head back towards the man in question. It had taken a little effort but he'd spilled everything they needed, giving them a new angle to work with. According to Rojas, there was a man locked away in a gulag that was a big target for Makarov's hatred, which meant the 141 needed to get to him first.

"The streets'll take care of him," was MacTavish's dismissive reply and Ghost grinned.

"Works for me."

"Good," Roach muttered irritably from behind them. "Can we move then. Because I've been almost killed enough today."

"Don't worry bug," Ghost shot back smoothly. "We'll get you out in one piece." Then he took off running, MacTavish at his side.

"Nikolai, we're at the top level of the favela surrounded by militia," the captain was saying over the radio. "Bring the chopper to the market. Do you copy, over?"

"Okay my friend," came the reply. "I am on my way."

"Everyone get ready," MacTavish ordered as they rounded a corner, the sounds of the approaching militia growing louder. "Lock and load!"

"Let's do this," Ghost said, heart already pounding in his chest.

"Here we go again," Roach muttered, practically vibrating with tension as he caught up to them.

"Oh brighten up Roach," MacTavish commented, leading the way further uphill. "At least it isn't snowing."

The sudden influx of Brazilian militia prevented Ghost from hearing Roach's response to that, but judging by the irritated look on the sergeant's face, it hadn't been complementary. They fought their way through the first wave, MacTavish pulling a little bit ahead of them. "Tangos at ground level, dead ahead," Ghost yelled in warning to the captain, pouring on a little more speed. He could hear Roach's heavy breathing over his right shoulder, the sergeant right on his heels.

"We've gotta get to the helicopter," MacTavish yelled back, even as he took down the first tango. "Head through the gate to the market. Move!"

They rounded a corner and Ghost swore under his breath before yelling, "Contact! Foot-mobiles on the rooftops, closing in from the south." Roach, who'd pulled ahead of him, glanced up and south before swearing loudly. They scrambled around a few more corners, working together to take out the militia, constantly moving upwards.

Ghost spotted the first technical ten minutes into their sprint for freedom and sucked in enough air to yell, "Technical, coming in from the south!"

"We've got another technical," MacTavish yelled back. "Take it out!" Roach let out a frustrated sound at Ghost's right, panting for breath, and sent a hail of bullets toward the engine block of the first vehicle. Flames began licking out from under the hood and the sergeant turned his attention towards the second one, not even flinching when the first technical exploded. "Head through the gate," MacTavish ordered, dodging around the smoking remains of the first technical. "Keep pushing to the evac point."

Roach had already launched himself into motion the instant the second vehicle burst into flames and Ghost followed close behind, keeping an eye out for trouble. The Brazillian militia might not have all been great shots but there were enough of them that getting caught unaware wasn't going to end well. The young sergeant was slowing a little, muscles probably tired from running continually uphill and operating under pressure, but they couldn't slow now. "Go, go, go!" Ghost ordered, keeping at Roach's shoulder and trying to urge him on.

The younger wolf picked up his pace a little and MacTavish came into view again, rushing down a downhill stretch of street. There was a yard cluttered with militia and Ghost sent a hail of bullets towards it, Roach joining him in the effort to clear the area as MacTavish took out hostiles on the street. "Let's go, let's go," MacTavish bellowed at them. "We've gotta push through these streets to the market. Watch for flanking routes."

Ghost led the way down the hill, catching up to MacTavish, and Roach stayed on his heels. The young sergeant was too out of breath to make an irritated comment but his eyes were bright with determination. He was going to keep up if it killed him, and right now that was probably the only thing keeping him alive. They were heading uphill again, and Brazillian militia were everywhere. "Roach, lay down some fire on the intersection," MacTavish ordered. "Heads up, alley on the left. Keep moving, we're almost at the market."

"Remember to breathe?" Ghost suggested mockingly, unsurprised when the captain snorted at the suggestion, emotions over their shared bond exasperated and fond.

A wide, grassy yard came into view and Roach let out a groan at the sight of the militiamen scattered across the area. Ghost agreed with him. The last thing they needed today was a shootout in some field that the history books could name as a small massacre later. Luckily for them, most the Brazillian militia sprinted for cover the instant their comrades started being killed, leaving the sprint through the field an almost peaceful part of their run for cover. Then they reached the market.

To call what happened next messy was, in Ghost's opinion, an understatement. The market was crawling with Brazillian militia wielding a hodgepodge of weaponry. He saw everything from RPGs to a particularly brave, or stupid, man with a machete who decided to charge Roach. The young sergeant didn't even blink when he took the man out but he did shoot a glance at Ghost which demanded to know when he'd stepped into the twilight zone. "Tango coming out of the shack on the right," MacTavish called and Ghost took him out, distantly registering the clucking of chickens as they pushed through the market, a Pave Low coming into view in the distance.

"There's Nikolai's Pave Low," MacTavish yelled over the ruckus their battle was creating. "Let's go!" Then he turned to the radio and added, "Nikolai, ETA 20 seconds. Be ready for immediate dustoff."

"That may not be fast enough," came the worried reply. "I see more militia closing in on the market."

"Pick up the pace," MacTavish ordered them, expression grim. "Let's go!"

They scrambled through a house, a frightened looking woman screaming at them in Portuguese as they went, only to see the soccer field that was the original LZ had several men with RPGs scattered across it. Ghost took out one and Roach another but the lieutenant already knew that there were too many for the Pave Low to land safely. They were about to be heading straight to plan C. "It's too hot," MacTavish's friend yelled. "We will not survive this landing."

"Nikolai, wave off, wave off," MacTavish yelled back. "We'll meet you at the secondary LZ instead. Go!"

"Very well," came the reply. "I will meet you there. Good luck!" The Pave Low lifted up and away from the rockets and Ghost turned his attention towards the task at hand.

"Come on," MacTavish yelled. "We've got to get to the rooftops. This way!" He led the way into a building and they rushed up the stairs on to a rooftop, eliminating threats as they appeared. "Let's go, let's go!" The Pave Low came into view and they pushed themselves faster again. That was when one of the Brazillian militia got in a lucky shot and Ghost heard Roach let out a hiss of pain. He turned to see the young sergeant stumble, blood blooming in bright red where the bullet had clipped his left leg, and then pick up the pace again. The lieutenant sent a couple shots back, hoping he hit whoever was shooting at them, and then pushed himself onwards.

"My friend, from up here it looks like the whole village is trying to kill you," Nikolai's voice announced as they ran.

"Tell me something I don't know," was MacTavish's reply. "Just get ready to pick us up."

"We're running out of rooftop!" Ghost yelled in warning, mind racing to calculate whether or not they had enough to make the jump.

"We can make it," was the captain's reply, emotions steady as he pushed himself a little faster. "Go, go!"

They sprinted across the last stretch off rooftop and launched themselves into thin air, Ghost breathing out when he heard the thud of feet hitting the floor of the Pave Low. They'd made it. He turned, grinning under his balaclava, only to hear MacTavish yell, "Roach!"

The young sergeant was toppling backwards, eyes wide as he tumbled down towards the street below. Ghost could only watch, frozen, as Roach hit the ground and didn't move. For a single, terrible moment, Ghost thought he was dead. Judging by MacTavish's sickened, horrified emotions over the bond, he felt the same. They both saw Roach's chest rise at the same time and breathed out a synchronized sigh of relief.

"He's still alive," Ghost marveled.

"Roach!" MacTavish yelled. "Roach, wake up!" While he yelled, Ghost stretched out his bond, reaching towards the younger wolf. Roach had rebuffed any attempt from both MacTavish and Ghost to form any kind of bond but, at the very least, the feeling might shock the sergeant awake.

Roach's shields were down and for a moment Ghost was almost overwhelmed with confusion, pain, and something that felt like the shattered remains of a different bond. Then the shields abruptly slammed into place, locking him out, and Roach was sitting up slowly. "Roach," Ghost yelled, adding his voice to the cacophony around them as he noticed what was coming for his woozy teammate. "We can see them from the chopper. They're coming for you, dozens of them!"

Roach made it shakily to his feet, head turning back and forth as he scanned his surroundings, either looking for a weapon or attempting to figure out exactly how much trouble he was in at the moment. "Roach," MacTavish yelled, catching his attention. "They're too many of them. Get the hell out of there and find a way to the rooftops. Move!"

Roach gave them a quick salute before sprinting out of sight, darting into a house just in time for two militia groups to converge on the area he'd just been. They scattered, a couple heading into the same building Roach had gone. MacTavish turned his attention towards yelling instructions to Nikolai but Ghost kept his eyes on the rooftops. The young sergeant hadn't bothered to explain his call sign to his new teammates, but it hadn't been hard to understand why he was called Roach. All you had to do was look at his service record and you'd discover that Gary Sanderson had a habit of surviving what should have been the unsurvivable. Hopefully this day wouldn't be the one on which his luck ran out.

"Roach, we're circling the area but I can't see you," MacTavish snapped over the comms. "You've got to get to the rooftops." There was no reply but a moment later Ghost found himself letting out a wordless shout as Roach came into view. "Roach, I see you! Jump down to the rooftops and meet us south of your position. Go!"

Nikolai adjusted the Pave Low's position, the movement making it difficult to track Roach's movements for a moment, and then called back, "Gas is very low. I must leave in thirty seconds."

"Roach, we're running on fumes here! You've got thirty seconds left. Run! Turn left and jump down. Come on!" Ghost could almost hear the desperation he could feel over the bond in MacTavish's yelling. His friend had lost two men already, one of them a packmate. He was never going to forgive himself if they had to leave another behind.

"Come on," Ghost found himself muttering as Roach scrambled and slid across rooftops, appearing just a few feet from the Pave Low.

"Jump for it!" MacTavish ordered and Roach did, launching himself without hesitation off the rooftop. For a moment, as the ladder swung out of view, Ghost thought that he'd missed. Then it swung back and MacTavish let out a relieved sounding laugh. "Nikolai, we've got him! Get us out of here!"

"Where to my friend?" came the response even as the Pave Low began to lift up and away from the favela.

"Just get us to the sub." MacTavish turned back to Ghost, grinning, and he grinned back even though the captain couldn't see it.

"Lucky little bug, isn't he?" he commented as they turned to watch Roach make his way slowly up the swinging ladder.

"The call sign is well earned," MacTavish agreed, reaching down a hand to pull Roach the rest the way up. "How are you sergeant?"

"I've been better," came the breathless reply. "I think my whole back's a bruise."

"Could have been worse," Ghost commented darkly, earning himself an irritated glare as Roach stumbled across the Pave Low to sink down on the floor. Blood was still flowing from his leg, the constant use making it difficult to completely clot up like it was trying to. The lieutenant crossed chopper and dug out the med kit before returning to settle in front of Roach. "Let me look at your leg."

Roach moved his hand away from where he'd placed it to cover the wound, trying to help staunch the flow, but commented, "Just a graze."

Ghost ignored him, going through the motions of patching the younger wolf up. He'd felt what was behind those shields and, between reading mission reports and that, was slowly beginning to put together what had happened. Wolves, generally speaking, were social creatures by nature and just because they could shift forms, didn't mean werewolves were any different. That being said, wolves that had lost their entire packs under tragic or stressful circumstances had been known to lock themselves away from any of those types of interaction. It wasn't necessarily a healthy way to deal with things, but it did explain why Roach was so guarded. Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying went.
He finished cleaning and cover the scratch before standing and saying, "You're a very lucky bug."

"Yeah," Roach replied, aiming a weak smile at him in return. "That's why they call me Roach." Ghost nodded once in acknowledgement, but as he turned away he found himself wondering whether or not surviving whatever had killed his pack had been a good thing for Roach. He was beginning to think the kid's ability to survive everything might be more of a curse than a blessing.

August 13, 2009

Northeastern Virginia, United States

Mike Harper

The roads leading to Arcadia were a mess. Buildings were burning, glass shattered, and evidence of fighting was spread across the streets. The people that lived in the area were either gone or dead, which was good considering that the Stryker in front of Foley's squad was decimating buildings even as it took down the enemy. It was nothing Harper hadn't seen before, but it wasn't anything he'd thought would ever reach the shores of the US. Then again, a week ago the Russians hadn't decided to blame an airport massacre on the Americans.

The details about the mission Harper had received through news stations had been sketchy at best, but one fact that everyone was clear on was that the dead American in question had been working for the CIA. While most news reporters went from there to questioning what the CIA had been doing, Harper found himself wondering just why an American had showed up in a massacre of a Russian airport. It seemed just too convenient. Especially considering the fact that no one seemed to be able to find the Americans body. It felt like a set up.

Set up or not, the results of the massacre were clear. Whoever had murdered hundreds of people at Zakhaev International Airport had wanted a war, and they had gotten one. Harper took down another Russian soldier as Foley bellowed orders, backed up by Corporal Dunn, and talked to Overlord. Harper ignored the majority of the chatter, focusing on taking out the enemy before they took him out.

There were people who would say Harper was being cold. He was taking the lives of people who likely had families and friends who would miss them when they were going without so much as flinching. Those people didn't understand his job. Mike Harper was a soldier responsible for protecting his country. Often times that meant that he was required to kill the designated enemy or move on immediately after seeing a fallen brother killed. It didn't make him cold, necessarily. It made him effective at his job.

Ramirez moved slightly ahead of the rest of them, staying right behind the Stryker to signal what areas it was supposed to target. The gunner responded near constantly, leaving yet another layer of chatter for Harper to ignore. He wished David was here, if for no other reason than to have a break from the monotony of what was going on around him. During the one mission they'd worked together on they'd ended up exchanging snarky comments under their breath about the idiots surrounding them, whether it be the ones for them or against them.

Out of this particular squad, Ramirez was okay, but he was occupied with other things at the moment. The others gave him a wide, wary berth, as if they weren't quite sure of his intentions. A couple of them looked at him as if he was the tattoo covered punk who'd asked their daughter to prom. Harper would have been amused by that, if he wasn't too busy being annoyed about being in this situation in the first place. It hadn't been how he'd been planning on spending his leave. Still, judging by the chaos around him, he might not have gotten an actual leave regardless of where he was at.

They found themselves at an apartment complex, two helicopters dropping down fresh Russian reinforcements. "Just great," Harper muttered in irritation. Ramirez, who'd paused, turned to grin at him before directing the Stryker towards one of the helicopters. Moments later it was spiraling downwards, allowing the armored vehicle to turn its attention towards the apartment building crawling with enemies. "Nice shot," Harper informed him and Ramirez shot him another grin before moving forward.

Past the apartment complex was an intersection with men carrying RPGs in the buildings surrounding the area. The Stryker could handle a lot of things being thrown at it, but too many RPGs could destroy it. This definitely qualified as too many RPGs. In fact, in Harper's opinion there were just too many rockets flying about in general. He was already turning to take out the first of the RPG armed Russians when the order came through to take them out. They felled the men in minutes, and the sentry gun posted in the intersection, allowing the Stryker to move forward again.

The next bit of trouble was another Russian checkpoint in a series that they'd been encountering all day. The Stryker made this one easier to get through and they were moving forward again, sweeping the streets. "Hunter Two-One Actual, gimme a sit rep, over," came the order from Overlord.

"We're just past enemy the enemy blockade at Checkpoint Lima," Foley's voice replied. "Now proceeding into Arcadia. Over."

"Roger that. I have new orders for you. This comes down from the top, over," was Overlord's response. Harper, who'd been looking forward to the coming end of this particular mission, barely resisted the urge to groan and most the other Rangers didn't look very happy about the new assignment either.

"Solid copy Overlord," Foley said. "Send it."

"Your team is to divert to 4677 Brookmere Road after you have eliminated the triple-A."

"Solid copy Overlord. Divert to 4677 Brookmere Road once the guns are destroyed. Got it."

"Check back with me once you've completed your main objective. Overlord out."

They stepped into the tunnel that led to Arcadia in silence. The last thing any of them wanted to do was to accidentally alert the Russians to their presence. The enemy had been all over the place and Harper, like the Rangers around him, didn't want to walk into an ambush because they'd made too much noise. They stepped out on the other side to the surprise of hostiles in the nearest house and moved to clear it out, the Stryker waiting patiently for Ramirez to point out the next target. "Ramirez, use your laser designator to call in artillery on those vehicles," Foley yelled and Ramirez turned to designator on each of the three anti-aircraft guns station across a wide expansion of golf course.

Harper had to shake his head at that. The massive houses and expansive green lawn of the golf course reeked of money, something his family hadn't had a lot of when he was growing up. He'd been the oldest of three boys living on a single mother's packcheck and while she'd done everything she could for them, times had been tough. Still, the money the people in this area had didn't make them any safer than his family was from the Russians. In fact, it might have made them a better target. After all, a golf course was a pretty good stretch of land to set up larger weaponry.

The guns exploded under a hail of artillery and the group moved forward again, heading to 4677 Brookmere Road. "Overlord, Hunter Two-One Actual," Foley said as they moved cautiously forward. "Triple-A has been neutralized. We're heading to 4677 Brookmere Road. Interrogative, what exactly are we looking for, over."

"Sergeant Foley, this is General Shepherd," a new voice announced and Harper frowned at the name. Shepherd was known for collecting men for his own specialized units, and the last man he'd collected had been, according to what he'd been told, David. Why would a man that command his own specialized unit be taking command of a group of Rangers? Especially considering the number of men Shepherd was rumored to have pulled out of other branches in the past few years. "Your objective is to extract a high value individual from a panic room on the second floor of the house."

"Yes sir," Foley barked like a good little soldier, but Shepherd wasn't finished.

"He'll be expecting you. Challenge is Icepick. Countersign is Phoenix. Get him outta there and report to Overlord. Shepherd out."

"I don't like this," Harper muttered even as Foley ordered them forward. Something about the whole situation seemed wrong. Maybe Harper was just suspicious, but he had a bad feeling about this whole situation.

They stepped into a house in chaos. Tables were broken and overturned, lamps were smashed, papers were strewn everywhere, and a Russian was standing in the middle of the chaos raiding the fridge. The whole thing looked more like a scene from a ridiculous action movie than real life. Harper shot the refrigerator Russian and the team cautious moved upstairs to where the panic room was supposed to be located. Foley hesitated in front of an open door, thick enough that it probably led to the panic room. "Icepick," the man called but there was no answer. "Icepick! Something's not right here. Check the panic room. Move!"

Harper and Ramirez led the way into the panic room, which was just as messy as the rest of the house. There were two bodies on the floor, one of a tattooed Russian near the door and another that was presumably the HVI. What was more worrisome was that the door didn't show signs of being forced open. To Harper, that meant that whoever had broken in to kill the target had known the challenge that would have led the man in the panic room to open the door.

"No sign of forced entry," Foley said, echoing Harper's thoughts. "Ramirez, get that briefcase. What's left of it at least."

"Sarge, check out these tats," Dunn called from near the dead Russian. "Not your average trooper, hooah?"

"Hooah," Foley agreed, but Harper wasn't as interested in the status of the now deceased Russian as he was the state of the room. Someone who'd known the challenge had been looking for something this man had possessed, and judging by what was left of the briefcase, they'd found it. That was never a good thing. "Get a couple photos for G-2 and check the bodies for intel," Foley was saying.

"Hooah," Dunn agreed, turning his attention to his work.

"Shepherd's not gonna like this," Foley muttered before activating his comm. "Overlord, the HVI is dead."

