A/N:

I had this for a while, and thought I would post it. It's an excerpt of an ongoing story, so maybe it will be hard for readers to keep up at points since there's some missing information. If you're interested in reading it, you can look it up on Lunaescence by the same title. It's a reader insert, though, so I don't know how many of you will like the strange point of view.

I still hope you enjoy this one.

This is historical information, borrowed from Wikipedia, Crime and Investigation, History of War, and other sources. Characters are heavily based on Illich Ramirez Sanchez, known as Carlos the Jackal, and Magdalena Kopp. That is right; the similarities are not coincidence. However, since the Black Ops series always include real-life characters, I thought Carlos the Jackal and his wife were worth being included in this story, even with names changed.

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Disclaimer:

I do not own Call of Duty Black Ops or its characters; they all belong to Activision and Treyarch. No copyright infringement intended. I'm only trying to provide entertainment for the readers and by no means do I have lucrative purposes.

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Chapter I

Marseille was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful and oldest cities in France. As the capital of the Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur— one of the seventy-seven regions of France— it had been part of the earlier papal territory of Avignon, the French Riviera and the former province of Dauphiné. It also was the capital of the Bouches-du-Rhône department, one of the eighty-three original departments created during the French Revolution in 1790. As such, Marseille was the second largest city in France, after Paris.

Founded in 600 BC, under the Greek name of Massalia, it was the largest and oldest commercial port in the country, which had turned the city into a major center for trade and industry in the last century. Its beauty was a mixture of modern and pristine, even after its reconstruction once the Second War was over, surrounded by crystalline waters in the southeast coast. All throughout its history it had been considered not only a strategic point for the economy of the region that, after the 1970's oil crisis, had found new grounds to redevelop with funds subsidized by the European Union, but also the pearl of the Mediterranean Sea.

With old and stylish buildings of long-lasting architecture, shiny beaches with aquamarine shades sparkling under the sun, and lovely natural sights, its attractiveness proved to be the ultimate temptation for tourists who frequently ended up charmed by its history, culture and beauty.

This green-eyed Vietnam veteran was no exception.

Alex could not deny he had been captivated by its loveliness the first time he saw it and, often, joked that Corinne must have had a hard time living and growing in such a breathtaking paradise. Compared with his harsh upbringing in the wilderness of Alaska, hers had been far from the discomforts of a freezing endless winter. No wonder she would be homesick and so sensitive to the cold her first winter with him.

But now he wanted to indulge his sight a little more and make plans to spend his next summer, in a comfortable resort, with her and the kids— maybe drinking some cold Pastis, sunbathing or going for a dip in the crystalline waters of the Mediterranean. He wanted to spend the rest of autumn and winter of his life with his wife, by his side, admiring the beauty of the world he had failed to see for so long.

Damn. Alex had to admit it, he was growing softer as years passed, all because of her but he could not help it. However, he would only show this side to her, and her eyes were the only witnesses of the new man he had become.

With a subtle smile on his lips, he immediately decided the idea appealed to him. He was going to take long, really long vacations this time– and good ones. Why the hell not? He had saved more than enough money during his time working for Uncle Sam. Naturally, the payment was good and a strong incentive if special operatives were to put their asses in the line, willing to do what others could not in hotspots that nobody wanted to be. Of course, numbers were not official. So were their paychecks— at least the ones they got for the accomplishment of black operations— since they were not supposed to exist.

Even after the whole predicament Operation Charybdis had supposed to be, his reserves had been returned to him intact and he had been allowed to retire after the 'clearing of the misunderstanding' that had come about. A pretty name for their attempts to terminate him at all costs.

Despite being considered a cowboy, by his superiors, they figured they could still make good use of him in the future. Either that, or they found a new way to harness him with Corinne and his child, advising it would be in the best of his interests if he went into an amnesic state— as The Company had put it— for the sake of his family.

If there was one downside of his love for her, it was that she made him painfully vulnerable.

