Author's Notes: Alright, this is my first attempt at a Call of Duty fic. For all those who are following me and expecting an update on Old Memories, this is just to get the juices flowing and a test for myself to see how well I can do with different situations. I hope I did the scene justice. This is a oneshot, but perhaps I will continue this into Modern Warfare 3, depends on the feedback really. Anyway, thanks for stopping by and enjoy!

-Revan the Redeemer

We... Will... Kill Him

Soap woke up to the sound of water rushing through the riverbed behind him. He was washed ashore after taking a horrible fall down a waterfall with Price once the man had managed to shoot down the helicopter with a well placed forty millimeter grenade. He remembered trying to rear back from the slowly approaching waterfall, only to find out that the current was too strong for the boat's engine to handle.

"Price... Where is Price?" Soap opened his eyes slightly. The wind picked up, creating a small sandstorm amidst the wreckage around him. He surveyed what little of his surroundings he could see, but saw no sign of the other man's presence, only parts of what was once an MH-53 Pave Low.

Soap was a trained soldier, a proud former member of the SAS and founder of the international Task Force 141... or was until Shepherd betrayed them all and killed almost every living member of TF141. Roach, Ghost, Archer, Scarecrow, Chemo... The names of his fallen brethren were engraved in his mind as he pulled out the knife that was strapped to his thigh. Every member of 141 was family to Soap. Task Force 141, a big family of misfits fighting for the same cause.

Gritting his teeth, Soap pushed the memories into the back of his mind, along with his worry for Price. The old man was tough, if Soap made it, he sure as hell did too. Getting up, Soap was immediately hit by a wave of excruciating pain from his left leg. He looked down only to see an open fracture, the bone partially sticking out. The mere sight caused more pain to flood over him, but he will be damned if he gave up now, after so much effort they put into avenging their brethren, he wasn't going down until he confirmed the kill himself.

With that the only thought on his mind, he set off deeper into the crash site. The smoldering pieces of metal littered the sandy floor, dead bodies tossed around the patch of desert they were in. As he limped, each step a monument of his sheer power of will, one of the Shadow Company operatives sat against the main part of the destroyed helicopter, frantically trying to pull out his desert eagle at the sight of Soap's lumbering form. Soap tried to speed up, knowing that if the soldier managed to pull out his sidearm he was done for. The shaking hand of the nameless soldier managed to unhook the strap on his holster. Soap's heart raced. The operative weakly raised his handgun. Time slowed down for Soap. The operative's finger tensed around the trigger and slowly pulled back. The hammer flew towards the barrel. Soap closed his eyes, waiting for death to take him. For what seemed like minutes he stood here until he heard it. His eyes shot open at the rapid clicking sounds the empty pistol was making. The soldier's wide eyes gazed upon the gun before dropping it in defeat and slumping, almost lifelessly, against the metal hull. Soap calmed himself down and slowly approached his enemy. The knife came down on the operative's jugular, no resistance coming from the man as he accepted his faith.

Soap grunted as he pulled his weapon out of the corpse. Soldiers couldn't afford pity for the enemy. Hesitation in their world meant death. Once on a mission, the enemy weren't people, they were the nameless criminals trying to kill their families. Soap stopped his train of thought before it could delve into still very open wounds and returned to the task at hand. He moved to the large opening in the back of the hull that once contained a door. Just as he was about to turn the corner and limp inside, a uniformed figure stumbled out. He was wearing a woodland MARPAT set of clothes. A Lieutenant General hat topped his old, weathered face.

Shepherd and Soap only looked at each other for a split second before the former ran for his life, the latter trying to catch up in a haphazard, painful jog. Soap cursed inwardly when he lost sight of his nemesis' form to the cloud of sand and dust and increased his pace as much as his cursed leg would allow him. He trekked through the storm until he found him again. Shepherd was hunched over, panting at the side of a wrecked and abandoned car. The traitor looked up, one hand on his ribs.

"You know what they say about revenge..." He said in a raspy voice. "You better be ready to dig two graves..."

Soap was ready to pay the price if it was necessary, his life was a fair trade for justice to be done for the hundred of his comrades, all killed by the orders of the bastard standing in front of him.

"Go ahead, end it. It won't change anything." Shepherd spoke. Soap glared as he gathered his strength. It might not change anything for the world, he and Price will still be viewed as criminals, but Shepherd's death was never about changing the masses' opinion, it wasn't even to stop the coming war between Russia and the US, it was for their own sakes, for their own vengeance on the man who had taken everything from their lives.

With a snarl, Soap launched himself at Shepherd, knife poised for a stab. The General's hand shot out and grabbed his while about to strike. With a quick sidestep, Shepherd used Soap's momentum to slam his face straight into the car's rusted roof.

Light across his vision once his skull connected to with the corroded metal. Shepherd grabbed him by the back of his uniform, yanking him off the car and onto the ground, taking the knife in the process. Shepherd approached the stunned man, the taken knife firm in his grip. Before Soap could even start feeling the pain emanate from his skull, his very own knife was plunged deep into his chest. He spasmed and coughed out a small amount of blood before blacking out.

"Two years ago, I lost 30,000 men in a blink of an eye." Shepherd's voice broke through the wave of darkness that was now surrounding him. "And the world just fuckin' watched!"

Soap's eyes cracked open slowly. He felt nothing, no pain, not even hate for the traitor who was now standing above him, loading his favorite .44 Revolver magnum, bullet by bullet.

"Tomorrow, there will be no shortage of volunteers, no shortage of patriots." He continued, not taking his eyes off the gun as he loaded in the last bullet and rolled the barrel and pushed it back in. With a dead calm look on his face, Shepherd aimed the pistol at Soap's head, looking him in the eye.