"Copy that Hunter Two-One Actual," came the reply from Overlord, but Harper was no longer paying attention to the conversation. Instead he was wondering whether or not what Foley said about Shepherd was true.

General Shepherd had given them the challenge and the countersign when they'd gone to collect the HVI. The chances of many other people knowing the codes, especially during a time like this, was low. Normally people who set up the codes for high value individuals kept them secret from the majority of people around them in order to avoid situations like this. That meant there was a possibility that Shepherd had been the one to give the Russians the codes to get to the HVI and the information they'd needed. But why? The facts just didn't add up. Why would a man like Shepherd, who created and controlled his own teams, want to start a deadly war between Russia and America? Something was very wrong about this situation, but Harper wasn't entirely sure what.

"Let's move out," Foley called. "We've still got citizens that needed evacuated, and the evac sites are under heavy fire. We've been called to back them up." Harper scowled, even as he checked to ensure his weapons were fully loaded. He didn't like leaving a mystery like this unsolved, especially when it might center around why Russia was at war with the US, but evacuating citizens took priority. Finding out how the Russians had gotten the codes to get to the HVI was just going to have to wait.

August 14, 2009

Vikorevka 36 Oil Platform, Russia

John "Soap" MacTavish

"Tell me you have good news for me," MacTavish told Frost as the American joined them to raid an oil rig. Toad was right behind him, muttering something about cold water, as he prepared for what was to come. Between escape from the favela, speaking with Shepherd, and getting re-routed to take out an oil platform before going after Prisoner Six-Two-Seven, he hadn't yet heard the outcome of the side mission he'd sent part of his team on, and hadn't expected to for a while.

"Well, Mason's alive," Frost said. "Shot through the shoulder by Makarov but he lived to tell the tale."

"Does Shepherd know?"

"If he does, he hasn't said anything about," Frost replied with a shrug.

"Or gone to see him," Toad added. "Archer's been the one trying to get a full report about the incident, when the medic will let him in, but Mason's not really talking."

MacTavish nodded and then turned his attention towards the mission at hand. Before the 141 tracked down Prisoner Six-Two-Seven, they had to deal with several oil rigs. They were propelled into the water, accompanied by a group of Navy SEALs and rose up from the water to surface below the platform where two guards were speaking. Roach had come up behind one of the guards, directly across from MacTavish, who was behind the other. "In position," the captain murmured over the comm unit. "On your go. Let's take them out together."

Roach gave no visible sign that he'd actually heard what MacTavish was saying but a moment later he moved, launching himself upwards towards one of the guards. If MacTavish hadn't been watching him for some kind of sign, he wouldn't have been ready to drag the man above him down into the water before he could alert anyone to his companion's sudden absence. The guards killed, they and the SEALs clambered on to the platform and MacTavish reported, "Two hostiles down in this section One-Alpha. Moving up to second section."

"Roger that Hotel Six," came the reply and MacTavish motioned his team forward.

"Keep it tight people," he ordered in an undertone. "Ready weapons. Move up."

"Got a visual by the railing," Ghost's voice reported and MacTavish caught sight of a man smoking and leaning over the edge of the railing.

"Free to engage," he murmured. "Suppressed weapons only."

A moment later a bullet smacked into the enemy and his body toppled down into the ocean below. "We're clear," Ghost announced calmly in the seconds following the shot.

"Civilian hostages at your position," the sub commander cut in. "Watch your fire."

"Roger that," MacTavish replied. "Team One moving to breach."

Roach moved forward, planting the breaching charges and then moving to one side to avoid the ensuing explosion. In the chaos that followed the door being blown off its hinges, the young sergeant cleared the room of hostiles, leaving the hostages unharmed. "Clear," Ghost called and they stepped into the room.

"We're clear," MacTavish reported. "Hostages secured in section Two-Echo."

"Roger that Hotel Six," came the response. "Team Two will secure and evac. Continue your search topside."

"Okay, moving upstairs," MacTavish informed Sub Command. "Control, we're advancing to Deck Two." The captain felt bad about leaving the hostages tied up in a room with dead bodies, but he understood that time was limited. They needed to free the rest of the hostages before someone clued in on the fact that soldiers were dead and one batch of hostages had been rescued.

They made their way up the stairs on to the second deck, taking the extra time to make sure their footsteps were almost completely silent. On a mission like this, it was extremely helpful if the enemy didn't know you were coming. "Eyes open," MacTavish reminded his team. "Watch your sectors."

"Enemy helo patrolling the perimeter," came the warning over their comms. "Keep a low profile Hotel Six."

"Roger that." The warning made the enemy Little Bird that came into view moments later less of an unpleasant surprise and more of another obstacle to be avoided. "Enemy helo, get out of sight," MacTavish warned automatically, registering that most the men had already ducked out of sight when they'd heard the whirring of the heli's blades.

"Enemy helo," Ghost snapped at the stragglers. "Get down."

The Little Bird whirred away after a moment and MacTavish ordered them to move on. Working with an experienced team did have its perks, one of them being that, generally speaking, everyone knew how to behave during a mission that required some semi-balance of stealth.

"Hotel Six, more hostages at your position," the Sub Commander noted.

Roach was already moving forward to plant the breaching charge even as MacTavish said, "Copy that." The younger wolf had been uncharacteristically silent during the journey, though whether it was because of the run through the favela or just the nature of their current mission that was keeping him quiet as a mystery. Ordinarily, MacTavish wouldn't have worried about the situation, especially considering the fact that Roach had just successfully cleared another room without hitting a single hostage, but Ghost was keeping an eye on the young sergeant. That was worrisome. The last time Ghost had kept this close an eye on Roach was after the kid had experienced what both MacTavish and the lieutenant suspected was a flashback after making the shot that had successfully allowed them to apprehend Rojas's assistant in Brazil.

"Clear," Ghost called, voice just sharp enough to remind MacTavish to do his job.

"Clear," MacTavish repeated with a nod. "Control, all Deck Two hostages secured."

Ghost had crouched near one of the bodies, pulling a radio free, and a string of near constant Russian was spilling from the device through crackling static. "Enemy radio," he said, meeting MacTavish's eyes from behind his ever present sunglasses. "I think we're going to have company sir."

"Set up for plan B," MacTavish ordered. "Get some C4 on those bodies. Go." For a moment Roach didn't move, staring at the room with a blankness in his eyes that the captain didn't like. The Ghost nudged him and he blinked, moving forward to set the charges. While he and a couple SEALs focused on the task at hand MacTavish turned towards his friend. "Keep an eye on him?" he murmured.

"Already on it mate," Ghost replied, tone equally soft. Then he crossed the room to plan a charge of his own, not far away from where Roach was finishing up with his own charges. A moment later he called back, "Charges placed, sir."

"Get to an elevated position," MacTavish replied, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand. "We'll ambush them when they discover the bodies." The group hurried for cover, Roach somehow ending up on the same platform as MacTavish. They all slipped out of sight not a moment too soon as the Russian patrol came into view. They were moving cautious, obviously worried about the possibility of an ambush. "There's a patrol," MacTavish murmured. "Hold your fire until they're closer. Standby." A pause as the patrol moved forward, gaining more confidence when no one jumped out to attack them. "Standby."

The patrol stepped into the room and instantly the radio filled with panicked sounding Russian. MacTavish grinned, pleased that the thrown together plan B was working smoothly, and said, "Plan B, do it." Roach pushed the detonator and the explosion that followed silenced all radio chatter. A moment later, an alarm blared, making the young sergeant flinch. The sudden cacophony left them with no choice but to slip out of their hiding places and engage the enemy head on.

"This is why plan B shouldn't always be blowing things up," Roach murmured as he and MacTavish descended, but compared to his muttering on previous missions, the jab was only half-hearted.

"Welcome to the One-Four-One," MacTavish returned but the comment didn't so much as bring a hint of a smirk to Roach's face. Something was bothering the young sergeant, but being in the middle of a war zone wasn't the time to question what. "Control, this is Hotel Six," the captain reported. "Our cover is blown."

"Copy that," came the unfazed reply. "Intel still indicates hostages and possible explosives on the top deck. Your team needs to secure that location before we can send in reinforcements to handle the SAM sites, over."

"Roger that," MacTavish replied, ignoring swearing from various frustrated teammates as they dodged a hail of Russian bullets and returned the favor with a hailstorm of their own. "Will call for exfill in LZ Bravo." Then he turned his attention to the team, snapping, "CentCom needs us to take the top deck ASAP so they can send in the Marines. Move."

The push forward was slower than MacTavish would have liked, but there was little he could do about it. The team was doing the best they could to clear the area, heading up a metal staircase while being ambushed by the enemy coming down. "Hotel Six, hostages from the lower decks are being extracted by Team Two. Proceed to the top deck to secure the rest ASAP, over."

MacTavish gritted his teeth in frustration as he replied, "Copy that, we're working on it. Out." That was, naturally, when the enemy Little Bird returned, assisted by Russian reinforcements. "Enemy helicopter," MacTavish bellowed. "Get down, get down!" He dove into a side room, Roach and Ghost tumbling in afterwords, just as the heli sent a spray of bullets to the space they'd just occupied. While MacTavish and Ghost focused on the enemy, Roach was digging through enemy equipment, coming up with an AT4.

The whirring of guns spinning up warned MacTavish of an incoming attack from the Little Bird, which was followed by a massive explosion. The heli went down in a ball of flame and Ghost said, "Nice shot Roach. That helo is history." The sergeant gave Ghost half of a smug looking smile before it faded away and then turned back to the task at hand.

"The clock's ticking," MacTavish said as they finished off the last of the Russians around them. "We need to get topside and secure any remaining hostages before we call the Marines."

"Easier said than done," one of the SEALs replied before nailing another incoming hostile in the head.

"Least most of them aren't good shots," came the response from another SEAL, followed by cursing as a Russian almost shot the man.

"Move up," MacTavish ordered, jolting his team into motion. Roach and Ghost, who'd been waiting for the command, took point. They pushed the Russians back, MacTavish and the others covering their backs until they reached a point where they could split up and flank the enemy.

"Split up," MacTavish ordered "We can flank through these hallways."

MacTavish led the way up the stairs, Roach and a couple SEALs right on his heels, while Ghost led the rest down a different path. "Move up," he ordered as they took out several tangos on the stairs. "Let's go. Those hostages aren't going to save themselves." Roach snorted behind him but didn't comment.

They reached the top deck in time to see thick, dark smoke billowing out from smoke grenades. "Hostiles popping smoke," Ghost announced at the same time as the smoke came into view. MacTavish had only a moment to hope that the smokescreen would hinder the Russians as much as it would hinder his team before the first bullet flew out of the smoke and embedded itself in a SEAL's shoulder. The man let out a startled yell and the others dove for cover, one of them dragging his injured teammate with him.

"These guys have thermal," MacTavish warned Ghost's half of the team. "Stay clear of the smoke. All teams be advised, these guys are a step up. They're using thermal to see through the smoke."

He sensed movement to his right and turned to see Roach lunging out quickly to grab a weapon with a thermal scope before ducking back into cover. MacTavish grinned and copied the sergeant's quick thinking, the two of them using their new weapons to take down the Russian who thought themselves hidden in the smoke. The SEALs had taken to the idea quickly as well, and Ghost, Frost, and Toad had also grabbed thermal scoped weapons of their own. Taking down the Russians was still a struggle as the enemy realized their opponents could see them and began ducking for cover.

The team forced their way through the smoke, finding themselves in front of a couple sealed doors. "Hotel Six, be advised that, hostages have been confirmed at your location along with possible explosives, over," the Sub Commander announced.

"Copy that," MacTavish replied. "All teams check your fire. We don't know what's behind these doors." They aimed more carefully as they took out the last of the Russian, none of them willing to be accidentally incinerated by an explosion. "Get a frame charge on the door," MacTavish ordered "We'll hit the room from both sides."

Roach gave a jerky nod and followed Ghost around to one door, MacTavish leading Frost and Toad to the other side while the remaining SEALs covered them. "Charge set," Roach's empty voice announced over the comms. "Breaching in three...two...one."

The explosions on both sides sent the Russians into a panic. MacTavish had a bare second to assess the room and catch sight of the explosives strapped to the hostages before he needed to focus on killing the Russians. "Clear," Ghost called a moment later and in the sudden silence, MacTavish breathed out a soft sigh of relief that had the lieutenant smirking at him. The Russians were dead, the hostages were saved, and no one had blown up. It wouldn't have been a bad end to a day, but they still had the gulag and Prisoner Six-Two-Seven to deal with.

"Room clear," MacTavish reported. "Control, all hostages have been secured. I repeat, all hostages have been secured. Proceeding to LZ Bravo, over."

"Good job Hotel Six," came the response. "Marine reinforcements are inserting now to dismantle the SAM sites. Get your team ready for phase two of the operation. Out."

MacTavish led the way out of the room and across the oil platform towards the prearranged LZ, the team following close behind him. The Navy SEALs that had assisted them split, heading towards their own next assignment as two F-15s roared overhead. A Little Bird was waiting for their arrival, blades already whirring. They scrambled on board, Ghost the last one on with Roach right behind him, and as the Little Bird took off they heard a voice over the comms announce, "Punisher to all flights in the vicinity of grid 255202, local airspace is secure. I repeat, local airspace is secure. Proceed on course to target area on route November-Two."

At the same time, chatter from the Marines roping down from UH-60 Blackhawks reached them. "I want these SAMs secure in five," a commanding officer was yelling. "Let's go. Move, move!"

Roach twitched at the sudden influx of noise and MacTavish watched out of the corner of his eye as Ghost leaned over to the young sergeant and asked, "You okay, mate?"

"Punisher, this is Hunter Actual, Hunter Two-Two is moving to secure SAM site at the southwest corner of the main deck," a new voice announced over the comms before Roach could reply. "Hunter Two-Three is proceeding towards the nearest building to disarm the explosives."

Roach twitched again and Ghost said, "Roach."

The demand in his voice caught the young sergeant's attention and managed to keep it despite Punisher announcing, "Punisher Actual to all strike teams. All SAM sites neutralized. Repeat, all SAM sites have been neutralized. Blue Sky in effect."

"You okay?" Ghost demanded again. Roach licked his lips, considering his answer, and MacTavish could feel his lieutenant daring the younger wolf to lie to him.

"Yeah," Roach said after a moment and MacTavish felt a wash of irritation from Ghost.

He prodded his beta over the bond and mouthed, "Careful" when Ghost glanced at him. He got a nod in response and Ghost breathed out a sigh, nudging his shoulder against Roach's. The young sergeant tensed for a moment before relaxing a little, gaze turning towards the floor. His breathing was light and shuddery, his hands trembling where they rested on his knees. It was obvious that he wasn't all right, but everything from his evasive gaze to his closed off posture insisted that he wasn't going to talk about it. At least not yet. That meant that all MacTavish and Ghost could do was wait for Roach to open up, even if neither one of them liked it.

August 14, 2009

Task Force 141 Headquarters, Undisclosed Location

David Mason

He couldn't remember ever feeling this about a person before. David had experienced his share of dislike for people, like his late bunkmate Mark Waller, but never had he so thoroughly despised someone as he did General Shepherd. The shattered workings of his mind after Vladimir Makarov had shot him might not have been able to put the pieces together, but after receiving pain medication and a blood transfusion, it had worked clearly enough to point out what he'd been missing. The ones that had painted a particularly ugly picture about a certain revered military general.

Before he'd been given the cover of Alexei Borodin and dumped into the middle of Makarov's latest plot, David had been debriefed by Shepherd himself. The general had insisted that David's cover was airtight. In fact, he'd gone as far as to say that the only person who knew about this cover and David's mission besides David himself and Shepherd, was Hudson. David had known Jason Hudson since he was a child, and he knew better than to think that the man had somehow blown his cover. Makarov had known that David was an American from the start, and the only person who could have given him away was Shepherd. At best, it made the man at fool, and at worst it mean Shepherd was playing some kind of twisted game with the lives under his command. Neither one of them endeared him to David.

Approaching footsteps had him turning towards the door, expecting to see Archer pacing back and forth again. The sniper was restless, and had been since he'd received the orders to stay behind, record David's mission report, and debrief the supposedly dead man. His restlessness hadn't been helped by the fact that David refused to say much about his entire ordeal. He had put on the record that Makarov had known he was an American the entire time, but somehow he doubted that would end up in the official report. Shepherd would be covering his tracks, and David didn't dare voice his suspicions to anyone else. The last thing he wanted to do was get someone killed because of something he thought he knew.

Instead of Archer, it was Shepherd who entered the room, the man eying him with poorly concealed contempt. "You survived," the general said, the statement flat and dark.

"I did," David replied coldly. "If Makarov were a better shot, I might not be here today."

"Such a pity," Shepherd said, and though an unsuspecting bystander might have thought the general was speaking about the fact that David had been shot, or perhaps the loss of life at Zakhaev International, David knew better. He understood that Shepherd was not happy he had survived, and the knowledge made his stomach twist.

"Yes sir," he agreed, eyes narrowed. "It would have prevented a lot of pain." Not just his own, but it would have saved Shepherd the pain of trying to figure out how to subtly eliminate him. Staring into the older man's narrowed, dark eyes, David now had no doubt that his cover had been deliberately blown. Shepherd had wanted the ensuing chaos to take place, for reasons David had yet to uncover, and the man was not pleased that the expendable soldier he'd sent in to take the fall had survived.

"General Shepherd, sir?" Archer's voice cut through the tension, drawing Shepherd's attention away from David. The twenty-eight year old breathed out a silent sigh of relief, no longer feeling so much like a cornered animal preparing for one last desperate strike at his attacker, but kept his eyes fixed on Shepherd's tensed form.

"I expect a full report at eight hundred hours over the events surrounding Private Mason's failed mission," Shepherd barked out.

"Yes sir," was Archer's professional response but the general had already brushed by him and stormed out of the room. David could feel the sniper's gaze on him, assessing him, but he refused to look over at the older man. The conversation with Shepherd had drained him, leaving his mind spinning with half formed worries and his hands clenched into tight fists under the sheets. "You all right there Mason?" the sniper asked after a minute of silence and David turned a sardonic look his direction. Archer took it in, looking unimpressed, and questioned, "What did Shepherd want?"

That, David decided immediately, was a very dangerous question. He forced himself to hold the sniper's gaze and speak as lightly as possible when he replied, "Nothing of note."

Archer studied him for a moment and then said, "When you're ready to tell the truth, let me know."
David blew out a breath that was almost a weak laugh and said, "Believe me when I say, you don't want to know." Then he very deliberately closed his eyes and evened out his breathing, focusing on slowly relaxing his muscles. He wasn't certain he'd be able to fall asleep, but he had no desire to continue the conversation and sleep was an easy way out. He didn't know yet that his dreams would be little safer than the real world.

In his dream, he was back in the airport. They were standing in the underground parking garage, David standing near the elevator while Kiril and Lev pinned another man between him. David knew the man's name, knew what Makarov was saying, but at the moment it didn't matter. The man was shot in the gut and left to die while the others proceeded to massacre the inhabitants of the airport. This part of the dream passed in a blur and then David was standing in front of the ambulance, reaching out to take Makarov's offered hand.