After a quick phone call to her mother, they left the hotel and hit the streets. The walk to the restaurant was nice and distracting, even under the falling snow that danced like white sparks and rested on the top of their heads. It was not that cold— at least, by Alex's standards— but being aware of his resilience to below zero temperatures, he knew better than not to place his arm around her to share body heat. Or maybe it was just an excuse to be close to her. Pressing Corinne against his body, he heard her giggle as they reached the first corner and waited for the traffic lights to change to green. Meanwhile, they happily chatted about plans for the coming days, Alex gazing down at her with a half-smile and she caressing the top of her belly.

"Are you okay?" He asked for what she believed was the umpteenth time, his hand sliding to the small of her back. His concern was not new to Corinne. Maybe he was just scared that she would go into labor sooner than expected, and in the least convenient of times and places. With a beam and nod of her head, she assured him that everything was perfectly fine and that there was nothing to be worried about. Little monster was just hungry, that was all.

The restaurant was nice, albeit a little crowded due to the cold weather that inadvertently had brought people from the snow covered streets. Fortunately, they were led to a table in a nice and quiet corner that was ideal for a peaceful meal, private talk, and smoke free. They decided on a smooth and creamy Bisque soup of strained broth of crustaceans for a starter.

The main course was Coq au Vin, a tasty stew of chicken braised in Burgundy wine, lardoons, onions, carrots, mushroom and garlic, with traditional seasonings. Needless to say, it was a delicacy and she happily nibbled at every bite in a merry chat. Alex could not complain, on his part. The evening was perfect, the day had been perfect and they were so close to welcome the New Year— one more year with her, with his family. The waiting was growing shorter and, hopefully, in a three-month's time their second child would be brought to the world.

Plans for the future of his kids were sketched in his mind. Fears and doubts came to life while she smiled at him, oblivious of the thoughts crossing his mind. Would he still be here? Would he live to see their children depart home to live life on their own? He mentally shook his head, trying to get rid of those unwanted and uninvited contemplations. No need to be pessimistic, he decided with a faint scowl which he hoped she failed to notice.

But there was this bad feeling growing stronger, as seconds ticked by, and he could not figure out what it was.

"Alex?" He had not realized he had been spacing out and, this time, it was she the one who looked concerned. He saw it in the way she bit her lips, as though she wanted to say something she was not meant to say but hesitating to do so. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Of course, honey." Dropping the subject, he attempted to make some small talk and shoot the breeze. However, she was not buying his attempts to conceal the indistinct shade of unease in his eyes.

She finally seemed to gather the courage to ask. "Did Hudson tell you something that's troubling you?"

His throat went dry at the question. He tried to fix its parchedness by downing a sip of his Pinot Noir wine. It only added to the thirst that seemed to take over him, and he tried to douse it with a cool stream of water.

Jason Hudson had dropped by their house a week ago. Corinne had been surprised to be faced by him when she opened the front door. His lips had been pursed in a straight line and his cold but sincere blue eyes had looked at her, without being concealed by the screen of polarized sunglasses. With a brief greeting, she ushered him to the warmness of her dwelling, and offered some coffee after hanging his black coat.

It had been quite curious to have him once more before her. She was aware he had not liked her much, back when they met, but she understood his reasons were nothing personal. She knew she had been mostly a burden to them, and it had been unthinkable for her to follow these men further on their journey. If anything, Corinne had to thank him for drawing the line and telling her that it was the end of her partaking. She did not believe she would have seen the end of it had she kept immersing herself into this mess, regardless of how emotionally involved she had become with Alex.

"I reckon you're here to see him." The smile she gave him was honest and welcoming. Why would she feel resentment towards him? Those days were gone. Life had given them a new chance. They were together now and she was happy with him, more than she could have ever dreamed. They had an adorable kid and were about to welcome their second bundle of joy.

"You're right. I apologize for my unexpected visit but I was in town, by chance, and I thought it'd be nice to go see some old friends." For a visit to old friends, he sure did look a bit uptight. Corinne felt it, then; something was not right.