"I know you understand." His finger tensed and pulled the trigger back. For the second time in the last five minutes, Soap was awaiting his end, this time staring at the gun about to end his life. Something suddenly tackled Shepherd as the shot rang out, the bullet embedding itself into the sand, mere inches from his head.

"Price..." The strained, raspy whisper left Soap's lips as he gazed upon his old friend and captain. The boonie hat clad veteran was currently attacking the Lieutenant General, kicking the gun from his hand in the process. Soap's eyes followed the gun as it landed a short distance from him. Filled with new vigor with the arrival of his friend and yet again savior, Soap crawled towards the tossed revolver, ignoring the strange mixture of numbness and pain that filled his entire being. When he was only one pull away from the pistol, Price dropped onto the ground, already trying to get up. He tried to reach the for the gun, but Shepherd's foot suddenly kicked the weapon away far out of his reach, making Soap look up. The last image that imprinted itself in his mind before he fell unconscious yet again was Shepherd's boot closing in on his face...

...He phased in and out of consciousness, he never felt the pain he knew he should, the knife sticking out of his chest was simply there, the bone sticking out of his leg was simply sticking out, having no purpose or feeling to it. Whenever he got his senses back, he would immediately open his eyes to see what was happening. It almost seemed like he was blinking; Getting an image of Price kicking Shepherd onto the ground and approaching him, then seeing pull Price by the arm and headbutting him. The tables turned almost as often as Soap was able to peek into the world around him. In the end, Shepherd was on top of a barely moving Price, trading punches with the unconscious man's face.

Soap sneered at his oblivious enemy. He had to do something, anything! Anything to save Price and end the bastard's life once and for all!

His eyes landed on the knife protruding from his chest. What he had in mind would probably leave him dead as well, but he had already made up his mind. His hand resolutely gripped the handle and started to pull. Any semblance of numbness immediately faded from his body only to be replaced by white hot pain that almost made him lose his grasp on both the blade and his own consciousness. Soap refused to scream, that would only let Shepherd know he was still very much in for the count. Instead, he pulled harder on the blade, his vision starting to swim as it grew dimmer and dimmer. The damned piece of metal was slowly rising from his chest, blood flooding out of the wound as it did. Fighting back a roar of effort, he grabbed the knife with his other hand.

Seconds... hours... minutes... time lost it's meaning in the overwhelming pain Soap found himself in. What mattered was that his chest finally let go of the night, a sudden burst of blood following it when Soap's hands flew upwards with the sudden lack of resistance. He let out a sigh of relief as the pain died down. With trained expertise, Soap twirled the knife so that he grasped the tip of the blood soaked blade.

Shepherd was still beating the former Captain of the SAS when his instincts warned him of a danger. He stopped an arched back fist and gazed upon the clearly unconscious man underneath him. His instincts have never betrayed him before, his longstanding career as a soldier a testament to that, so if Price was not a threat then it was...

Shepherd's head whipped up in shock, in the last moments of life he had before the already thrown knife was going to connect with his head, to see the form of the very much alive John 'Soap' MacTavish smirking venomously at him.

Soap watched as the knife embedded itself through Shepherd's eye into his frontal lobe, the dead man's last expression burnt into his memory. The corpse fell on its back. Everything was still except for the sand swirling in the wind around him. Soap let his head fall back on the sand. He took a last glance at his boonie hat wearing comrade and, seeing that the man was not going to wake up any time soon, let his head fall back as he waited for death's embrace. His vision grew dimmer and dimmer, as if he was slowly falling asleep. Just as he was about to close his eyes, he heard a light coughing.

Soap brought his head up again, fighting back the darkness that was threatening to overcome him. Price was coughing with a hand over his mouth. He raised his head to see Shepherd's dead body sprawled beside him. He pushed off a leg that was lying over his chest and rolled to the side, propping himself up on his elbow. The older man's gaze reached up and he locked gazes with Soap, staring blankly for a few moments. Then, as if a switch was flicked in his head, Price's eyes widened and he pushed himself up to his feet haphazardly.

"Soap!" He called, half walking, half throwing himself to Soap's side as the younger soldier's vision once again started to fade. "Soap!"

When he woke up for what seemed the millionth time that day, Soap felt Price tighten the last of the many layers of bandages he felt around his chest and broken leg. He also noted, as he opened his eyes, that the storm had died down and he had a clear view of the sky.

"It'll hold for now. Come on, get up." Price told his protege as he hoisted him up to his feet and acting as the younger's support. The two heard the characteristic sound of rotors. Not a moment later, an MH-6 Little Bird flew over a dune in front of them and landed a short distance away. Both grinned lightly as they knew only one person could be piloting the craft.

"I thought I told you this was a one way trip." Price noted with mirth as their old Russian friend came out of the cockpit.

"Looks like it still is." Nikolai replied with the same expression which fell a second later as he moved to help Soap to the chopper. "They'll be looking for us you know."

Soap faltered as pain flared in his left leg, making Nikolai rush over the remaining distance and hoist him to his feet.

"Nikolai, we gotta get Soap out of here!" Price said with urgency.

"Da..." Nikolai responded. Soap suddenly felt lightheaded and the pain in his left leg started to prove too much for his taxed mind. "I know a place."

The three approached the helicopter and Soap once again felt his mind faltering to keep up with its surrounding. Now being in safe hands, he didn't resist the urge and fell asleep, knowing that they fulfilled the promise they gave once they escaped the hellish fight that ensued once Shepherd betrayed them. They did kill him.