In real life, something had stopped him from taking the Russian terrorist's offered help. Something had saved him from certain death. In the dream, his hand connected with Makarov's, and when the gun came out there was nothing to save him. He felt the bullet tear into him, felt his life draining away as he landed painfully on the hard cement. The last thing he saw was a Russian FSB agent dismissing him as one of the shooters in the airport and leaving him alone to die.

He jolted awake with a gasp, whole body shuddering in silent terror. Some part of him recognized that the grip on his shoulder holding him down was definitively nonthreatening and the British accented voice speaking to him belonged to an ally but he still struggled for a moment before the wound on his shoulder reminded him where he was with a sudden wave of pain. David went limp with a low hiss, trying to convince his racing heart to slow its chaotic beat. The hand moved from his shoulder and David turned his head to take in Archer, the sniper watching him with keen eyes. "Want to talk about it?"

David's automatic reaction was that, no, he didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't entirely certain he should be trusting anyone who'd been under Shepherd's command and talking didn't fit his mode of coping with things. He preferred to bury them, or work them off with physical exercise, but neither one was an option at the moment. Bury the situation might allow him to ignore what had happened but it could put him in more danger from Shepherd. Important details would fade, until eventually he'd be left with little more than a lingering suspicion. Working them off wasn't an option either. His injured shoulder coupled with the amount of blood he'd lost had him on bed rest until the medic was convinced he was recovered enough to move about. That left him only one option, if he wanted to avoid further panicked nightmares, and he didn't like it.

"No Russian," he rasped out after a moment and Archer, who had turned away to let him think about it without feeling pressured, turned back.

"What?"

"No Russian," he repeated. "It was Makarov's last order before..." David let the sentence trail off, unable to find words to properly describe what had happened after they'd stepped out of the elevator. What he'd taken part in. He let out a shuddering breath and added, "This? It's off the record."

"Naturally," came the unfazed reply and David found himself unable to meet the sniper's gaze. Instead he turned towards the wall, hands flexing into fists as he stared at the cream colored paint.

"I wanted to kill him." His nails bit into the skin of his palms, but his breathing was calm. "I wanted to put a bullet in that bastard's head. I didn't care that I'd be killed afterwords. I just wanted him dead." He tried to relax his clenched fists and found that they were trembling.

"Why didn't you?" Archer's question was impassive, blankly curious, like a news reporter gathering anything for a story.

"I'm a soldier," David said dryly, staring fixedly at a point in the wall across from his bed. "I follow orders. It's what we do." He pulled in a shuddering breath and then let it out, glancing down at his shaking hands. "I let him put me there, let him make me a part of that massacre, hell, I almost let him kill me."

"Are you talking about Makarov?" Archer asked. "Or Shepherd?"

David flinched at the question. He'd been talking to himself by the end, forgetting that the sniper was even in the room. He hadn't wanted to get into his suspicions about Shepherd with anyone, unsure if he trusted them and not willing to put anyone at risk, but it was too late to take his statement back. He took a deep breath and then said, "I'm not sure it matters. Someone had to blow my cover for Makarov to shoot me."

"You're saying that Shepherd told Makarov who you were?" Archer asked, voice sharp.
David turned to look the sniper directly in the eyes and said, "I'm saying I know exactly who knew my cover. And that I know who wouldn't give me away."

"That's a big accusation to make."

"I'm not asking you to believe it," David said turning back towards the wall. "You asked and I answered. That's all." Then he settled back into the pillows and turned up towards the ceiling, refusing to say any more.

August 14, 2009

40 miles east of Petropavlovsk, Russia

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

The Gulag came into view as the Little Bird they were in banked, a massive stone fortress that had likely seen countless wars waged against it. MacTavish's succinct briefing had covered this, but Roach's mind was on other things. He was slipping. Hearing Meat and Royce die over the comms at Rio, being forced into another situation with hostages, and now heading into the heart of a gulag were all bringing back memories better left alone.

"All snipers, this is MacTavish. Standby to engage. Stabilize."

Roach readied his weapon as the pilot of Hornet Two-One replied, "Roger" and their flight smoothed out.

"All snipers, clear to engage," MacTavish announced as they hovered not far from a guard tower and Roach lifted his weapon so he could look down through the scope.

He methodically worked his way through the guards on the tower before announcing, "Clear."

"Shift right," MacTavish ordered.

"Shifting," the pilot replied and the plane changed positions so that Roach had a clear view of the second guard tower.

"Stabilize," came MacTavish's voice.

"Ready," was the response a moment later.

Roach's first bullet smacked into the first guard, taking him down, but the second one went wide and the third shot wasn't any better. He forced himself to pull in a slow, steadying breath as Toad took down the soldier he'd missed, and lined up his next shot. He successfully took down the man and this time Toad was the one who said, "Clear."

"Shift right," came the order again and Roach closed his eyes as they moved, trying to calm his whirling mind. His stomach was churning uncomfortably, the similarities between this mission and his last one with his pack too close to comfort.

It had been six months ago. He, Hannah, Oliver, Ian, and James, called Jaime, had been deployed secretly in Morocco just a few miles away from a terrorist military encampment found by the CIA. The information had been handed over to MI6, who had decided to deal with it by sending an SAS unit to eliminate the camp. They'd been dropped out of sight of the encampment with orders to find a vantage point from which they could wait until sunset to strike. It had seemed like a typical mission, the five of them exchanging soft, dry commentary as they scouted the area, the hot desert sun beating down on them. It was only when they reached the crest of a massive sand dune that things started to go terribly wrong.

Roach and Oliver had been a little behind the others, keeping an eye out for enemy patrols as they hiked, but they'd heard Jaime announce, "Lo and behold, another dune" as if it were the most amazing thing in the world. Hannah had lifted a hand to muffle her giggles, turned to face them with a brilliant smile, and a bullet had smacked into her skull. Her head exploded even as her body had crumpled to the ground, leaving the others scrambling for cover as a sudden feeling of emptiness had washed across their bond. Things hadn't gotten better from there.
Ian had been the next to go, the sniper attempting to provide cover for the others while they rushed to escape the men that were hunting them. Two bullets hit him as he was shifting cover, one in the leg and the second through the throat. It had given the rest of them a brief moment to register the pain he'd been in before he was gone. The remained of the pack had run for cover, but only Jaime had escaped. Oliver and Roach had been taken by terrorist.

Roach had been tied to a chair in another tent, but he had heard Oliver's screams as his teammate had been tortured for information. He'd felt the other man's pain over a bond Oliver couldn't quite focus enough to close. "You can end your friend's pain if you answer our questions," the men told Roach, but he'd forced himself to refuse. He'd known that if they gave the terrorists the information they wanted, the men would kill them.

Jaime attempted a rescue that night. He'd been shot in and leg and dragged into camp where the terrorists tied him to a post overnight. Then they packed up camp at sunrise and took their prisoners with them. The nearest village to the encampment had been under the control of the terrorist, and they had hanged Jaime in the village square. His death had been excruciating over the bond, especially in combination with the constant pain from Oliver's wounds, and the emptiness where their packmates had once been had been crippling. Their pack alpha and beta already dead, Oliver and Roach had clung to one another through the bond.

MI6 had made their first attempt at rescue then, but the terrorist cell had used the villagers as hostages and distractions while they transported Oliver and Roach to a prison in a larger city. There they were both beaten for information and, over a period of twelve days, infection had set in and killed Oliver, leaving Roach as the last surviving member of his team. Rescue had come a day after Oliver's death, medics informing Roach that the infection and malnourishment should have killed, or at least crippled him. Instead he'd survived, and after four months of leave he'd re-enlisted and was christened Roach by his new teammates.

What was happening now felt like some kind of twisted repeat of what he'd experienced before. All the correct pieces were there. They simply belonged to a different puzzle and therefore, created a slightly different picture. It wasn't a good feeling. Roach forced his eyes open as MacTavish called, "I see four hostiles on the next tower!"

Hornet Two-One was just stabilizing so Toad and Roach could get their shots off when an F-15 completely annihilated it, roaring by them. "Hang on," the pilot yelled as the Little Bird wobbled before stabilizing again.

"Shepherd, get those fighters to cease fire immediately," MacTavish snapped, tone irritated enough that Roach felt himself flinch. "That was too close!"

"I'll try to buy you some time," was Shepherd's reply. "One man in a gulag doesn't mean much to the Navy at this point."

"Bloody Yanks," Ghost muttered from Roach's right. "I thought they were the good guys."

"Only when it doesn't involve blowing something up," Frost piped up from Toad's left, leaving Toad and Roach to exchange exasperated glances.

"Ghost, Frost, cut the chatter," MacTavish ordered. "Stay frosty." There was a pause and Frost arched his eyebrows expectantly, opening his mouth to make another comment. MacTavish's sharp look had his mouth snapping shut and the American quickly turning away from the captain. Frost might not have been a wolf, so he didn't feel the imperative to obey a pack alpha, but even a human had the sense to recognize when they were about to push something too far.

The Little Bird landed long enough for the team to hit the ground, and then it was moving up again, safely out of shooting range should any of the remaining guards happen across an RPG. "Go, go, go!" MacTavish yelled and they sprinted toward the entrance to the gulag. A hail of gunfire from the second floor of the building had them ducking for cover.

"Two-One is in position for a gun run," a voice announced over their comms as the Russians paused to reload.

"Copy Two-One," MacTavish replied. "Lasing target on the second floor."

"Two-One copies. Got a tally on six tangos, in bound hot." A rain of gunfire raced down from the sky to take down the tangos on the second floor, leaving them free to enter the gulag. They eliminated the guards at the door and pushed inside with little effort.

"This is it," MacTavish called to the team. "We go in, grab Prisoner 627, and get out! Check your corners! Let's go!"

"Ready for this?" Frost asked from Roach's left and he turned his head towards his friend. Frost had been part of Delta Force before he'd been recruited for the 141. His Delta Force team had worked together with Roach's SAS squad more than once, allowing the two to become friends before Frost's recruitment. Their friendship was why Roach shrugged in response to the question rather than coming up with a lie.

Was he ready for what was coming? Roach wasn't certain. His mind was swimming with barely suppressed flashbacks that he knew were just waiting for the opportunity to break free. If they did, Roach knew he would freeze and that could cause not only his own death, but the deaths of his friends. In all honesty, he doubted he was ready to help rescue Prisoner Six-Two-Seven, but what other choice did he have? It was far too late to back out now.

"I've got your back," his friend murmured as they sprinted into the belly of the beast, taking out Russians as they went.

"Thanks," Roach murmured back, sparing one quick smile for Frost before turning his attention towards the front again.

"That's the control room up ahead," Ghost yelled as they ran into a group of guards. "I can use it to find the prisoner. I'll tap into their system to look for the prisoner, but it's gonna take some time."

"Copy that," MacTavish yelled back. "Toad, you're on guard duty. Frost, Roach, on me. We're going to search the cells."

"Good luck," Toad muttered as he passed them to stand guard in the door Ghost had just vanished through.

"You too man," Frost replied before he and Roach had to hurry to catch up to MacTavish. They headed down a set of stairs and ran into a group of guards almost instantly. The three ducked returned fire, leaving bodies strewn across the floor. The peace that followed was only temporary, and a barely a minute later there were more Russians. "What are these guys?" Frost demanded after the third repetition of that event. "Gremlins? Do they multiply if you water them after dark or something?"

"If there's one resource Russia has in abundance, it's Russians," MacTavish replied, tone amused. Frost huffed in exasperation and then focused on taking out the next round of guards

"All right, I'm patched in," Ghost's voice announced over their comms. "I'm tracking your progress on security cameras."

"Copy that," MacTavish replied as they paused around a corner, taking a breather between rounds of Russian guards. "Do you have the location of Prisoner 627?"

"Negative," came the swift response. "But I've got a searchlight tracking hostiles on your floor. That should make your job easier."

"Roger that," MacTavish said before turning back towards Frost and Roach. "Stay sharp," he ordered. "The prisoner may been in one of these cells." They moved forward again only to to run into a locked security door. "Ghost, we've hit a security door," MacTavish barked. "Get it open!"

"Working on it," was Ghost's response. Then, after a moment of silence, the lieutenant added, "This hardware is ancient."

After another moment of tense silence, a security door on the opposite side of the room they were trying to get into opened. "Ghost, you opened the wrong door," MacTavish said, voice equal parts harried and amused by the entire situation.

"Roger, standby," Ghost said, sounding frustrated. "Got it!" The door in front of the team slid open agonizingly slowly.

"That's better," MacTavish said, turning to motion Frost and Roach forward. "Let's go!"
They found themselves in a hallway with a series of open cell doors. Roach felt his stomach sink towards his feet at the sight, and his worry only grew worse when they discovered each of the cells were empty. He paused in front of one of the final cells, eyes falling on the blood stains on the floor. "Roach?" Frost's voice asked near his shoulder. "You okay?"

"...Yeah," Roach managed to get out, throat very dry. He found himself wondering if a man had died here, in agony from his wounds just like Oliver had been.

"Talk to me Ghost," MacTavish's voice said from the hall behind them. "These cells are deserted."

"You sure?" Frost murmured.

"No," Roach replied, glancing over at Frost. "But what choice do I have?"

"Got it," Ghost's triumphant voice exclaimed, making them both jump. "Prisoner 627 has been transferred to the east wing. Head through the armory in the center. That's the fastest way there."

"Roger that," MacTavish replied before turning towards his teammates. "Squad, head for the armory down there. Move!" As Frost led the way down another set of steps towards the exposed armory in the center of the gulag, Roach couldn't help but wonder whether or not this mission was going to end as terribly as the one that had cost him his pack.

August 14, 2009

Russian Gulag

Prisoner 627 | Captain John Price

Most days in the Gulag went the same. In this way, it didn't vary much from the military that Prisoner 627 had served in before ending up here. Of course, that had been before Zakhaev. Before he'd led a doomed SAS unit against a man who would ensure, even after his death, that Captain John Price rotted away in a Russian gulag for the rest of his life. It seemed, somehow, to be a fitting revenge coming from a dead man.

Price had long suspected that no rescue was coming. He was a single soldier, not worth the massive rescue effort that it would likely take to break down the gulag's defenses. The building was built for defense. In the centuries before modern weaponry, anyone who would have attempted to storm the gulag would have been faced with a near impossible task. Surrounded by high, circular walls and placed near a jagged coastline that was almost impossible to scale. As military technology increased, so did the defenses.

Stone towers had been erected just within the outer walls of the gulag, complete with anti-aircraft weaponry. Furthermore, the cells of the gulag had been moved underground, rather than in the main body of the gulag above ground. The number of guards had also been increased, so that if someone happened to get past the outer defenses, they would struggle to reach the lower levels. The increased number of guards also helped keep the prisoners in check. The number of escape attempts flat lined with each increase, the prisoners warily navigating around the newcomers in their world. This was one of those wary days, but not for a usual reason.

The gulag was in chaos. Guards were running everywhere and shouting to each other in Russian, weapons at the ready. Price's Russian might not have been flawless, but he understood enough to know that someone was attacking the gulag. Judging by the sheer amount of movement around Price and certain other prisoners who had been deemed extremely dangerous, whoever it was, they had some serious fire power.

"They think it is Makarov," Aleksei, bastard son of a Russian crime lord, reported. His English was good only because his mother had ferreted him away to Canada for a while in an attempt to shield him from his father's chosen occupation. At the end of the ordeal, she'd been killed in front of a ten year old Aleksei's eyes and the boy had been returned to Russia. He was being held in the gulag for a reason he refused to disclose, other than to mention that it had something to do with his father. "They believe he has come to kill a..." He hesitated a moment, searching for the correct word before saying, "Hated enemy."

Price's world seemed to freeze at Makarov's name. The mad man had been kept in check by Imran Zakhaev but with Zakhaev killed by Soap, Price's former FNG when he'd been control of an SAS unit, Makarov was free to do as he pleased. Price found himself wondering why it had taken Makarov so long to track him down. He highly doubted that he presence in this gulag had been kept a secret.

"Makarov?" Sasha demanded, dark eyes wide. "On sumasshedshiy. On prineset eto mesto vniz na nashikh golovakh!"
The rapid fire Russian was too fast for Price, who was forced to turn to Aleksei for translation. "He says that Makarov will bring the gulag down on our heads," the young man said.

Sasha's panicked statement had spread, sending the other nearby prisoners into chaos. Price dodged a man who'd been flung into the bars of a cell. The noise caught the attention of several of the guards who'd been running past. One of them swore vehemently in Russian at what he saw and yelled for one of his companions to fetch the warden before wading in to break up the growing fight.

The warden of this particular gulag had been a member of the Voennaya politsiya, the Russian military police. This was his form of retirement and, as far as Price could tell, he enjoyed it. His name was Fyodor Gusev and he was distinctive in a world full of raggedy, starving prisoners and identically uniformed guards for two reason. The first was that he was a rather portly looking man. Some time during his early retirement he had gone from a fit member of the VP to a rather overweight form with a beard the eerily reminded Price of jolly old Saint Nick.

The second difference was his shoes. Gusev was short. At five foot eight, most the guards he commanded towered over. To make up for that disadvantage, Gusez tended to wear high heeled boots that clicked loudly as he walked. Prisoners had learned to associate the clicking with the warden's presence, as well as coming pain and death. In the sudden silence, as the prisoners were pulled apart and screamed or beaten into submission by the guards, they could all hear the clicking.

Despite the chaos around them, the room fell perfectly silent. Distant shouting from guards engaging the infiltrators filtered down to them, but it wasn't enough to drown out the sound of Gusev's shoes as the heavyset man stepped into view. "Chto?" he demanded flatly and one of the guards replied with a rapid fire string of words, most of which Price didn't recognize. The warden scowled, obviously displeased by the entire situation, and then barked out a sharp order that had several of the prisoners paling.

The guards began rounding them up with scowls and rough shoves, Aleksei slipping into line beside Price. "They have orders to kill us," the twenty-nine year old murmured eyes gleaming in the shadows as the entire gulag shuddered. "We are causing too much trouble and the warden does not wish to deal with us." A nearby guard smacked Aleksei with the butt of his gun to silence him and Price steadied the closest person he had to a friend in the hell hole but didn't press for further information.

They were lead into the showers, where running water would quickly and efficiently wash their blood away. The prisoners would have to clean the blood of both guards and infiltrators from the halls as part of their forced labor, but this room would be washed clean by the water raining from the piping above, blood spinning in pale pink circles down the drain. The first prisoners were dragged, struggling, into the center of the room and shot in the head. Blood and brain matter slid down the drain as the bodies were dragged away and the next set were shoved to their knees of the damp tile.

The third batch had been slaughtered, leaving only one more group of five prisoners to be killed, when yelling suddenly started up right outside their location. Sasha attempted to take advantage of the distraction of the guards around him only to be shot and killed twice in the chest. The rest were dragged further into the showers, leaving behind a group of guards to deal with whatever trouble was coming. The men dragging them intended to finish the slaughter regardless of the consequences, and Price knew that their single minded determination could give him the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

While he had long ago given up any hope of an outside rescue effort reaching him, Price had still clung to the idea that he might managed to escape himself. He was constantly on the lookout for an opportunity to present itself, and this might be the one he'd been waiting for. Aleksei seemed to be thinking the same thing, demeanor calm as he studied the guards carefully. The men were continually casting gazes back, especially as a massive explosion echoed off the tile walls behind them, as if they were afraid some kind of rescue might reach the prisoners before they could be eliminated.