"Who is it, Corie?" She looked up to see Alex, with David slung over his shoulder as though he were a sack of potatoes. The kid did not seem to mind, since he was uncontrollably giggling and kicking and she had to stifle a small laughter of her own. However, the jovial expression on her husband's face quickly faded as soon as he spotted Hudson standing next to her, in the sitting room, and she had to wonder what exactly was going on. Alex did not look angry but he did not look quite happy, either, so he had to guess that Jason's presence did not bode any good.

The next thing she knew, Alex was handing her David and the two men rapidly walked to his secluded study room without as much as a word.

The man had aged, his hair had greyed and his head was balding. However, the sight had not been as shocking as Alex had thought it would be, given that Jason had always used a shaven-head style even before the days in 'Nam. If he were to see his handler every day, he would hardly notice the passing of the years save for his face.

Well, it was no use making such a big fuss about it. That was the game of life and people always lost to it, whether they were rich or poor, good or bad. Some were not so lucky to stand a chance and cheat Death, and they died young. Alex had to count himself fortunate that, at least, he could see himself growing old whenever he looked in the mirror. Many of his pals had been killed in action and did not have the opportunity to see their skin wrinkling or eyes fading, see their kids having kids— or have children, for that matter.

He accepted he was not a young man anymore, and he wished he would be left alone to catch up with the wonderful things in life he had missed. In spite of this, Hudson was here and there could only be one reason. A reason he was sure he was not going to like in the slightest.

The earlier conversation they had attempted to initiate had been interrupted by a knock on the door. It had been Corinne, bringing a tray of hot coffee, milk, and other pastries. Alex did not feel like eating at the moment, but he did not want to be rude with her. She had bothered to prepare something and it would be outright crude to slam the door in her face just like nothing. It was not her fault Jason was here. It was not her fault they were going to ask him to do something that he did not want to do. On the contrary, seeing her face at that moment reminded him all the reasons he should stay with her now more than ever.

Trying to smile, he miserably failed while taking the tray in his hands. She sensed his distress, for she placed a soft hand on his arm and nodded in understanding. Alex looked into her eyes for a few seconds and, with an encouraging smile, she closed the door and walked down the hall where David was waiting for her, asking about his dad.

"I know this came off as unexpected, Mason, but the circumstances left me with no other choice but to turn to you this time." The blue-eyed man sipped his black coffee, and so tried Alex with a bit difficulty. "I'm aware that you've retired, and it's unusual to ask a former field-operative to—"

"Would you please get to the point, Hudson?" He wanted for this to be done, and fast. Jason could be an amazingly eloquent man, and very persuasive with his words, but Alex was not one of those people who could listen to rhetorical speech for too long. Cue sign, his companion sighed wearily and placed the cup on its plate and his leather case on his lap.

It was not long before a manila folder was placed in front of him. The swishy sound it made, as it slid along the surface of the desk, unnerved him beyond belief. It was just as he had expected, Alex thought. His hand reached for it without rush and his thumb flicked through the pages until he came across a detailed sheet on a brown-eyed middle-aged man.

He recognized him, undoubtedly. The man was Carlos Rodriguez, a Venezuelan Marxist-Leninist regarded as one of the most famous political terrorists of their time. He had played an active role in the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine in the 70s, a revolutionary leftist organization founded in 1967 that had pioneered armed aircraft hijackings. They opposed negotiations with the Israeli government, favoring a one-state solution to the Israeli—Palestinian conflict, and its tacit KGB support did not go unnoticed. That was why it represented a significant threat, or so the high-ups in Washington said.

Rodriguez had joined the youth movement of the Communist Party at a very young age and became involved in various subversive activities against the ruling government of Rómulo Betancourt. By the time he was seventeen, Carlos had shown considerable potential by being committed to his country's revolutionary cause.