They were dragged into a hallway, and Aleksei's eyes met Price's for a brief moment before the young Russian struck. The guard, who hadn't been anticipating an attack, let out a startled cry and fell, killed by a shot from his own sidearm. The guards turned a hail of bullets on the young man, killing another of the prisoners in the process, and Price struck a blow of his own, sending the situation spiraling into chaos. The guards, realizing quickly that they couldn't fire they way they wished in such close quarters, scrambled to put some distance between themselves and the now armed prisoners, both of which dove for cover.

"I believe now is our time to separate, da?" Aleksei said, a smile crossing his grimy face.

"We'll be harder to track down and kill if we split up," Price agreed.

"Then I wish you luck," Aleksei informed him before breaking for cover and diving into a new hall, leaving the guards scrambling to react. Price took out a couple before the hall seemed clear, rising and making his way cautiously down it.

The gulag's ceiling rumbled ominously, the floor shaking beneath his feet. Through the din, Price missed the footsteps of a single Russian guard who had remained behind, whether to cover the backs of his comrades or avoid the punishment for letting a prisoner escape, he wasn't certain. The blow the man dealt him sent him stumbling back, struggling to regain his balance with cuffed hands. The guard took advantage of that, grabbing the handcuffs and practically dragging Price into an empty room, shoving him into a chair and retreating temporarily to seal the door.

The man said something to Price in Russian, what sounded like a demand, but he ignored it. The man in front of him was twitchy and frustrated about something. If Price waited long enough, he would strike and it would likely be sloppy. Sure enough, after a moment of silence the man began to circle him. It was an attempt at intimidation that might have worked on someone who wasn't trained for these kinds of situations. Price waited until the man's back was to him before rising to his feet and wrapping the connecting chain between the handcuffs around the man's throat. At the same time, an explosion ripped the door off its hinges, revealing whoever'd been causing the chaos in the gulag.

Price dropped the dead body on the floor and lunged forward to punch the kid hard, sending him stumbling back before falling to the ground. As the kid hit the floor, Price had already moved to grab the guard's AK, aiming it at the startled intruder's head. Wide brown eyes turned to stare up at him just a moment before Price felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. "Drop it!" a familiar voice and Price turned his slightly so he could catch a glimpse of the man holding the weapon.

"Soap?" He lowered the weapon slowly, wary of sudden movement in his peripheral vision as a blonde haired young man in the same uniform as the one Price had downed stepped into view.

"Price?" came the wary question, the captain's former FNG slowly lowering the weapon and moving back a step. He freed a hand to make some kind of signal at the other two in the room, eyes never leaving Price's.

"Who's Soap?" a distinctively American accented voice questioned from somewhere behind him.

Soap ignored the question, handing over the handgun and saying, "This belongs to you sir." An explosion rocked the floor beneath them as

Price took the weapon from Soap's hand, causing the younger two soldiers to flinch. "Come on, we've gotta get out of here," Soap snapped. "Move, move!"

They sprinted into the hall, the two young soldiers shifting to flank Soap almost automatically, though they shot wary looks at Price. They lunged around a corner, he ceiling shaking ominously, and a chopper came into view at hole in the wall of the gulag. "There's the chopper," Soap yelled. "Get ready to jump!" They were only a few feet away when the tunnel in front of them collapsed, leaving them to back peddle.

"Go back, go back," Soap ordered. "We'll find another way out." He put on some extra speed, eyes gleaming golden as he pushed himself into the lead. The soldier Price had punched was right on Soap's heels, leaving the captain and the blonde soldier to push themselves behind him.

They darted around a corner, the panicked and fleeing Russian guards ignoring them, and the blonde snapped, "It's a dead end!"

"No really," his companion muttered irritably. "We never would have noticed." The soldier was shivering slightly, eyes twitching between the slabs of fallen stone that were blocking their exit and the chaos behind them. The blonde bumped shoulders with him, grinning reassuringly, but the other's gaze just flickered away.

"Six-Four, where the hell are you?" Soap demanded, scowling darkly at whatever reply he was being given. That was when the roof decided it was the proper time to collapse on their heads. Large chunks of dirt encrusted concrete crashed down to the floor, sending them all scrambling out of the way. One of the younger soldiers, the twitchy one, didn't quiet get clear in time.

"Roach!" the blonde shouted in warning as one of the thinner, relatively lighter concrete blocks took his friend to the ground.

"Roach is down," Soap reported, voice furious and worried as the blonde scrambled over to feel for a pulse. "Roach!"

"He's still breathing," the blonde reported and Price winced. He'd known the kid for all of five minutes and had already punched him in the face before seeing him taken by a concrete block. He helped the blonde lift the concrete blocks and chunks of stone off Roach, carefully heaving the half conscious kid upright.

"Whatever you're gonna do Soap, do it fast," he said, watching the younger man turn his attention towards the blonde.

"Frost-" The American pulled out a flare gun before Soap could manage more than his call sign, practically shoving it into the older man's hands.

"Just get us out of here," Frost demanded, casting a worried gaze towards Roach, who was leaning heavily against Price. Soap nodded, aimed the flare gun towards the newly created hole in the ceiling, and fired. A minute later, a rope lowered down to hit the ground, a helicopter hovering above them.

"Let's go," Price snapped, helping Roach across the space to clip on to the rope.

"Hook on," Soap snapped towards Frost. "Go, go!"

"Hang on," Price called, even as Soap was the first lifted off the ground. They rose up above the gulag just before fighter jets reduced the place to a smoking, flaming mess. Price had to admit, he wasn't sad to see it go. The place had been home to a lot of misery and pain, and his only worry was that Aleksei hadn't gotten to safety on time.

The copilot of the helo helped them on to the vehicle's main floor with a relieved looking grin crossing his face. "Glad to see you still in one piece," he shouted over the wind. "Johnson and I weren't sure we were gonna be able to find you." He jerked a thumb back towards where the pilot was still managing the helicopter, as if he had to explain who Johnson was.

Soap nodded, eyes scanning over his two squad mates, and then questioned, "Did someone pick up the other two?"

"MacArthur and Creely got them a few minutes before we saw your flare," the copilot reported. "Creely was muttering about getting swore at by some British bastard but they were okay."

Price watched Soap's lips twitch up into a quick smile at the copilot's report and then his head snapped around to focus on Frost as the blonde cautious stepped over to support Roach. Price handed over the care of the young soldier as Soap asked, "Do you have orders on where to take us?"

"General Shepherd gave us coordinates to some headquarters we're supposed to drop you off at for supplies before someone else transports you to your next location," the copilot reported. Turning towards his seat before hesitating and turning back to Soap. "Anything else you need to know, sir?" He waited for Soap's head to shake before returning to his seat. Price shook his head at that. He'd been in a gulag for a couple years and Soap had been promoted to captain. The world as he'd known it had changed, leaving him struggling to adjust. The only thing he did know for sure was that something big was happening, and that Soap was likely in the middle of it.

August 14, 2009

Task Force 141 Headquarters, Undisclosed Location

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnson, MacArthur, and their copilots left MacTavish, Price, and his team standing just out of sight of the 141 headquarters. The forest around them obscured their their vision, the helicopter's landing in a man made clearing specifically created for the arrival and pick up of 141 soldiers. The hike to headquarters was a mile hike from this position, up hill, and it was hell when you had a seriously injured teammate to bring with you. MacTavish had assessed the status of Frost and Roach, relieved that Roach was battered and bruised but no worse for wear despite what had happened to him.

"Anyone tell you what's going on?" Ghost questioned from his left, casting a wary gaze at Price. MacTavish's old captain was standing a little bit away from the group, assessing MacTavish's team.

"Just that we're here to pick up supplies before our next assignment," he replied, glancing over at Roach who was standing on his own. "Let's move out," he called towards them. "We've only got an hour before we're supposed to be back here. Let's make the most of it."

Frost and Roach fell in behind MacTavish, Ghost stepping back to join them as Price joined his former FNG. They walked in silence for a few minutes, hiking uphill, until Price said, "So you got a promotion."

"Yeah," MacTavish agreed, glancing back at the men following him. A lot of things had changed since he'd thought Price had been killed by Zakhaev, the biggest being that he'd been given command of an international task force. While Shepherd handed out missions, it was MacTavish's job to assign teams and, often, to arrange evac. It had been a big adjustment, one that he might not have made successfully without Ghost's help. Lieutenant Simon Riley might have been wary about MacTavish at first, but he'd helped the early missions run as smoothly as possible.

"Who am I working with?" Price questioned, turning his own gaze away from the men behind them. His gaze was shuttered, keeping whatever he was thinking hidden.

"The man in the mask is Ghost," MacTavish told him. "My lieutenant. The Frenchman arguing with him is Toad. He's an sniper when we need him to be, but most the time he's a spotter for Archer, who is currently on base. Behind them are Frost, who is former Delta Force, and Roach, who's SAS and our latest FNG. The only two off base are Chemo and Scarecrow. One's on leave and the other's injured enough to be off active duty." He paused as they crested the hill and glanced back at his crew. Toad and Ghost's arguement had spread back to the other two. Frost had jumped into it with both feet, pulling Roach in after him. Their newest member appeared exasperated by the event, but not really surprised. "They're a bit crazy, but they're good at what they do."

"They'd better be," was Price's muttered reply before they made it over the crest of a slope and took in the view of the Headquarters.

Tucked into the side of a mountain, the grey concrete building's surface was so dull that it almost faded into the boulders surrounding it. Part of it had actually been built into the surface of the mountain for extra security, but if you came out the back of it, you ended up in a sloping yard that turned into the obstacle training course from hell. Ghost, being Ghost, loved the obstacle course. Or at least loved making people that annoyed him run it again and again. Frost had dubbed it cruel and unusual punishment.

About a month before Roach had been added to the team, the young American had made the mistake of saying that he bet Ghost couldn't actually cleanly run the course. The lieutenant had taken him up on that challenge, running it flawlessly in a time far faster than anyone else. Then, in retaliation, he'd had Frost running the course almost all afternoon. He'd had just enough energy remaining to call Ghost a fucking bastard at the end of his last run before collapsing on the grass from where Scarecrow had finally taken pity on him and helped him into base an hour later.

"Welcome home kids," MacTavish called back and got varied protests and jeers from behind him. Price snorted at the cacophony and MacTavish shook his head, typing in the correct code to unlock the heavy front door. He waited for the click that signaled the final latch had pulled back before turning the handle and opening the door. They stepped into a white cinder block hallway and turned left after fur steps, entering into a common room. Several mismatched chairs and a faded green couch had been shoved into it along with an ancient television set. The set was on but muted, closed captioning giving Archer, who was perched on the arm of a grey armchair that had probably been white once, a way to understand what was happening. Sitting on the far end of the couch with brown hair and sharp hazel eyes that seemed to cut into whatever he was looking at.

Archer turned his head and then stood, grinning. "So you morons made it back in one piece," he called to his teammates who'd filtered in behind MacTavish.

"No thanks to you," Toad replied with good humor, making the sniper shake his head.

MacTavish was aware of Archer sending wary glances Price's way, but ignored them for the moment in favor of asking, "Who's this?" He tilted his head slightly towards the dark haired young man and Archer's gaze moved, almost automatically, towards him.

"Ah, right," the sniper said. "David Mason, Captain John MacTavish." He gestured between the two of them and then turned back to MacTavish.

"As of yesterday evening, Mason's been officially transferred to the 141."

MacTavish absorbed the information in complete silence, his team hushing behind him. This was the last thing he needed at the moment. Adding an FNG to the 141 was always a difficult task. The team had become a tight knit family and they were always testing the newcomer, pushing him. Sometimes they tried to push too far, and it was MacTavish's job to prevent that. Right now he was in the middle of a war, and that would make it incredibly difficult to manage missions as well as keep an eye on a newcomer to make sure they were adjusting well. Still, if Shepherd had cleared the transfer there was little MacTavish could do about it.

"Is he cleared for active duty?" MacTavish questioned.

"In a way," Archer said, lips twitching into a smirk.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"He got into an argument with the medic over whether or not he should be released for active duty," came the reply, the sniper's smirk growing. Behind him, on the couch, Mason's blank faced stare shifted as his lips twitched slightly into a smirk of his own.

"Who won?" MacTavish asked, though he had a feeling he knew the answer. His suspicions were confirmed when Archer jerked a head towards Mason. He nodded, absorbing that information, and the team cautiously spread into the room.

"General Shepherd requested that you contact him as soon as you arrived," Archer said and MacTavish nodded, stepping out of the room. Price followed him to his office, the door swinging shut behind him.

"I want to speak to this General Shepherd," the older man said when MacTavish glanced at him questioningly. He nodded and turned towards the computer, starting it up and working on establishing a connection between the General and 141 Headquarters.

"Uplink almost complete," he said, stepping back. "General Shepherd, you're online with Captain Price."

"Back from the brink, Captain," Shepherd's voice said, tone neutral.

"Out of the frying pan is more like it," Price replied, eyes narrowed. "This world looks more like hell than the one I just left."

"We thought we'd recovered the ACS before the Russians could crack it," was Shepherd's sharp reply. "We were wrong. Then Makarov turned the US into his scapegoat. Next thing you know, there's flames everywhere." Price, whom MacTavish had filled in on what was going on earlier, was ignoring Shepherd's speech, fingers flying across the keys as he brought up an image, sending it to the man. "What's this image you're sending me?"

"You wanna put out an oil fire, sir, you set off a bigger explosion right next to it. Sucks away the oxygen. Snuffs the flame," was Price's response. MacTavish's eyes narrowed as they fixed on the image of the submarine, wondering what his old captain was planning.

"Price, you've been locked away too long. Better get your mind right, son." Shepherd's voice was full of warning. Whatever Price wanted to do, Shepherd knew and didn't think it was advisable.

"Shepherd, are you willing to do what's necessary to win?" Price challenged.

"Always."

"We got ourselves a pretty big fire. Gonna need a huge bang."

"You've been in the gulag too long Price. Focus on taking out Makarov."

"No time, sir," Price replied, and this time the sir was deliberately sarcastic. "We need to end this war today."

"I'm not asking you Price," Shepherd growled. "This is an order. You're to-"

Price hit a button and the connection terminated in the middle of the general's sentence. "Hmm," the man murmured. "Looks like we lost our connection."

The plan Price outlined was simple and, despite the nagging voice that insisted he shouldn't be okaying it, MacTavish organized a team to carry it out. He just hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake.

August 14, 2009

Washington D.C., United States

Mike Harper

He ignored the chatter of wounded and exhausted soldiers around him as he passed through the bunker. He'd left the majority of Mason's former Ranger battalion behind, only Ramirez coming with him. The man had insisted on coming with him, saying that it wouldn't do him any good to stand around worrying about what was to come. Harper had shrugged at that, and set off to see if he could find Cady Harrison in the mess around them.

Mike Harper had grown up in a small town Midwest environment, Cady Harrison at his side. The straw haired, stick thin woman, just six months younger than him, either hadn't cared about Harper's gruff attitude or had seen it as amusing. Harper hadn't quite figured out which one it had been, but by then he'd been stuck with her. When they turned nineteen, they'd both fled their tiny town, each in their own way. Harper had joined up with the Rangers, and quickly distinguished himself, while Cady had gone to the Air Force before being snatched up by Central Intelligence. Last he'd heard, her official CI posting had been in D.C. Now he was hoping she was nearby.

Harper had the pieces of a puzzle in his hand, and he needed answers. Ones that he wasn't high enough up the food chain to get. His best hope to find them was to find Cady, but so far his attempts had been fruitless. Much of CI had already been evacuated from the city, so his questions were met with confused shrugs and firm head shakes. Ramirez was helping as best he could, but his efforts were as fruitless as Harper's.

He was beginning to believe it was a hopeless endeavor when Ramirez called, "Sofia!" A dark haired young woman turned and then brightened, hurrying over to the younger man, talking to him animatedly in Spanish. Harper hung back as they spoke for several minutes, feeling uncomfortably out of place. Ramirez turned to Harper with a grin after as their conversation paused. "This is my little sister, Sofia," he told his companion. "She says she knows where your friend is."

"Can you take us to her?" Harper questioned and Sofia nodded.

"Of course," she replied. "Come with me."

"Sofia is CI as well," Ramirez told Harper as they followed Sofia down the hall. "She works with your friend, from time to time, and both of them refused to leave the city with the evacuation groups."

Sofia led them into a cluttered looking room off the beaten path of the bunker's main path. Cady was standing inside along with a young man of what appeared to be Middle Eastern origins. The two of them were pouring over several manilla folders, a glowing tablet resting next to Cady's left elbow. They both turned as the door closed behind Ramirez, and Cady's ruddy face broke into a wide smile. "Michael, good to see you," she said as she crossed the room to fling her arms around his shoulders and pull him into a quick hug.

"Good to see you too dollface," he teased her and she rolled her eyes.

"I see you've already met Sofia," Cady continued as if he hadn't said anything. "And this is Karim. We've been working together on gathering information against a Middle Eastern terrorist group, not that the information we have is useful now."

"I'm sure it will still be necessary once the Russian crisis has blown over," Ramirez told her and she grinned at him.

"I like you," she said and Sofia frowned.

"Stay away from my brother," she said, shaking her finger playfully at Cady, who tilted her head back and laughed.

"As nice as it is to see you, and be exposed to your charming personality," Harper drawled. "I have a favor to ask you."

"Alright," Cady said, blue eyes turning businesslike. "Shoot."

"Can you trust Sofia and Karim?" Harper asked and Cady nodded solemnly. "I need some information."

"What kind of information?"

"General Shepherd," Harper said, practically spitting out the name. "I need his full history, and what he's currently involved in."

"Why?" Cady asked but she'd already pulled her tablet over and was typing something on it.

"Just a hunch," Harper told her, not willing to lay his cards on the table just yet.

There was close to twenty minutes of silence as Cady worked, but then she let out a bright little cheer. "Got it!" She flashed a grin at him before turning back to the tablet. "Let's see. Lieutenant General Hershel von Shepherd the Third, in charge of Task Force 141. He's been recruiting a lot in the past two years. Most recent recruit is one David Mason, added to the CIA roster and sent to infiltrait Vladimir Makarov's organization. Listed as MIA."

Harper felt his stomach sink into his shoes at the new piece of news. He'd thought that Shepherd might have been doing something underhanded but he hadn't thought that David would be tangled up in the middle of it. "Any of this what you're looking for?" Cady asked, glancing up, and then froze. "Mike, you okay?"

"Mason's MIA?" Ramirez blurted, face equally pale.

"Yeah," Cady replied warily, glancing between the two Rangers. "What's going on?"

"Shepherd sent us to collect and HVI," Harper explained, voice chilly. "He gave us the challenge and response, but when we got there, the door to the panic room was already open."

"Forced open?" Cady questioned and Harper shook his head. "So somebody gave the Russians the correct words." She frowned. "You think Shepherd?"

"I had my suspicions," Harper told her. "But they're a lot more solid now. Mason has connections in the CIA from his father and guardian. They wouldn't let his cover be blown in any way and the blood of an American CIA agent found in the middle of a deadly airport massacre when tensions are already high between the US and Russia just seemed a little too convenient. Especially since no one had found a body."

"Shepherd has a lot of pull," Cady countered. "What would he gain from starting a war between the US and Russia."

"You tell me," Harper said and she scowled at him before looking back through the information.

"I'm not seeing anything that..." Her voice suddenly trailed off and her eyes widened. "Wait a minute. I may have found something."

"What?"

"Shepherd was placed in charge of charge of military operations in the Middle East during the second Russian Civil War," Cady said. "He lost 30,000 men to a nuclear bomb in just seconds in Iran."

"Was there any kind of psych evaluation?" Sofia asked, crossing the room to glance over Cady's shoulder.

"None of record. Shepherd just continued on like nothing had happened and, when he sought permission to start the 141, no one questioned him."

"A death count of that large scale had to have damaged his reputation," Ramirez commented. "And I've seen Shepherd before, when he came to recruit Mason. A man like that doesn't take disgrace well."

"His family has quite a military reputation as well," Cady murmured, still reading. "And it all rests on his shoulders."

"If he could pin the blame for the massacre on Makarov, in this state of emergency, he'd been given free reign," Karim pointed out, dark eyes narrowed. "And if he kills Makarov..."

"His legacy is cemented," Harper finished darkly.

"That's not the only worrying detail," Cady piped up. "I mentioned that Shepherd's been recruiting, a lot, in the past two years. I'm cross referencing the names of the men he's pulled, and most of them weren't sent to the 141. They seem to have been added to some sort of Shadow Company that Shepherd's holding in reserve."

"To eliminate the loose ends," Karim said darkly, not so much as blinking when everyone turned to look at him. "I've infiltrated half a dozen terrorist organizations while with CI. I know how this works. If Shepherd is indeed the man who started this war, then he'll have to make sure everyone privy to any details of his deceit is eliminated. That involves your friend Mason, if he's still alive, and the entirety of the 141, who he has sent to do his dirty work."

Harper blew out a deep breath and met Cady's blue eyes. "Can you tell us where Shepherd's sent his team?"

"I can, but it's going to take time," came the reply, his friend already bent over the tablet again. "The Secretary of Defense is pushing to give Shepherd free reign to run the operation as he pleases but our President, under the advice of the head of CI, is hesitating. If Shepherd really is running a scam to regain his family's honor, then he'll need to do something drastic soon to ensure that he gets his free reign. That means his network is going to be extremely protected, and if I get caught hacking into it, we could all be killed."

"I'll help," Sofia murmured, fishing another tablet out from beneath several rolled maps. "I'm a better hacker than you, and if our suspicions are correct then innocent lives are on the line."

"I don't want you to get in trouble for this," Harper said, wary of putting anyone else in danger. Mason was already deep into dangerous territory, if he was even still alive, and Harper might have been a cold bastard at times but he didn't want to put Cady and her friends' lives in danger.

In response, he got a quick grin flashed in his direction. "We're part of a CI project called Typhon. Our job description is to prevent acts of terror and, while we generally operate in the Middle East, I think this time our boss will be willing to make an exception." Harper nodded and Cady went back to work, Sofia and Karim joining her.

"I can't stay," Ramirez murmured at Harper's side. "I'm officially assigned to Foley's battalion and they'll notice if I go missing."

"With as much as he hollers at you to do things, I have no doubt of that," Harper returned and Ramirez smirked at little at him.

"When you find Mason, give him my regards." Harper nodded at the younger man, who turned to leave.

"Be careful out there," he called as Ramirez reached the door, and the young man turned back with a grin.

"You too. Good hunting."

He was gone before Harper could come up with a reply, leaving the older man to shake his head ruefully and mutter, "Cheeky little shit," before settling in for a long wait.

Hours marched by and Harper's position by the door eventually transitioned into more of a slump until he found himself sitting on the floor. It had been a long, exhausting day and the adrenalin that had been holding him upright was fading away. His heavy eyelids fought to stay open for a moment before he allowed them to drift closed. In his dreams he and Mason were in Iraq again, fighting their way through a swath of local militia that had shot their plan to hell. Despite the chaos around them, Mason was giving Harper what was almost a grin as he threw out another lazy jab at the incompetence of whoever had gathered the intel for that mission. It had been a mess from the start, and they were just stuck cleaning it up.

Harper was opening his mouth to respond when a hand shook him roughly awake. "Karim has something," Cady announced before he could register who exactly was doing the shaking. "But it isn't good."

"Define not good," Harper rasped and Karim glanced up from a laptop to give him a grim stare.

"I've been monitoring communication channels," the CI agent said. "Looking for anything that might be useful." Harper arched an eyebrow expectantly but Karim wasn't looking at him anymore, fingers tapping on the keyboard. "Just five minutes ago, I got word that there's a nuke heading towards D.C."

On a scale of one to ten, one being best case scenario and ten being the worse, this was a fucking fifteen. For a moment, all Harper could do was stare in blank astonishment at Karim. When Cady had suggested that Shepherd would do something drastic to get the permission he required for his little plan, the Ranger had never suspected this. "Shit," he muttered and Cady nodded. "Any luck finding the 141?"

"They aren't at base, but I can't find any records of their current location," she replied. "Sofia and I are working on it, but it's likely going to be a while." Harper settled himself more comfortably against the wall as he could, absorbing that information. His friend was MIA, the US was in a war against Russia, and there was a nuke headed towards Washington D.C. that was going to give the man who'd started the war almost unlimited power. There was absolutely no way Harper was going to get any more sleep that night.

August 14, 2009

14 miles South, Southeast of Petropavovsk, Russia

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

They had a war to stop, so it was back to freezing winds and snow for Roach. He scowled as he slipped free of his chute, shivering as a freezing blast of wind seemed to cut straight through him. Snow was blowing everywhere, and in the storm he couldn't see where his teammates were. Somewhere out there were Frost, Ghost, Archer, Toad, and Captain Price while MacTavish stayed back to give them directions. Mason had been ordered to remain with him and the blank, calculating look that had earned Captain Price before the other FNG had given the older man was a nod had sent chills through Roach.

"Price, I can barely see Roach's chute on my satellite feed," MacTavish's voice announced in his ear. "Too much interference. Do you see him, over?"

"Roger that Soap," Captain Price replied and Roach startled a little as he remembered that the Captain had a callsign now. It was strange, like trying to picture a grim faced president as a little kid. Somehow, the two images never seemed to add up. "I've found Roach," the older man continued as he jogged into view. "He appears to be intact. We're gonna head northwest to the sub base, over."

"Appears to be intact," Roach muttered scornfully under his breath. What else would he be? Especially with a callsign like Roach. Survival of even the most deadly situations was his curse to bear, yet Captain Price seemed to be astonished that he'd even landed on the ground without something going wrong. If the man was making snap judgements by what he'd seen in the gulag, the tone was probably warranted, but it irked Roach all the same.

"Copy that," MacTavish replied steadily. "The rest of the team landed near Ghost, pretty far to the east."

"Tell them to proceed with the mission," Captain Price replied. "We'll regroup if possible." Then he turned to Roach and added, "Roach, follow me and stay out of sight."

Roach bristled a little bit as he followed. The older man was speaking to him as if he didn't understand the meaning of a stealth mission and it was grating. They reached the crest of a hill and a group of men with a German Shepherd standing patiently at their side came into view. Roach blew out a soft breath and hoped the wind didn't shift to carry their scent towards the dog. If that German Shepherd figured out where they were, they were done for.

"Contact," Captain Price murmured over their comm airwaves. "Enemy patrol thirty meters to our front. Five men, automatic rifles, frag grenades. One German Shepherd."

"Dogs," MacTavish muttered, the sound carrying whether he'd meant it to or not. "I hate dogs."

"These Russian dogs are like pussycats compared to the ones in Pripyat," was Captain Price's reply.

"It's good to have you back old man," was MacTavish's warm reply. Roach was certain he would feel the same way if he'd discovered one of his teammates was still alive, but right now the sentiment annoyed him. As far as he'd seen, Captain Price had already discounted the 141 and no one appreciated being discounted without given a chance to prove themselves.

"Roger that," Captain Price murmured. "Let's follow them quietly and pick off any stragglers." Roach nodded and followed a few steps behind, keeping an eye on the patrol. His breathing was slow and even despite his heartbeat thundering with nerves in his chest. Everything had to run smoothly in order to for a stealth mission to be successful, and timing was the only thing that mattered. "Patience," Captain Price warned him. "Don't do anything stupid. We'll have to take 'em out at the same time."

"I know what I'm doing, sir, "Roach grated out under his breath, gritting his teeth so hard that he was afraid for a moment that they might crack. He ignored the captain's quick glance and focused on the task at hand, trying to push his emotions back.

"Convoy coming," Captain Price murmured in warning while Roach focused on the patrol. "Get out of sight, let them pass." Roach nodded in acknowledgement and followed the captain in the brush, sinking down on the cold ground. The chill sunk through his clothing and into his bones, leaching away any heat that had lingered in them. He shivered as the last vehicle passed by, giving them a clear view of two men who'd paused to smoke, allowing the rest of their patrol to move ahead with the German Shepherd.

"Two of them taking a smoke," came the voice from his left. "Take one and I'll take out the other." Roach didn't bother to give Captain Price any sign of acknowledgement as he aimed down sights, taking out the man looking at his fellow soldier. The other one, who was smoking and staring off into the distance, didn't notice that his companion was dead before he too was crumpling to the ground. "Good," came the soft praise as they moved forward, but Roach ignored it. Captain Price could judge him as he pleased, but Roach had a job to do and he intended to complete it.

They arrived at a bridge with guards standing nearby in two separate groups. Roach frowned at the presence of the dogs, unhappy with the whole situation. If the wind shifted even the tiniest bit, the German Shepherds would catch his scent, and his kind and dogs didn't tend to get along well. "I'm ready," the captain informed him. "Let's take them out all at once. You take his handler and the dog on the left."

Roach gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, aimed, and took out the dog first. When the Russian startled and spun around, Roach put a bullet between his eyes. "Beautiful," Captain Price breathed, taking down his own targets and, safely out of the older man's sight, Roach rolled his eyes. First the man had done nothing but criticize him and now the captain wanted to praise him. Sudden, drastic change in a person's behavior was something Roach had never trusted, and this definitely qualified.

They crossed the bridge at a jog, Russian helos carrying mobile SAM sites flying over their heads. Captain Price cursed at the sight and then said, "Soap, our intel was off. The Russians have mobile SAMs."

"Roger that," was MacTavish's succinct reply and Roach found himself wondering whether or not the other group was in trouble. He hoped not, but Frost was in the other group and he had a tendency to attract danger. It had helped him develop an ice cold response to serious situations, earning him the callsign Frost, but it also meant he ended up injured because of the situations he got into more than just about anyone else in the 141.

"Have you found us some transport?"

"I'm working on it. Out," MacTavish replied in a tone that said he was busy and he'd get back to them later.

Captain Price and Roach had made it across the bridge and were approaching the tree line of a nearby woods when the rumble of an engine had their head snapping around towards the nearby curve of the road. "Incoming!" Captain Price yelled. "Look out! Follow me, into the woods! Go, go!"

For the first time since they'd begun this mission, Roach was in complete agreement with the other man. He pushed himself into a sprint, racing towards the tree line as the incoming BTR's sprayed the ground and air behind them with bullets. Trees groaned under the barrage and a couple smaller ones collapsed behind them. Roach didn't dare glance back to take in the carnage behind them, too busy trying to outrun the deadly vehicles chasing them.

He wasn't sure how long they'd run before Captain Price grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to a stop. "Slow down," the older man told him. "They can't follow us this far." Roach nodded his head, gasping for breath and shaking a little. The adrenalin surging through him, the kind of terror that reminded him they all could die out here, made him feel as if he was going to be sick. Price pulled him down into the brush around them as a search team with taclights passed them by. "Looks like they're searching for us," the older man murmured once they were out of sight, pulling Roach up.

"We weren't exactly subtle," Roach replied, taking a moment to calm his trembling hands. Captain Price's lips quirked up in a slim smile for a moment, and the younger man found himself hating the captain a little less.

They moved forward again, keeping an eye out for any more patrols. They crested a small hill and found themselves a few feet behind the backs of a dog patrol. Huddled downwind, they waited for the patrol to pass and then moved silently forward again. Roach's heart was thundering in his chest but his trembling had faded away and his breathing was calm. It wasn't Roach at his best but it was far from him at his worst. "Three man patrol dead ahead," Price called back to him. "Take them out or leave them be, your call."

Roach let out a soft breath, lifted the gun, and smoothly took at the first two before they'd even had time to call for help. The third one was just moving a hand towards a weapon, forgoing radioing in what had happened in favoring of trying to kill the person aiming to kill him, when Roach put two bullets in his chest. "Nicely done," Price murmured and Roach nodded in acknowledgement of the praise, heartbeat slowing at the successful take downs. He could do this.

Price and Roach moved forward in tandem, making it several yards before encountering another patrol, this one larger than the last. No doubt the BTRs had reported their presence and the Russians were now searching for them. Their cover might not have been completely blown yet, but it was going to be a lot more difficult to remain undetected. Price nudged Roach's shoulder, catching the young sergeant's attention, and when he turned the older man said, "Take the two on the right." Roach didn't bother to nod, turning all his attention towards his assigned targets, and the two quickly downed the patrol.

The next push forward had them at a ridge above a slim path that opened up to reveal another dog patrol. "Your call," was what Price said when Roach glanced at him, and the younger soldier stared down at them, debating. While taking out the patrol would eliminate an immediate threat to them, the bodies were enough in the open that it could alert more Russians that something was wrong. Decision made, Roach shrank back into the shadows and allowed the patrol to slip by. Once they were gone, the two moved forward again crossing that hill and reaching the one overlooking the small town below without incident.

Laying on their bellies in the snow, Price questioned, "Soap what's the status on our air support, over?"

"A UAV loaded with AGMs is en route to your position," was the immediate reply from MacTavish and Roach allowed himself to breathe a little easier. Maybe this mission would run smoothly after all.

"Roger that," Price said. "This ridge is perfect. Roach, take control of the Predator."

Roach pulled the tablet from where he'd carefully stowed up before they'd jumped out of their transport and brought up the correct program, aiming and firing with practiced ease. What happened next couldn't be pinned on him. The predator missile was headed straight for the indicated target when a mobile SAM site struck, taking it out of commission. Roach flinched when the picture turned to nothing more than static, more startled than frightened by the sudden change, and Price cursed. "What just happened?" MacTavish demanded. Roach opened his mouth to reply, found his words failing, and then shrugged.

Price didn't seem to face the same problem as he snapped, "There's a mobile SAM site in the village-"

"Two," Roach cut in.

"What?" was the sharp response, making Roach flinch a little.

"There's two," the sergeant said, giving Price another shrug when the man shot him a searching look.

"Two," Price corrected, turning his attention back to the task at hand. "And one of them just shot down our predator. Soap, we need another predator. Roach, let's go."

The two slid down the slippery slope, rising to their feet at the bottom and engaging with the tangos that suddenly poured out of nearby buildings. They killed the closest but the yelling and pounding of footsteps told them that their days of flying under the radar were long gone. Roach swore under his breath and grabbed a spare AK-47 one of the enemy had been using, dropping his now empty M14 on the ground. As much as he hated to leave the weapon behind, it wouldn't do him any good without any bullets and the USP could only do so much.
More enemies came into view, moving downhill and using the buildings as cover. Price and Roach were working on taking them out when Ghost's voice called, "Check your fire, check your fire! Friendlies coming up at your twelve."

Roach let out a little sigh of relief when the unharmed other part of their team came into view, finishing off the last of the nearby Russians. Ghost had an AT4 he was dragging around as if it weighed next to nothing and the lieutenant used it to take out the mobile SAM sites in two massive explosions. Subtle they might not be, but the 141 was pretty good at destroying things in fiery explosions. "Nice work on those SAM sites," Price said as Ghost and the others covered the last few empty feet between them, Frost and Roach bumping fists in silent greeting.

"Thanks," Ghost replied. "But we'd better get moving. Those explosions are gonna attract a lot of an attention."

"Nah, I think the Russians will just assume they're fireworks," Frost muttered and Roach snorted, Archer shaking his head at them both while Toad muffled laughter behind a hand.

"Shape up and move out knuckleheads," was Ghost's response to that jab. "Or we'll leave you to deal with the angry Russians after we ruin their plan."

"Yes sir," Frost barked out with an exaggerated salute that Roach was sure Ghost rolled his eyes about under his ever present sunglasses. Then the lieutenant turned away and led the charge towards the sub docks.

"Soap, we've linked up with Ghost and the rest of the team," Price reported as they moved from cover to cover, taking out Russians as they went.

"Roger that," came MacTavish's reply. "The second Predator is almost in position. Make it count. These things don't grow on trees." Roach's lips twitched, trying to slip a grin on to his face, but he ignored their effort as he pulled the tablet out again.

"There's the submarine," Price murmured as the program loaded. "Right below the crane. Roach, soften up their defenses with the Predator. Watch for the flashes strobes. That's us."

"No, really?" Roach muttered low enough that only Frost could hear and his friend snorted. Then he carefully aimed and unleashed the concentrated destruction that was a Predator missile. It smashed into the ground a moment later and the resulting explosion thankfully blocked out the sound of any screams.

"That got their attention," MacTavish said. "The whole base is on alert. You'd better hurry! You only have a couple minutes before that submarine dives."

"We're moving," was Price's response, and they were. They ducked from cover to cover, Ghost and Frost alternating on covering Roach while he used the Predator to keep air support from wiping out the 141. Finished with that, he moved on to limit the number of men that could attack them.

"You're halfway there," MacTavish called and Roach had a moment to breath a sigh of relief before the next problem presented itself.

"BTR," Archer called in warning and they all ducked deeper into their cover, hoping the vehicle's sensors didn't spot them.

"Roach," Ghost murmured.

"On it," the young sergeant replied, silently urging the AGM to be ready sooner than it was. The instant MacTavish announced that it was online, Roach sent the missile careening into the BTR.

"Good affect on target," MacTavish praised. "BTR destroyed." At the same time Ghost nudged his shoulder and Roach couldn't stop the grin from darting across his face. The warm feeling in his chest lasted until Ghost had led the team up to the top of a guard tower in order to buy Price time to stop the sub from launching its cargo of missiles

"I'm inside the sub," Price was saying. "Cover me, I need a few minutes."

"Incoming," Ghost yelled, close enough that the volume of his voice made Roach flinch. "Two trucks to the east."

"I've got them," Roach said, focusing the Predator missile on each of the trucks in turn. Ghost and the others took out the few men that had managed to escape the trucks before the Predator had hit them but more vehicles were already on their way. Roach worked on systematically taking them out, not protesting when Ghost shoved him until he was prone instead of just crouching on the roof.

Everything was working smoothly until Ghost yelled, "Price, are you there? They're opening the silo doors on the sub. I repeat, the silo doors are opening on the sub." Roach's head snapped open as he shoved tha tablet away, eyes widening in terror as he took in the sub. In any minute it would be launching the first missile and hundreds of innocent people would die, drenched in fear and pain just like his pack. "Price, come in," Ghost snapped. "The silo doors are opening on the sub. Come on, hurry!"

"Something's wrong," Roach muttered, stomach churning with anxiety at the silence from Price's end. Had the Russians caught the captain? The young sergeant might have been wary about the man, but that didn't mean he wanted Price dead.