After attending the Tricontinental Conference in Havana with his father, a fanatic Marxist successful lawyer, he was sent to be trained in the Cuban camp Mantanzas, run by Castro's secret service, studying Guerrilla warfare and sabotage techniques as well as bomb and weapon skills at the hands of his KGB trainers.

His parents then divorced, and he was sent to Kensington to attend a tutorial college in the United Kingdom, where he developed a taste for the playboy lifestyle, attending embassy parties and making contacts which would serve him well in his future career. It was a glamorous standard of living, short-lived when his father decided that his son was to enroll in the Patrice Lumumba University, in Moscow, which was said to be a notorious hotbed for recruiting foreign communists to the Soviet Union.

Once there, Carlos rebelled against the harsh discipline he encountered but a generous allowance from his wealthy father enabled him to recreate his playboy lifestyle beset with cocktail parties and women. However, this rebellion cost him his membership of the Venezuelan Communist Party, which had been sponsoring his studies in Moscow. Later, in 1970, Rodriguez was expelled from the university due to his participation in an Arab student demonstration— a protest that was considered anti-Soviet.

This marked the beginning of his involvement with the Arab terrorism. While still at the University, he had met a number of Palestinian students who had been determined to gain an independent state, even if that meant international terrorism.

Rodriguez took off to Beirut, Lebanon, where in 1970 he volunteered for the PFLP, the second largest of the groups forming the Palestine Liberation Organization, after Fatah. He was sent to a training camp for foreign volunteers on the outskirts of Amman, Jordan. On completing an extensive guerrilla training, Carlos played an active role in the north of Jordan during the Black September conflict— under the leadership of Yasser Arafat— and gained a remarkable reputation as a fighter. However, the organization was pushed out of Jordan when the Jordanian armed forces initiated their campaign to purge their country from the PLO, and Carlos found himself returning to Beirut.

In 1971 he was back in London, mixing with high society while covertly gathering information on who was worth assassinating or kidnapping. On December 1973, he was ordered to give a message to the Jewish community in London, as retaliation for the assassination of a high-ranking member of the PFLP by the Israeli secret service. As a result, the president of a British multinational retailer was shot in his own house, a nearly fatal act which had been preceded by a grenade attack on the London headquarters of an Israeli bank, and a car bomb in Paris. It was then that the world started to listen about a cold-blooded killer that walked in, threw a grenade and walked away like nothing had happened.

In 1975, he led a six-person team that attacked the meeting of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries leaders, in Austria. They took more than sixty hostages and killed three— an Austrian policeman, an Iraqi OPEC employee, and a member of the Libyan delegation. Carlos demanded that the Austrian authorities read a communiqué about the Palestinian cause on Austrian radio and television networks every hour. To avoid the threatened execution of a hostage every fifteen minutes, the Austrian government agreed and the communiqué was broadcast, as demanded, getting the massive attention from the world media. After the deed was done, Carlos and his gang escaped on plane and released the hostages on Algeria after a ransom— estimated at between US$20 and US$50 millions— was paid.

This earned him the wrath of the PFLP for not following orders. The plan had been to ransom most of the ministers for the cash the PFLP desperately needed, but to murder the ministers representing Saudi Arabia and Iran, because those two countries were insufficiently dedicated to the Palestinian cause and to the cause of higher oil prices.

In this state of affairs, Carlos was forced out of the PFLP by Wadi Haddad shortly after the OPEC kidnapping for ransoming the Saudi and Iranian ministers, instead of killing them, and because he was suspected of keeping part of the ransom for himself.

By this point, Carlos had become a freelance terrorist, gathering terrorists from various European and Arab countries to his Organization of Arab Armed Struggle, composed mainly of Syrian, Lebanese, and German rebels. His operations were mostly carried out in Eastern Europe, but he also traveled on diplomatic passports helpfully provided by various Arab nations, such as Syria and South Yemen. The Soviet satellites mostly tolerated his presence, maybe fearing repercussions if they turned him away, but they did little to actively help him then. An exception was Romania, whose secret police hired him to kill Romanian dissidents in France and to blow up the Radio Free Europe offices in Munich.