"Price, do you copy?" Ghost snarled in a tone that would have made anyone, pack or not, very wary of the consequences should they not respond. "The silo doors are open. I repeat, the silo doors are open!"

"Good," came Price's satisfied reply as the ground began to shake.

"What is Price waiting for?" Frost demanded, voice shaky, from Roach's right but his friend found himself wordless as he watched the horrifying situation unfold.

Ghost, however, was not struck dumb. "Price, no!" the man yelled even as the nuke launched itself into the air. "We have a nuclear missile launch. Missile in the air! Missile in the air! Code Black, Code Black!"

Roach shivered helplessly, eyes tracking the nuke's flight path, as Frost snarled, "That son of a bitch!" Archer and Toad were snarling their own invectives as Ghost reached over to pull the young sergeant to his feet, the fury radiating off him enough to make Roach cringe.

"Do we have exfil?" the lieutenant asked, voice cold.

"I'll guide you," was MacTavish's reply.

"And Price?"

"If he can't get there on time, leave him," was the angry sounding snap. Part of Roach was relieved that the captain hadn't been in on this. Most of his was numb and shivering and ten minutes from falling apart. He allowed Ghost to pull him along towards the exfil point, not resisting. When Price joined them, just moments before the Little Bird took off, that numbness began to turn into silent, boiling anger.

August 14, 2009

Task Force 141 Headquarters, Undisclosed Location

David Mason

He tested the mobility of his arm just out of MacTavish's line of sight, wanting to be ready for whatever was coming. The captain had been visible fuming since the revelation of what Price really had planned, and while he didn't really know the man, David was betting that there was a coming explosion. In fact, he was counting on it.

After years of living with first his father and then Uncle Woods, David knew well how to hide his emotions, but he was just as furious as MacTavish. The nuke was heading for a satellite over D.C. and while the resulting EMP effect would knock the Russians off their feet, it would also kill thousands of people on both sides. Price had aimed to cripple the Russians, but he had done it at great cost to their own side. Worse yet, Price's tone when he'd finally responded to Ghost's yelling had been smug, like a man getting revenge on someone who'd tormented him for a long time. That thousands of people had died for one man's revenge was sickening.

The 141 filed in an hour before midnight, Archer in the lead. David met the sniper's eyes and was startled by the grim ferocity he saw there. Toad, right behind him, looked just as angry and while Ghost's eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, the man's posture screamed fury. Frost looked numb, the other American's eyes wide with what David could only define as horror, and Roach seemed to sink into the shadows but the fury he saw in the other man's eyes surpassed David's own.

Price was the last one into the room, expression professionally blank. For a moment there was complete silence, the tension like a heavy blanket keeping them all in place. Then MacTavish took a single step forward, looked Price in the eyes, and said, "You lied to me." His voice was cold and blank, betraying nothing of the raging inferno David had seen in his eyes since the 141 had been successfully evacuated from the area.

"I did what was necessary," was Price's matter of fact reply.

Ghost let out a low, rumbling growl in response and David found himself quickly reassessing the situation. Wolves in human skin didn't look enough different from ordinary humans to but their senses, and their strength, was superior to any ordinary human's. That meant David would put in his two cents if necessary but it would be best if he stayed out of this. Roach had no such qualms, snarling, "You killed thousands of innocent people."

"This is war," Price replied, sounding almost smug in his assessment as he turned to shoot Roach a scathing looking. "Sacrifices have to be made." He turned back to face MacTavish and then looked past him, straight at David. "Mason understands that, don't you?"

David stepped forward, out of the shadows he'd been lingering in, and let the anger that had been boiling in him loose. "Why should I? Because I helped massacre hundreds of innocent people in the name of a CIA cover," he hissed. "No, I don't understand it. You killed thousands of people, men and women fighting for us, all in the name of stopping the Russians." He paused, fighting down the urge to shove past MacTavish to punch Price, and added, "There are better ways to end a war."

Price turned to MacTavish then and said, "What about you, Soap? Do you understand what had to be done?"

"I understand that I can't trust you with a command position right now," was MacTavish's level reply. Then he glanced around the room and added, "Shepherd is getting us intel on finding Makarov. We'll regroup at six hundred hours and plan our next move from there. Dismissed."

There were nods and Mason slipped past Price's still, stiff form, the last of the men to reach the hall. He was surprised to find Roach waiting for him, Frost and the others lingering a little further down the hall. The younger man waited until the door shut behind David before saying, "Thank you, for what you said in there."

"I don't need to be thanked for telling the truth," David replied bluntly, expecting his sharp edges to drive the younger man off, as usual. Instead it earned him a slight smile.

"Still, thanks." David gave Roach a hesitant nod and watched him go, joining Ghost, Toad, and Frost in their trek to their respective rooms.
Archer waved them on and, once the group had rounded the corner, he turned to David and said, "Not very good at making friends, are you Mason?"

"Most people don't really want to be friends with me," David replied dryly, thinking of all the people that had tried to befriend him in the name of advancing their careers.

"With a personality like that, I can see why," Archer jabbed in response but there was no malice in the Brit's tone. Instead the statement was relaxed and playful, friendly mocking, and David took it as such.

"That's really not why," he responded candidly.

"Oh really?" The sniper's arched eyebrow told him to continue and, after a moment of serious consideration, David leaned against the wall with a sigh.

"I'm not used to this," he admitted, staring past Archer at the wall. "Not used to people not already knowing." A wry smile curved at his lips and he turned to meet Archer's eyes. "My father was a CIA BlackOps agent. One of the best. His name comes with connections, and most people want to use those."

"So you act like a prickly bastard to keep them away," Archer finished and David nodded. "I'd imagine it works fairly well too but you can drop the act now. None of us care." David shrugged, not wanting to explain that growing up in Fairbanks, Alaska, having his mom die when he was six and his dad when he was eight, and then moving in with Uncle Woods in a completely different state had put a damper on his friendship making ability. "Or you can keep up the porcupine imitation," Archer continued, as if it didn't bother him a bit.

The corner of David's mouth quirked up and he pushed himself up off the wall, hiding the pained grimace caused by using his bad arm. "If Shepherd's coming up with intel on Makarov's hiding spots, you might want to get some rest," he advised as the two of them made their way down the hall.

Archer stopped then, turning to look David in the eyes, and asked, "Do you know something we don't?"

"Nothing I want to share," was David's immediate, almost instinctive reply.

"But it has to do with Shepherd," the sniper guessed.

"I don't trust him," David said and, at the prodding of what felt like a cold hand on his shoulder, stepped around Archer, heading towards his room.

"Mason," the sniper's voice called after him and he turned back, looking over his shoulder. "Take your own advice. Get some rest." David nodded in acknowledgement and then opened the door to his room, stepping inside.

In complete darkness he stripped off his shirt and shoes before slipping under the covers of his bed. It was a fight to force his eyes to close, knowing that there were nightmares waiting to ambush him the instant he did. It took almost an hour for him to calm his breathing and stay still long enough to drift off. When he did, the dream waiting for him was not the one he'd expected. Instead of the images of Zakhaev International Airport, what was awaiting him was a clinical looking hospital room.

David was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, eyes scratchy and dry from all the crying he'd done. His father was dead, Jason Hudson was busy with CIA official reports, and Uncle Woods was drugged up in the hospital bed the boy was sitting by. David felt all alone, lost at sea, but his eyes were too dry to allow him to cry anymore. That was when it arrived.

It looked like a man, if a person with half their flesh melted off could still appear human. Any agonized wail burst from its lips as it flowed into the room, Stopping inches from David. So close he would have been able to smell its breath had it still been breathing. David let out a little cry of terror, shrinking back in his chair. The noise disturbed the drugged up Frank Woods, who let out a little moan and shifted restlessly for a moment, but otherwise no one came to check out the noise.

The figure flickered, like a television image obscured by static, and leaned closer to plead, "Help me, please." The only sound that could escape David was a breathless whine and it took that as permission to lean closer, placing a human hand on one arm of the chair and a melted one on the other. "Please," it begged before David jolted awake, shaking all over.

A gentle hand was running through his sweaty hair and Avery's little girl voice was singing "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem". David stared with wide eyes into the darkness as Avery sang, "Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight." He shivered at the mournful, haunting sound of her voice, curled int a tight ball, and fell asleep to small, cold fingers running through his hair.

Morning brought a video conference between the 141 and Shepherd. There were two men Archer informed him were Scarecrow and Chemo. The latter looked a little battered and bruised but his alert eyes said that he was ready for action. Shepherd was scanning over all of them with cool eyes that went even colder when they fell on David. "It's been a tough week, gentlemen," he said at last. "We've lost more than we ever dreamed, but we will recover. I've got a blank check and we're gonna use every cent of it killing Makarov." David's eyes narrowed at the mention of the blank check, wondering if this was what Shepherd had wanted all along. The man had to have had a motive for starting this mess. Had it been for the money?

"Despite what the world may say, we are not savages," Shepherd continued, forcing David to push his questions to the back of his mind in order to keep track of what was going on. "We don't kill civilians. We use precision." That comment earned Price pointed scowls from many of the soldiers around him that both the captain and Shepherd ignored. "There's an evil man hiding in these shadows and we're gonna bring him to justice."

Shepherd's face vanished from the screen, replaced by a satellite image. Marked on the map was what appeared to be some sort of safehouse on the Georgian-Russian border and a vehicle boneyard located in Afghanistan. "These are the last safe havens on earth for Makarov and his men," Shepherd said and David felt the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. He trusted General Shepherd less than he did a poisonous snake at this moment, and the whole situation felt like a trap.

"Sounds like we have to be in two places at once," Price commented.

"Impossible?" was Shepherd's return jab as the man's face reappeared. He was looking at Price, as if waiting for the man to take command, and David felt his stomach sink towards his shoes. The last mission that Captain Price had led had resulted in the deaths of thousands. He doubted this one would go much better.

"Not for the One-Four-One," came Price's confidant reply. Shepherd nodded once and then cut the connection.

The moment the general's face was gone, Ghost turned to MacTavish and said, "Fifty-fifty chance to take out Makarov, eh?" The Captain nodded once. "Permission to take the safehouse with Roach?"

"Granted," was MacTavish's swift reply. "Price, Frost, Chemo, and I will take the boneyard. The rest will go with you and Roach."

August 15, 2009

Georgian-Russian Border

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The place felt like a trap. Ghost's neck was prickling with warning the instant Ozone, who'd volunteered to be their transport and extra backup, put the helo down and they all stepped out onto the Caucaus Mountain Range in which Makarov's safehouse was hiding. Ahead of him, Archer and Toad were moving into position on the ridge of a cliff. Behind him, Roach, Ozone, Scarecrow, and Mason were standing silently, surveying their surroundings. If he were being completely honest, Ghost wasn't sure he wanted Mason on this mission. The others he was sure of. He'd fought with them before, even though Ozone wasn't officially 141, and he knew he could trust them to watch his back. David Mason was a different story. The younger man was injured, and he'd been involved in a failed CIA op days earlier that had forced him to kill innocent people in an attempt to maintain his cover.

"Snipers in position," Archer announced and Ghost's mind snapped to the present.

"Strike team go," he ordered, already moving cautiously forward. "Engage Makarov on sight."

"Roger that," was Scarecrow's steady voice, sounding not at all bothered that he'd been pulled away from his well deserved leave for this.

"Solid copy," Ozone added.

"Let's go, let's go," Ghost urged, sparing a quick glance back to see Roach and Mason bringing up the rear. He turned back forward in time to see a Bouncing Betty rise up into the air. "Ambush," he yelled in warning as he dived to the ground, the others following suit as the sounds of other landmines rising up filled the air.

Ghost scrambled to his feet the moment the landmine had exploded, catching sight of several soldiers in Ghillie suits that were definitively not Archer or Toad. "Targets, left side, left side," he yelled but didn't have time to check and see how his team was faring. Makarov had obviously planned for someone to come to the safehouse and had set up an ambush suitable to take out an army.

An explosion rocked the ground, followed quickly by another, and Scarecrow yelled, "They've got this area presighted for mortar fire."
"Counterattack into the smoke," Ghost ordered, directing his team towards where the enemy had popped smoke in hopes that it was out of range of the falling mortars. "Push, push, push!"

Somehow they managed to reach the driveway leading to the safehouse without losing anyone and Ghost waved them to a stop behind a cluster of boulders. "We've got two trucks leaving the target building," Archer murmured over the comms and Ghost bit down a low growl.

"Don't let those trucks get away."

"Roger," came the swift, matter-of-fact response. "Firing Javelin, danger close."

"Javelin, danger close," Ghost repeated in acknowledgement. "Get back from the road." He lifted his gun and sent a barrage of bullets at the trucks, which did nothing more than dent some of the plating. "Bloody hell, these trucks are bulletproofed."

"Two away," was Archer's announcement, which sent the entire team scrambling back a few more steps for safety and ducking down as two fiery explosions rocked the world around them. "Moving vehicles have been neutralize," came the calm report a minute later. "Be advised, we have not, I repeat, we have not spotted Makarov and no one has left the house. Those trucks may have been decoys, over."

"Decent amount of movement in the safehouse though," Toad added.

"Roger that," Ghost acknowledged. "We're advancing on the house now. Clear the perimeter. Breach and clear the safehouse, go, go!"
The team broke into a run, sprinting to the house in the hopes that any remaining enemies wouldn't be able to hit them. Roach planted the breaching charge, ducking to one side as it decimated the door, and Ghost helped him clear the first floor with Ozone and Mason on their heels. "Room clear," Ozone called, he and Scarecrow taking up guard positions by the doors while Mason and Roach moved upstairs.

"Top floor clear," Roach reported after a minute of tense silence, he and Mason returning to the main floor of the house.

"Roger that, top floor clear," Ghost replied. "Roach, go with Scarecrow and check the basement for enemy activity. Breach and clear." Roach nodded in acknowledgement and followed Scarecrow down the steps into the basement, leaving the others to keep watch.

"Basement clear," Scarecrow called a moment later, Roach making his way to the main floor but the older 141 member remaining on the stairs to ambush any enemies that might try to come up that way.

"Copy, basement clear. All clear. Squad regroup on me. Scarecrow, photographs."

"Roger that," Scarecrow said, already moving. The others waited for instruction, spread out and warily watching windows, while Ghost contacted Shepherd.

"Shepherd, this is Ghost. No sign of Makarov. I repeat, no sign of Makarov. Captain Price, MacTavish, any luck in Afghanistan?"

"Plenty," was Price's grim reply. "At least fifty hired guns here, but no sign of Makarov. Perhaps our intel was off."

"Well the quality of the intel's about to change," Ghost said, eyes fixed on the laptop charging on a table just past Mason's shoulder. "This safehouse is a bloody goldmine."

"Copy that," Shepherd cut in. "Ghost, have your team collect everything you can for an operations playbook. Names, contacts, places, everything."

Ghost was looking towards Mason when Shepherd spoke, which was the only reason he saw the younger man grind his teeth together at the sound of the general's voice. Eyes fixed on a possible problem he replied, "We're already on it sir. Makarov will have nowhere to run."

"That's the idea," Shepherd replied. "I'm bringing in an extraction force, ETA five minutes. Get that intel. Shepherd out." Mason gritted his teeth so hard Ghost was surprised he couldn't hear them crack at the mention of an extraction force, hazel eyes gleaming with something that was almost hatred.

"Do you have a problem, private?" Ghost demanded, meeting Mason's cold gaze calmly.

"With you, sir?" came the bland inquiry, the hatred fading away to something chilly and dangerous. "No."

"With Shepherd?" Ghost clarified, tone chilly. Mason didn't answer, but the fire burning in his eyes was enough for the lieutenant. The newcomer didn't like Shepherd at all, possibly because of the CIA mission that had started all of this. If the younger man knew it had been Shepherd's idea, there was a good chance he'd placed the blame for his cover being blown on the general. Ghost knew better than to do so. It was difficult to fake hatred, and there was no disguising the hatred Shepherd held for Makarov. Still, now wasn't the time to get into this with Mason. "Roach, get on Makarov's computer and start the transfer," he ordered, getting a nod from the Sergeant in response. "Ozone, you're on rear security. Scarecrow, the basement. Mason, cover Roach. I've got the front. Go."

Ozone was the only one who bothered to reply, stating, "On my way," even as he vanished around the back.

"Task Force, this is Price," the recently rescued captain announced as Roach hooked up a DSM to Makarov's computer. "More of Makarov's men just arrived at the boneyard. Soap, cover me. I'm gonna slot that guy over there and use his radio to tap into their comms. Ghost, we're going silent for a few minutes. Good luck up there in Russia. Price out."

In the silence that followed Price's statement, the team took of their positions, Mason and Roach systematically planting the claymores they'd found in the basement of Makarov's safehouse around the building before returning to take up their positions. Then there was nothing left to do but wait. The silence surrounding them was almost peaceful, but the first explosion was hardly surprising to Ghost. Even if Makarov wasn't in the safehouse, valuable information was and he'd doubted the Russian would let it go without a fight.

"What the hell was that?" Scarecrow demanded and Ghost could almost feel his tension through their shared bond. He didn't blame the American for being nervous about that. Explosions meant bad news, and Elias Walker had a wife and kids to get back to.

"Be advised, you have a large concentration of hostiles moving from the east,
was Archer's reply. "They've just breached the perimeter. I'll try and take 'em out before they get too close. Recommend you switch to scoped weapons, over."

"Roger that," Ghost acknowledged. "Everyone cover the field to the southeast. Move."

"I got eyes on," Ozone announced from the rear of the building. "Here they come."

"RPG team to the southeast," Archer snapped just as the first sounds of trouble reached them.

The first wave fell easily before them, but they were still decently fresh and they'd had plenty of warning. Furthermore, this had likely been Makarov's forces testing the waters. The waves afterwords wouldn't be so easy. Ghost kept his gaze fixed on the outside world, trusting his team to report any problems they ran into. He had to. A moment of distraction could get himself, and his team, killed in this kind of situation.

"I have eyes on additional hostile forces moving in on your position," Archer reported just moments after they'd taken down the last man of the first attempt. "They're approaching from the solar panels east of the house."

"Roger," Scarecrow acknowledged from his position, all the tension in his voice replaced by laser sharp focus. "I'll try to cut 'em off as they com through the trees."

Ghost was focusing on taking out the hostiles trying to slip in through the missing front door when he heard Ozone yelp and then shout, "I'm hit! Need assiss-"

His words trailed off ominously and Archer snapped, "Ozone is down!"

"Shit," a voice snapped as Ghost took out the last man he could see. The lieutenant ducked down below the window and turned to see Mason, who the invective had come from, slice his combat knife across a man's throat, sending a spray of blood through the air. Roach took down the second man who'd come from Ozone's direction with a well placed shot before meeting Mason's eyes and turning towards the front.

"I've got the door," the sergeant said and Mason nodded, despite the fact that Roach couldn't see him, before stepping over the bodies to take Ozone's position.

Ghost turned back towards his window, forced himself to take a deep breath, and took down one of the enemy before asking, "Is there a pulse?"

"Negative," came the grim reply. "One of the initial shots hit a femoral artery and he bled out before I could do anything."

"Roger that," Ghost acknowledged, feeling a low ache in his chest. Ozone wasn't even part of the 141 but he had died in their fight. Worse yet, the lieutenant knew the American had a wife and two year old daughter with a mass of blonde curls that had been waiting for him at home. Now, he'd never get to see them again.

Swallowing back his emotions for the time being, he focused his attention on the task at hand as Archer snapped, "RPG team moving in from the east."

"Roger that," Scarecrow and Mason acknowledged at the same time, voices gone dangerously sharp.

Ghost had a brief moment to consider the idea that maybe Mason might fit in better than he'd thought, despite hating Shepherd, before Archer reported, "Enemy fast attack choppers coming in from the northwest."

"Roger that," Ghost replied. "Enemy helos approaching from the northwest."

"We gotta cover the front lawn," Scarecrow snapped and Ghost ducked and turned in time to see Roach and Mason exchange a quick glance.

"Do what you need to," the newest member snapped. "I've got it covered for a couple minutes." Roach nodded and broke from cover as Mason took his place, blood from slitting the Russian's throat and checking on Ozone's status staining his clothes and hands. Despite the mess. Despite the mess, he seemed to be handling the situation well, but Ghost could see a slight tremor in his hands.

"Shite," he muttered, turning back to cover Roach. That'd be trouble. He could only hope Mason could hold it together until this mess was finished.

Roach returned moments before there was an explosion and a claymore took out an unsuspecting soldier, leaving Mason to return to his own position. "Good work," Ghost called to them, taking out another soldier. The claymores Roach had hidden on the lawn would buy them some more time, and make the enemy more cautious in their approach.

"Hostiles approaching from the west," Archer reported, sounding harried.

"They must be by the boathouse," Ghost snapped, remembering the structure from their frantic approach.

"There were 240s and RPGs in the dining room windows, plus L86 machine guns," Scarecrow called up in response to Archer's warning.

"Roger that," Ghost told his team, feeling a little bit of relief at that particular piece of good news. "Use 'em to cut 'em down as they come through the treeline."

There was the sound of movement and then the cacophony that came with machine gun fire as Scarecrow used what they had to take down the approaching hostiles. In the minute afterwords they hurried to reload, knowing their break wasn't going to last long. Makarov seemed to have an unlimited amount of men, and ammo, while the 141 was beginning to run low. That was when Archer's voice yelled, "Toad!"

Ghost felt a brief bolt of agony in the center of his chest and then, nothing. An eerie silence had taken its place, coupled with the fury and despair he felt from Archer's end of the bond. "I'm moving positions," the sniper said at last. "You'll be without sniper support for a minute." There was a heavy pause and then he added, "Toad is down."

There was only one way to take those words. That was two men dead, this time a packmate, and even as Ghost hurried to adjust their current strategy, his chest ached. Between the chase for Rojas and this attempt, they'd lost far more men in recent days than they had in the last couple of years. That knowledge hurt, but Ghost didn't have time to dwell on it. "Scarecrow, find Archer and cover him," he ordered. "Mason, Roach, and I will cover the DSM."

"Roger that," Scarecrow replied. "Moving."

"I've got you covered," Mason spoke up, voice oddly empty.

Ghost waited until Scarecrow reported that he'd reached the treeline before ordered, "Mason, move into the center room with Roach. Roach, what's our download status?"

"Almost finished," came the report and, for the first time since they'd met, Ghost felt something actively reaching out from Roach. It was a tentative brush against the bond that felt shaky and vaguely terrified, the younger wolf looking desperately for something to hold on to. Ghost wasn't certain his own reeling bond would help, but he gathered himself together and opened up to the connection regardless.

Roach latched on as Ghost stepped into the main room to join the younger two soldiers, and the lieutenant noticed he was shaking slightly. Mason didn't look much better, face pale under the blood spatter and the tremor and his hands growing more noticeable. "We're almost done," he told them, sending what reassurance he could to Roach over the bond and feeling Archer and Scarecrow mirror his actions. The younger wolf calmed, trembling easing, and Ghost turned his attention towards Mason in time to see their latest FNG close his eyes in pull in a deep breath.

"Pull it together Mason," the younger man murmured, low enough that the comms wouldn't pick up on it, and the corner of Ghost's mouth turned up in a slim smile.

He turned his attention towards the computer and felt absolute relief at what he saw. "The transfer's complete. Roach, Mason and I will cover the main approach while you grab the DSM. Move."

Roach jolted into action, scrambling to grab the DSM while Mason and Ghost cover the front and side doors respectively. "Got it," came the triumphant call a moment later.

At roughly the same time Shepherd's voice issued over their comms saying, "This is Shepherd. We're almost at the LZ. What's your status, over?"

"We're on our way to the LZ," Ghost replied before turning his attention towards his companions. "Everyone, move out."
The sprint towards the LZ brought a new, dangerous surprise. Not only were there enemies afoot, "They're bracketing our position with mortars. Keep moving but watch your back!"

Ghost's warning came too late to prevent what happened next. One of the mortars sent Roach flying and the only thing that kept Ghost calm was that he could feel his newest packmates disorientation over the bond. Mason reached Roach first, already checking for injuries with trembling hands. The lieutenant took over the task, fingers wrapping around the back of a woozy Roach's vest to drag him. "I've got you Roach," he reassured the sergeant before turning to snap at Mason. "Get up and cover us! Stay a couple feet behind but keep moving."

Mason nodded, rising to his feet and taking out the first few Russian's with cold efficiency. Ghost didn't have time to watch further than that, dragging Roach towards the LZ as Scarecrow announced, "We've got a good position to cover you for a couple minutes. Just keep moving."

"Roger that," Ghost said. "Mason, pop red smoke at the treeline and radio in. We'll let Shepherd's back up clear this place out."

"Copy that," Mason replied, tone still empty, and a minute later a Little Bird was flying over them, heading for the treeline. A second one landed and Ghost helped Roach to his feet, the two of them limping their way towards Shepherd, who had stepped out of the chopper.

"Have you got the DSM?" the older man asked, reaching out a hand to help support Roach.

"We got it, sir," Ghost replied, retrieving the object from Roach.

He was just extending it to the general when Mason's breathless voice snapped, "Don't give it to him!"

The reply that this was no time for Mason's dislike died on Ghost's lips when Archer's panicked voice added, "Get back! Shepherd's men are not friendlies. I repeated, Shepherd's men are not friendlies!"

Ghost yanked the DSM back to his chest and watched Shepherd's eyes narrow in fury. "I suppose I'll just have to finish off the loose ends early," he said, lifting a .44 Magnum.

"No," Ghost yelled, rage and fear slipping into his voice as Shepherd shot Roach in the abdomen. He was lifting a hand for a second shot when a bullet whizzed past his ear, making him twitch and turn his head.

Ghost turned too, struggling to support Roach who had become dead weight in his arms and agony over their newly shared bond. Mason had got a single shot off before two of Shepherd's mysterious backup had attacked him. The lieutenant found himself frozen as the younger man stabbed one in the gut, sending him reeling back gushing blood, before the second one wrenched Mason's wounded arm back hard enough to make him cry out in pain. "You son of a bitch," Mason snarled as the man dragged him over, tossing him to the ground, and Shepherd smirked before lifting the Magnum to shoot Ghost.

The bullet punched through his vest and into a rib, the agony sending he and Roach tumbling to the ground as well. "This one, he's smarter than the rest of you," the general informed the lieutenant. "He figured me out a long time ago."

"You made a mistake," Mason panted out, voice harsh with pain. "The man you told me created my cover was someone I trusted. That only left you to take the blame for what happened in Moscow."

"It wouldn't have mattered had Makarov killed you properly," Shepherd replied, tone indifferent. "No matter. If you want a job done correctly, you have to do it yourself in this day in age." He lifted the Magnum, aiming for Mason's heart, and Ghost struggled to gather the energy to move. Mason and Roach were under his command, and it was his responsibility to get them out of this alive if at all possible.

"I have a shot," Scarecrow's voice suddenly announced in his ear, breathless but alive. "Not a good one, but I do have one."

"Take it," Ghost rasped out and Shepherd's head turned towards him, confused. A moment later, blood bloomed in his shoulder and the Magnum was dropping from his hand.

Shepherd cursed, lifting his uninjured arm so he could attempt to staunch the blood flow, and turned towards one of his men, snapping, "Douse them." The harsh fumes of gasoline washed over Ghost, making him feel dizzy and sick, as Shepherd momentarily vanished from view. Then the men backed away and Shepherd was back, shoulder wrapped and a lit cigar in his hands. At that moment, Ghost had no doubt that they were going to die. "It's too bad, having to eliminate soldiers such as yourself," the man told them mockingly. "You were some of the best."

"We are the best," Mason spoke up and Ghost could see the younger man lift himself up a little, eyes blazing with what looked like a bluish light. "And it's going to be the end of you."

"Still swearing revenge in your final moments?" Shepherd mused. "Such a pity. I could have had a use for you." Then he dropped the cigar.

Ghost's eyes tracked the falling object as it toppled down, down, down towards the gasoline covered ground around them, only to startle when it landed in a small hand. "Momma says you shouldn't play with fire," a little girl voice said, the small speaker holding the cigar in her hand. "People might get hurt."

Shepherd stared, sputtering a little, and Mason began to laugh. When the general turned towards him, he opened his hand, letting a glittery orange hair clip fall to the ground. "Check," he said, lips pulled back to bear his teeth in a feral looking smile, and Shepherd's face twisted into a snarl.

The general stormed forward and slammed his foot down on the hair clip, breaking it with a loud crack. The little girl, who had tossed the cigar away into the grass where it smouldered a safe distance away, flickered wildly, turning to look at Mason with a sad smile before she vanished completely. "Checkmate," the general countered as Mason's head dropped in defeat, before turning to his men. "Kill them," he ordered before stepping up the ramp into the Little Bird.

Ghost's vision had begun to tunnel, pain and blood loss struggling to take him under, as the Little Bird rose into the air. "Ghost," Price's voice was yelling distantly in his ear. "Come in, this is Price. We're under attack by Shepherd's men in the boneyard. Soap, hold the left flank. Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd!"

"I know," Ghost tried to say but his mouth wasn't cooperating. The last thing he saw was what looked like a Russian soldier step forward to meet the first of Shepherd's company before unconsciousness overtook him.

August 15, 2009

160 miles Southwest of Kandahar, Afghanistan

John "Soap" MacTavish

MacTavish's chest ached with pain where his awareness of his packmates normally existed. Frost was beside him, the pair of them hidden in the old shell of an airplane as the American called for Roach, for Ghost, for anyone to answer him. MacTavish echoed his inquiries, hoping one of them would answer, that what he'd feared hadn't really happened.

"They're dead, Soap," came Price's pragmatic voice over the comms. "Shepherd's cleaning house."

"Dead? Roach?" Frost said. "Not likely." But his voice was wavering. "Right?" the younger man asked, turning wide blue eyes towards MacTavish.

"I don't know," he replied and Frost trembled a little before getting ahold of himself.

"I'm heading your way," Price continued.

"Shepherd betrayed us," MacTavish admitted, voice dead. He'd trusted the man, and his trust had gotten his pack killed.

"Have to trust someone to be betrayed," Price responded and MacTavish winced a little. "I never did. Nikolai, come in. Do you have our location?"

"Da," was Nikolai's reply. "Inbound, Price, but I am not the only one. You've got Shepherd's men on one side, Makarov's on the other."

"We'll have to take them all out," Price said grimly and at MacTavish's side, Frost let out a little, hopeless sound.

"Or let them take each other out," Nikolai suggested. "Either way I'll see you on the other side, my friend."

In the silence that followed, MacTavish turned to Frost and said, "Whatever happens, stay close, okay?" Frost nodded. MacTavish stepped out of the plane, Frost right on his heels, and the two of them sprinted to the next cover.

"Soap, Shepherd's trying to wipe us out and Makarov at the same time," Price warned. Head for rally point Bravo to the west. Trust no one!"

"No, really?" Frost muttered, sounding remarkably like Roach. That thought sent a pang of hurt through him, but MacTavish pushed it away. He could mourn for his lost packmates later. Now he had a job to do.

"Head for the rally point," Price was yelling in their ears. "Go, go, go! Nikolai, this is Price. Be advised, the LZ is hot. I repeat, the LZ is hot!"

"Ok, Captain Price. I am on the way," was Nikolai's reply. "Try to get the situation under control before I get there, ok?"

"Right, whatever you say, Nikolai. Just get here sharpish. Soap, let Makarov and Shepherd's men kill each other off as much as you and Frost can. We can use their comms to listen in on their radio traffic. I'm going to try to contact Makarov."

"Why's he contacting Makarov?" Frost asked as they slipped through the chaos. "The guy's just waiting for a chance to kill us."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," MacTavish replied. "Makarov might not like us, but he doesn't like Shepherd either."

The American nodded in acknowledgement as Price's voice said, "Makarov, this is Price. Shepherd's a war hero now. He's got your operations playbook and a blank check. Give me what you've got on Shepherd, and I'll take care of the rest. I know you can hear me on this channel Makarov. You and I both know you won't last a week."

"And neither will you," a cool, accented voice replied.

"Holy shit," Frost muttered at MacTavish's right. "He actually answered." MacTavish nodded, almost as startled as the man under his command. He'd known why Price was attempting to contact their enemy, but he'd been sure the Russian wouldn't respond.

"Makarov, you ever hear the old saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?" Price responded calmly.

"Price, one day you're going to find that cuts both ways," was Makarov's reply. "Shepherd is using site Hotel Bravo. You know where it is." A pause and then the Russian added, "I'll see you in hell."

"Looking forward to it," was Price's blithe reply. "Give my regards to Zakhaev if you get there first."

"Let's move," MacTavish ordered and Frost nodded, leaning cautiously around the corner of the plane. The American was in the lead, so MacTavish was at the perfect angle to see the first bullet clip his shoulder. Frost stumbled, and that was probably what saved him. Instead of hitting an artery, the second bullet went through the very top of one shoulder, probably clipping bone. He went down hard, blood soaking the entire shoulder of his uniform. "Frost!" MacTavish yelled, lunging to his knees next to the young man.

"I'm good," Frost breathed out, face pinched with pain.

"Come on," MacTavish said. "Let's get you up."

"No," Frost hissed, shaking his head. "Leave me."

"You'll get slaughtered here," MacTavish protested.

"No," came the calm reply but pained reply. "Blood covering the 141 mark. They'll think I'm just another soldier. Med evac. Just need to yell man down."

"Are you sure?"

Frost gave him a pained smile in response. "I'll just slow you down." When MacTavish still hesitated he added, "Good hunting."

"I'll see you on the other side," the captain promised and Frost grinned at him.

As the Scot headed away he heard Frost bellow, "Man down!" It was a fight not to turn and make sure someone had responded to the call, but he forced himself to keep moving. Price was going to need help killing Shepherd. After losing so much already today, there was no way MacTavish was going to let the older man go after the general alone.

"Nikolai, where the hell are you?" Price demanded over their comms as MacTavish ducked around a cluster of fighting men, shooting the single Russian that turned to fire upon him but leaving the others untouched.

"Sand storms around Kandahar, Captain Price," was their old friend's reply. "I have to fly around them. I am not getting paid enough to wreck my plane." MacTavish ducked out of the fuselage of a downed plane and took in the sight of a valley beyond. A plane roared over the open space, presumably Nikolai's C-130, though MacTavish was too busy trying to decide how exactly he was going to safely get through the open space to be sure. "Price, I am approaching the boneyard," Nikolai announced as MacTavish headed down into the valley. "I see you do not have the situation under control. Very unsafe to land. It looks like when I was in Afghanistan with the Soviets!"

"Nikolai, just shut up and land the bloody plane," Price bellowed. "We're on our way."

The response to that was what MacTavish guessed was uncomplimentary Russian but Nikolai didn't inform them that he was leaving. The captain slid down a hill and pushed himself into a sprint as Price yelled, "Soap, hurry! We've gotta get to Nikolai's plane. Keep moving west. Soap, I'm going to get some transport. Make your way west towards the runway." A brief pause and then, "Soap, I've found some transport. Keep moving west. I'll meet you en route."

"Remember to breathe," Ghost's amused voice murmured in his ear at Price's near constant chatter and MacTavish winced. His lieutenant was dead, likely killed by Shepherd's own hand. His beta wouldn't be mocking him ever again.

"Captain Price, I am taking off in one minute," Nikolai warned. "You better hurry if you want a ride out of here."

"Soap, we don't have much time," Price informed him. "Nikolai's not going to wait for us. Hurry!" MacTavish ignored the chatter, dodging a crashing SUV and barely avoiding shrapnel from an exploding BTR. "Soap, we're leaving," Price yelled from a few yards away, sitting in the driver's seat of a Jeep. "Get in the Jeep!"

MacTavish pushed himself the last few feet and launched himself into the back of the vehicle just as Price gunned the engine, the Jeep peeling out. Two vehicles filled in the space behind them and MacTavish focused on taking out the men manning the miniguns so that that their Jeep wouldn't be destroyed. That done, he focused on taking out the driver's before the next trucks came into view. It was a difficult task to do while moving, made more difficult by Price's chaotic driving, but he managed. Where the bonds had fallen silent, determination and anger had taken its place.

"Hang on Soap," Price yelled. There was a brief bump, and then they were safely on Nikolai's plane, heading for Site Hotel Bravo. It was time to end this.

August 15, 2009

LZ Point Outside Makarov's Safehouse

David Mason

"Mason!"

"David, wake up! I didn't come all the way out here to watch you die, you bastard!"

David Mason forced open heavy eyelids, staring uncomprehendingly at the blurry figure above him. The stench of gasoline was strong, making him feel dizzy and nauseous, and the nerve endings in his shoulder started screaming in pain when he attempted to sit up. Hands pressed him firmly back down and the familiar voice that had been insisting that he needed to wake up said, "Just stay there for a minute, you stubborn bastard. The last thing we need right now is for you to get more injured trying to get up."

David blinked his eyes rapidly, hoping to clear his vision, and then asked, "Harper?"

"Nice to see you again, friend," Mike Harper replied with a grin that had a worried edge to it.

David's brow furrowed as he struggled to figure out what was going on. His memory was fuzzy, but he was pretty sure that whatever mission he'd been on hadn't included his friend. "Where am I?"

"Still at the Russian-Georgian border," Harper said, tone attempting to be reassuring and failing.

"Still where Shepherd left us for dead," another, accented voice snapped. David's mind struggled for a name and face to put to the familiar voice and, after a moment, it came to him. Ghost.

The name was all it took for the memories to come crashing down on him. David struggled to sit upright again, heart pounding in sudden terror, and Harper forced him back down again, a second set of hands come into view, helping his friend. "Threat's gone for now," a new voice said and Archer came into view, his blue eyes meeting David's hazel ones. "Just stay calm, and trust that I've got your back." David nodded once at the sniper and relaxed back on to the ground, heart still hammering away in his chest.

"How'd you get here?" he asked, turning his attention to Harper for the time being.

"I ended up running with your old battalion during the initial Russian attack," Harper replied. "We ran and mission for Shepherd and I happened to notice some things that didn't make sense and an old friend from home who works CI now, confirmed my suspicions. This was the first place we could track you to though to warn you." There was a pause and then Harper added, "Your pal Ramirez says hi, by the way."
While David's scrambled mind struggled to assimilate all the information he'd been given a voice he didn't recognize said, "We need to get out of here." The voice had an accent that David could place as Middle Eastern but he couldn't catch sight of who was speaking from his current position.