His campaign of terror was becoming unbearable, it seemed.

"Are you expecting me to say when do I kill him?" Alex unceremoniously tossed the file at the table, and sternly glanced at his fellow.

"We believe he's planning his next move, Mason. The Mossad is asking for our help. Two of their best agents were following a lead on him but were killed before they had the chance to report anything to Tel Aviv. Whatever it is, it must have been big. His wife's been caught in a car with explosives in Paris."

"His wife?"

"Kathrin Faber, a German photographer member of a German revolutionary cell. She was caught with five kilos of Penthrit, as well as false passports and other incriminating documents, including sketch plans of various locations that were targets. So far she hasn't told the DST a thing. She's a tough one, might I add. Meanwhile, Carlos has intimidated the French government into releasing her, or to face the consequences."

Alex dryly gulped at this. He was reminded of the time Corinne had been captured and interrogated, under torture. He did not intend to make an apology of this guy, but if it were him he would do whatever it took to free his wife. He wished he could forget the pitiful sight of her weak and beaten body sprawled all over the floor, nearly nude and shivering with cold. He could not forget the happiness on her face as she clung to him, practically crying her eyes out, and her trembling voice repeating the same words again and again.

'I didn't tell them a thing. I didn't tell them a thing.'

It was him who sometimes had to hold her at night, lulling her back to sleep when she had her nightmares— when the ghosts came back to haunt her. Was it wrong to look for solace in each other's arms? How could it be wrong? A relationship was about comfort and support, after all.

"Is our national security at stake?" At Jason's silence, Alex could not help but glare. In all honesty, he had no mean to stare at the man in this way. It was not his fault, either. He was just doing his job, like everyone else. Still, that did not mean Alex had to be happy about fact that they wanted him back for a reason that did not even have to do with homeland defense. "Then you don't have any business to do here, Hudson. Go find another for the job. I'm pretty sure there must be someone who's younger and eager to make a name for himself."

"That's the problem. They just don't want anyone to get his hands dirty." Alex had control the urge to snort at that. Just for how long did he have to keep them dirty for the sake of their satisfaction? "They want you and Woods. He says he's not going unless you do and, knowing him, he won't move his ass out of Philadelphia."

"And I won't move mine, either. My duty is to this country, not Israel or France."

It was clearly stated, that he was to go back to active duty if and only if national security was concerned, or by his own accord. None of those were the case.

"Mason—"

"I won't. Find another Joe in SAD. If I can avoid their shit, I'll do it. I'm out of the game."

"None of the newer operatives are as experienced as you two are."

"Then it's a good opportunity for them to get some thicker skin." He was not going to let him win this discussion. Not this time, not again.

"Just think what a mind like his is capable of scheming. He's a cold-blooded murderer, and has been hit where it hurts the most. Who knows what he's capable of doing just to free his wife—"

"And I'm determined not to leave mine!" Alex all but hissed getting up from his chair, eager to get out of there.

"I understand your concern for her, but you're needed now. Our duty goes always goes before the family. You know that."

"No, Hudson. This ain't the call of duty. This is the chance to remove a thorn in the West and French authorities' asses. But I'm not gonna be the pair of tweezers to pull it out. It's already settled. You asked me to give up on her once, and I listened to you, but that's not happening again."

He left the room in haste, wanting to see her again.

Looking at Corinne, now, he tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing. There was no need to thrust unnecessary affliction upon her. It would not do any good to her and the baby.

"Don't worry. It's nothing." Alex assured, placing his hand on hers as they gazed at one another, oblivious to the rest of the world in the restaurant. "Really, honey. Let's not talk about this, alright?"

With a dubious nod, they got back to their meal and merry chat, trying not to think too much about the unfavorable days to come, lest they called doom upon themselves.