"He's right," Scarecrow's voice said. "If Shepherd doesn't send more men to make sure the job's done, Makarov will. Neither one of them wants us alive to ruin their plans."

"We need to get to the boneyard in Afghanistan," Ghost said, voice just barely short of an order.

"Nu-uh," came the reply in a feminine version of Harper's flat, Midwest accent retorted. "Most of your squad's already out for the count and there's no way I have enough gas to get us there."

"She's right mate," Archer spoke up. "We're not in any shape to help MacTavish or Price, and there's no guarantee that they're still in Afghanistan. Price was trying to warn us about Shepherd in the end and if MacTavish thinks we're dead..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Even David, who'd only been part of the 141 for a few days, could guess that the captain would go after Shepherd.

"We've got a radio on board," the female voice said. "You can use it to contact the captains as long as we get out of here."

"Get me to that radio," Ghost's voice said grimly.

"Karim, Scarecrow, get Roach and Ghost on the chopper. Sofia, help them. Archer, Mike, get David in. We're off the ground in five," the woman ordered.

"Ready for this?" Harper asked, leaning down and offering David his arm.

"Ready as I'll ever be," David rasped, reaching out to take the offered hand and then cringing as the movement reignited the pain in his shoulder. Before he could retract that offered hand, Archer and Harper were hauling him up. His vision blurred and a pained groan escaped him as his legs tried to crumple underneath him.

"Just a few steps Mason," Archer said, guiding him forward.

David allowed Archer and Harper to help him on to the Little Bird. Inside the chopper, a woman with a dark braid that reached to her mid back was leaning over Roach, eyes narrowed in focus as she concentrated on his blood soaked side. She glanced up for barely a second, snapping, "Karim, give me a hand here," before turning back to her patient.

"There's another med kit under a panel in the floor on the left," the blonde woman with Harper's accent said before heading towards the pilot's seat.

Harper eased David down to the floor next to where Ghost had been placed, and Archer vanished for a moment only to return with a heavy looking box. He flipped out open, revealing a mess of field medical supplies. Scarecrow headed for the front of the Little Bird as Harper and Archer pulled what they needed from the med kit, returning moments later with a radio. "You contact MacTavish," the American ordered Ghost. "I'll work on patching you up."

Ghost nodded, taking the radio from Scarecrow's hand, and then David's vision was obscured by Harper. His friend carefully worked to remove his protective vest, David helping as best he could, and then cut open his shirt. The bandages went next as Ghost's voice said, "MacTavish come in." A pause as Harper removed the last of the bandages and then, "Price, this is Ghost. Come in." No answer.

"You're bleeding," Harper muttered. "I'm going to put a pressure bandage on for now, to staunch the flow, and we can patch it up better when we get somewhere safer." David nodded in dull acknowledgement of the statement, trying to force his mind to focus on everything that had happened as the chopper rose off the ground.

"Price get off your arse and answer me!" Ghost demanded but the radio continued spitting out nothing more than static. "Damnit!"

David felt his stomach sink towards his shoes. If no one was answering, then MacTavish, Price, and the rest of the 141 were likely dead. Guilt immediately began gnawing at his insides. Maybe if he'd shared his suspicions about Shepherd, people that had died today might have been alive. The static suddenly crackled loudly, making David flinch and the others to swivel around the glance at the radio. "Ghost, this is Nikolai," a male voice with a heavy Russian accent said.

"Nikolai, thank God!" Ghost breathed out. "What happened to the team?"

"I collected Captain Price and MacTavish from a boneyard in Kandahar," Nikolai replied. "They insisted on being taken to site Hotel Bravo in Afghanistan. They intend to go after General Shepherd in the morning."

"Shite," Ghost muttered and then hissed through his teeth. "Be careful Scarecrow."

"Shut up and let me focus," was the American's reply.

"Nikolai, can you contact them?" Ghost asked as Scarecrow continued painstakingly working on his wound.

"Nyet," was the Russian's reply. "No comms." That was a grim statement. David's mind might have been fuzzy but he could put two and two together enough to deduce that Price and MacTavish didn't expect to come back from their mission alive.

"Get them out," Ghost ordered, voice rasping slightly towards the end. "I don't care what they said, just get them out."

"I will try," was the Russian's reply before the radio fell silent.

"How is he?" Archer asked as the dark haired woman stepped back from Roach.

"Stable, for now," she replied, a slight Spanish accent coloring her speach. "I cannot do anything more until we land."

"Land where?" Ghost rasped, his voice as close to a demand as it could get in its current state.

"There's a currently abandoned CIA safehouse in Georgia just within reach of our current fuel level," the pilot called back. "We'll stay there and plan our next move."

David could practically feel his teammates' wariness but none of them protested the plan, probably because none of them had anything better. What had happened in the last few hours had drained them, and David struggled to keep his eyes open. "Get some rest," Harper told him, voice low. "I'll keep watch."

David turned his head slightly to look at his friend, glancing at the dark circles under his eyes, and asked, "Shouldn't I be telling you that?"

"I haven't been shot and almost burned alive," was Harper's grim reply. "Now get some rest. You're going to need it."

August 16, 2009

Site Hotel Bravo, Afghanistan

John "Soap" MacTavish

"Go back, go back!" Price bellowed as the zodiac hung precariously over the edge of the waterfall. MacTavish struggled with the motor, which was whining with effort, knowing that they couldn't avenge their fallen teammates if they were dead. He had barely a moment to hope his efforts were working before the force of the waterfall sucked them over and they were falling. As he toppled towards the rushing water below, the captain had a brief moment to ponder how horrible the last two days had been. In the span of a few hours he had been betrayed by a general he had trusted, heard the dead silence over the radio that meant his brothers in arms had been killed, and now he was going to die by going over a waterfall in an attempted at vengeance.

The zodiac struck the water moments before MacTavish, who was plunged instantly into the depths. Air was forced out of his lungs at the impact and the pressure had him trying to suck in another breath, getting only water. For a moment he flailed in panic before training took over. Lungs screaming for air, he forced himself to still until the world had stopped swimming and then paddled upwards towards the dim sunlight his eyes could barely make out.

He gasped and choked as his head breached the surface of the river, barely managing to pull himself to the bank. Distantly he heard the sound of something large, likely the Pave Low that had been chasing them, crashing and exploding, but it was mostly drowned out by the sound of the waterfall he and Price had just gone over. MacTavish lifted his head as much as he could, coughing up water, and glanced around. There was no sign of Price on the riverbank, making him yet another casualty in Shepherd's homemade war.

MacTavish choked up a little more water and then scanned his surroundings again, taking in the crashed Pave Low several yards away through the billowing sand. A part of him noted, absently, that Nikolai hadn't been kidding when he'd mentioned sandstorms. This was the same wind that had blown through Kandahar, slowing down their designated exfill pilot. He choked out a little laugh, coughed up some more water, and managed to stumble to his feet.

Moving forward after halfway drowning felt an awful lot like the few times he'd gone out with friends to get smashed before he'd joined the military. He stumbled drunkenly forward encounter a soldier crawling away from the wreckage of the Pave Low about a yard in. He slit the man's throat and mechanically kept moving. He had one goal now, and that was to kill Shepherd. The general was responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths, including the murders of MacTavish's team, and the captain was determined not to let those crimes go unpunished.

A second soldier from Shepherd's Shadow Company was still alive slumped in the wreckage of the Pave Low and the man lifted a G18. MacTavish watched, fuzzy brain unable to bring him to do anything further than stare, as the man lifted the gun. When the soldier pulled the trigger, the gun made a hollow clicking when the trigger was pulled, signalling that it was empty. The clicking continued as MacTavish stumbled by, unable to summon the energy to eliminate the wounded enemy.

There was a clatter from inside the Pave Low and then Shepherd himself stumbled into MacTavish's view, looking no more stabled than his half drowned enemy. The captain watched as Shepherd stumbled into the sandstorm, forcing his legs to move after the older man. The two of them stumbled through the blowing sand, Shepherd always a few feet ahead, until the other man paused to lean against an abandoned truck.
Ordinarily, MacTavish would have hesitated. Killing a man in cold blood was not something he normally approved, but this time was different. Shepherd had murdered the men under MacTavish's command. Men whose safety had been the captain's responsibility. Should her survive this, MacTavish would need to tell families that their family member was dead. He wanted to be able to say that their murder had been avenged, both for the families and for his own peace of mind. Keeping that in mind, John MacTavish lifted his already blood knife, intending to end the man's life.

As he lunged forward, Shepherd moved, knocking the knife out of his hand. Before MacTavish could force his body to react, Shepherd's own knife was sinking into the captain's lower chest. The attack sent a bolt of agony racing to his head and MacTavish's vision faded as he crumpled to the ground.

He came to again with Shepherd's voice saying, "Five years ago, I lost 30,000 men in the blink of an eye, and the world just fucking watched." The disgust in the general's voice was obvious, and MacTavish forced his eyes open. He was lying on the ground staring up at Shepherd, knife still embedded in his chest. The man noticed MacTavish was watching, lifted up a Magnum, and chambered only two rounds. One for MacTavish and one, presumably, for Price who Shepherd didn't know was dead. "Tomorrow there will be no shortage of volunteers," Shepherd told the downed captain. "No shortage of patriots." He aimed the Magnum at MacTavish and pulled back the hammer. "I know you understand."

MacTavish stared upward at his incoming death, feeling the sting of failure curl in his injured chest. Shepherd put pressure on the trigger, but just as the bullet exited the gun Price appeared out of the sand to tackle the man. The unexpected assistance saved MacTavish's life, and the Scottish captain watched as Price kicked the gun away, tusseling with Shepherd. MacTavish's vision was wavering as he watched Price lose the advantage and Shepherd beat the man.

In the SAS, MacTavish had learned to use whatever he could to his advantage. That in mind, he reached a hand towards the knife still embedded in him, wrapping shaking fingers around its hilt. The blood loss was making him fight against unconsciousness and time seemed to warp around him as he slowly pulled knife free. The process was agonizing but MacTavish refused to let Shepherd kill another good man as part of his personal crusade. He brought his other hand into play, pulling the knife free and growling out Shepherd's name in a low rasp. The general glanced up from Price's downed form in time for MacTavish's flung knife to end up in his eye.

Shepherd's dead body toppled backwards and MacTavish let his head drop, hands falling to weakly attempt to staunch the flow of blood from his wound. The sudden silence was peaceful, but the captain's eyes had only fallen closed for a moment before Price's voice called, "Soap! Soap!" There was a dull thump, probably Price shoving Shepherd's body away, and MacTavish struggled to open his eyes.

A prod to his wound forced out a pained groan and his heavy eyelids opened a little as he heard the whir of a chopper's blades. "It'll hold for now," Price said, finishing binding MacTavish's wound as the chopper's noise grew louder. "Come on, get up!" MacTavish struggled to help support his weight as Price hoisted him up, eyes barely open. "I thought I told you it was a one way trip," Price yelled at the figure stepping out of the chopper and it took MacTavish's blurry mind a moment to place the newcomer.

"Looks like it still is," Nikolai replied. "They'll be looking for us, you know." MacTavish stumbled, feet clumsy, and the Russian moved forward to help support him.

"Nikolai, we've gotta get Soap outta here."

"Da," was Nikolai's reply. "I know a place."

MacTavish must have passed out for a bit because when he managed to blink his eyes open again, the chopper was in the air. "Where?" he managed to force out, every breath hurting.

"Nikolai is taking us to India," Price replied just before the blackness took over him again. When MacTavish came to again the chopper was landing and Price was bellowing, "Get him inside!" The stretcher he was in jolted and suddenly MacTavish was an FNG again hearing Price asked, "What the hell kind of name is Soap, eh?"

Another jolt shook him out of the flashback in time to hear Nikolai yell, "The safehouse is up ahead."

"Keep moving," was Price's reply. Then he was back with Price again, aiming and firing an M1911 at Zakhaev. The stretcher bounced over another bump and suddenly MacTavish was in the safehouse in India hearing Price yell, "Out of the bloody way! Get a doctor!"

The thundering of footsteps transformed into the rush of a waterfall and Price was bellowing at him to go back. MacTavish tried frantically to turn to Zodiac back but they were already toppling off the waterfall and crashing towards whatever was below. They crashed into the water and it swirled around MacTavish, taking his breath away. He was struggling to hold his breath, but the pressure forced any air he managed to pull into his lungs out. He took in water and choked as, distantly, Price's voice yelled, "He needs help, now!"

His vision began to go, blood loss taking him now, and Nikolai yelled, "We're losing him. Charging. Three, two, one, clear!" The defibrillator pressed against his chest, sending a shock through him, and MacTavish's back arched painfully before he went still.

August 17, 2009

Langley, Virginia

Jason Hudson

He stared at the report on his desk, his discontent obvious despite his ever present sunglasses. Years ago during an interrogation, Alex Mason had called the CIA agent Mr. Sunglasses and the Ice Cube, and the statements hadn't been far off. Jason Hudson was known for two things in the CIA. The first was for his ever present sunglasses and the second was for his usual cool demeanor despite whatever chaos was going on around. This was one of the few days that Hudson lost his cool.

Sitting on his rarely used desk was a single file folder. Within in were the names and photographs of Task Force 141, an international task force that had been put together by a man named John MacTavish, a captain, and run by the recently deceased Lieutenant General Hershel von Shepherd the Third. Before Shepherd had died, he had declared the 141 traitors, claiming they had been working with Makarov to start a war between Russia and the United States. Hudson had skimmed this accusation before looking at the names and faces in the file. What he'd seen there had made his temper boil under.

Contained inside the file along with Captain MacTavish, Lieutenant Riley, and the rest of his men, was one David Andrew Mason. The picture stared up at him, as impassive as Alex Mason had been at his best, with the blazing sun over Afghanistan in the background. Staring furiously at the picture, Hudson was reminded of a small boy with intense hazel eyes pleading, "Dad, you promised." That had been '68 when Hudson had come to ask his former asset to help find Frank Woods. That final mission had orphaned an eight year old David Mason and Hudson had only seem him in person once more, at Alex's funeral.

Those piercing hazel eyes, filled with grief, had dug into Hudson's sense of grief and he'd been unable to face the boy. After all, it had been his prodding that had sent Alex chasing after a man who had been far cleverer than the CIA had given him credit for. Woods had called Hudson a coward, but the agent had still slipped out of the back of the chapel in Fairbanks without saying a word to anyone.

He hadn't seen David in person since that day, but Hudson had kept track of the boy's whereabouts. That meant that most of the information in the dossier paper clipped to David's picture was information he already knew. Only one particular piece of information stood out. Printed in unassuming black ink were the words Known Aliases: Alexei Borodin. Hudson stared at that print as if it were an accusation.

The CIA handler recognized the name. He had been the one to set up the alias on the behest of Lieutenant General Shepherd. Like most the work Hudson had done behind a desk, the Borodin identity should have been airtight. In the chaos that had followed "Alexei Borodin's" presumed death, Hudson hadn't known who had been using the identity. That it had been David that had been declared KIA, at least as Borodin, felt like a ball of lead settling in his stomach. Wheelchair or no wheelchair, should David die in the mess that was about to come, Frank Woods would kill him and, honestly, Hudson wouldn't hold it against the other man.

After Alex's death, Frank had raised David as if the boy was his own son. At first, Hudson had wondered if it wasn't just to assuage Frank's guilt but he'd quickly dismissed that notion. Before Alex's death, Frank Woods had practically been part of the family. He'd been Uncle Woods since good humored Camille had discovered she was pregnant and the status had clung to Woods, even after Camille's death. No, Frank caring for David had little to do with guilt and much to do with being the only thing close to family the boy had left.

When David left for the Rangers, it had been Hudson that Frank had called. Despite having given the boy enough training over the years for him to easily soar through Basic, the old soldier had been worried. He'd insisted that Hudson promise to keep an eye on David, and the CIA handler had up until the past few weeks when Russia had suddenly been the agency's highest priority. During that time, Hudson had lost track of David and it appeared that his negligence had been rewarded with disaster.

Hudson flipped to the correct page in the dossier and skimmed over the information for what felt like the hundredth time since the file had been placed in his hands. The report was emotionless as it detailed the events at Zakhaev International Airport, mentioning that what had happened to the CIA's temporary agent was unknown. The camera feed in the area where David had been shot and possibly killed as Borodin had been completely wiped and the FSB couldn't seem to figure out how to retrieve the footage.

The most interesting thing about the report was the little side note that Shepherd had marked David as KIA without sending in a retrieval team yet, just a day ago, the man had been listed as wounded but active by the general. That was intriguing. If Shepherd hadn't sent anyone to search for a body, how did he know that David was alive? Hudson knew that the better question was what kind of a trap was Shepherd setting, but he found himself clinging to the little bit of hope that said David might be alive. And if he was alive, Hudson needed to talk to him.

The man stood abruptly, leaving the file open, and headed out of his office into the plain white hallway. At the end of the hall stood a thick wood door with a gold plaque on it proclaiming it to be the director's office. Hudson's shoved the door roughly open, making the woman behind the thick oak desk glance up. She took in Hudson and her hand dropped away from where he knew a loaded Glock was carefully secured under the surface of the desk. "Can I help you?" Olivia Hart questioned, arching a dark eyebrow.

Hart was not someone that would ever been considered pretty or cute but she was definitively striking. Her long dark hair, which couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to be deep brown or black, was twisted up in a bun at the back of her skull and her piercing blue eyes were wide on her slim face. Sharp cheekbones and pale pink lips completed the look, making her appear to be more of a china doll than a real human. When she'd first been hired as the director of the CIA, rumors had insisted she'd gotten the job because she was sleeping with the right people. Two months and one attempted terrorist attack later, Hart had put most the rumors to rest and had proceeded to ignore any other slander that headed her way.

Hudson, for his part, respected her. Hart had started out at the bottom of the food chain and had worked her way up with elbow grease and pure will. She was willing to get her hands dirty, if necessary, for the good of the general population, and she had a no prisoners attitude. She was also willing to indulge an agent's suspicion should it be well founded. Hudson was hoping that she would be willing to indulge this one.

"The 141 report just came in," he told her.

"And?" The eyebrow never fell, staying in place as she studied him.

"At the beginning of this mess a cover I created, Alexei Borodin, was declared KIA after presumably being shot and killed at a loading bay in Zakhaev International Airport," Hudson said, pausing just a moment for her nod. "Shepherd's personal files reflect this, but a day ago they were changed to mark the agent as wounded but active without ever sending a search team in to look for a body."

"That's certainly unusual," Hart acknowledged. "I'll see if I can rustle up an agent to investigate."

"I want to be the one to investigate," Hudson countered. "I have one contact in Russia already, which gives me a starting point and a way into the country if necessary."

"Official records indicate Grigori Weaver was killed," was Hart's reply.

"Official records are incorrect. We were being hunted by the government at the time and in order to protect Weaver we faked his death. The records were changed to reflect that, but we've kept in contact."

"I see," Hart replied, tone mildly amused. "In that case, I hand the operation over to you, but I expect consistent reports until the matter is settled."

"Ma'am," Hudson agreed respectfully, nodding at her before stepping out of her office. Once in the hall again, he headed towards the emergency exit, knowing exactly how to shift the wires to keep the alarm from going off when he slipped through it. He had a phone call to make, and he didn't want his conversation to be overheard.