A rewrite of the original story "There's NO Way". For you guys who wanted me to continue the story, here it is, and you'll also find a stunning lack of typos now. You can thank my new Beta Reader, Blitzy-chan, for that. I also was working a lot harder to make sure that characters stayed in character and such, so there you go.
Another quick thanks to Stoneface and all the rest of you guys who encouraged me to keep going, it met a lot. I hope you guys like this new version. I'd also like to say, if you find anything wrong, don't start calling me "arrogent" or a "bad writer" simply tell me the mistakes in the reviews without flaming me.
Thanks,
~Jadeah

It was quiet. A long calm silence had taken the safehouse, to the point where he could no longer hear the sounds of conversation, the clatter of weapons when placed on their racks or a table, not even the constant footsteps he had grown used to; just a dead quiet...

It was times like these that made Soap a little annoyed. He was used to fighting, and when things got quiet, he got jittery. Just something about being in a gunfire made him think clearer. Now it seemed as though he was the very last to inhabit the safehouse, and the lack of activity was killing him. His immobility had been had been going on now for weeks. The constant need of help for the simplest of things, and the fact he was apparently so weak in his former Captain's eyes, it tore at him. He'd never completely understand the man, but he still cared about him. Hell, he'd be dead for five years now if he hadn't pulled him into that helicopter on his first mission. But the fact that whenever he tried to stand Price would come in and tell him to go back to bed was frustrating. How would he get better if he had to lay around all the time?

He'd been drawing in his journal, but they were small and very simple sketches that barely mattered. He'd even ended up tearing a page out of the small black book in frustration, crumbling the page into a small wad before throwing it into the waste bin at the opposite wall; it skirted the edge before falling in. Finally, he put his journal back down on the nightstand, sighing heavily out of extreme boredom.

Soon he started to flick at his forearm, barely registering the nail of his index finger smacking against his skin. This simple method of entertainment was only one for the simple minded. The easily amused. Sadly, Soap wasn't one of these people, and he groaned before laying back. When he was about to put his head back onto the soft pillow, the back of his skull hit the head board of his bed. He sat up fast, rubbing the small bump where his head had connected with the head board, glaring at the metal rail.

He grumbled some inaudible curses directed towards the head board, the quiet, and his stomach wound. Sparing a glance, he let his eyes fall on the laptop on the complete opposite side of the room. Just sitting there... mocking him. Price had put it there saying that he should rest, but if anyone tried to convince him it was the captain's way of saying, "I'm trying to annoy the shit out of you," then he might just believe them. It was pretty stupid, or to him, it seemed like it was.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, he very carefully placed his right foot down on the floor first. Then his left foot. The moment he got the rest of his weight off the bed, his knees buckled and he had to catch himself on the mattress before he hit the floor face first. Once Soap had hoisted himself back up to a leaning position on the edge, he tried to coach himself through the rest.

"Going to have to take this slow..." He stiffened his legs and took his first step away from the bed. Then his next. With each step, pain flared in his midsection, but he only gritted his teeth slightly. It was sixty seconds of grueling, nonstop pain, and he found himself using the desk as support while giving himself a moment. Then he realized something else; how will he get the laptop back without tripping and possibly breaking the damn thing? His hands had been out trying to keep him balanced, leaning onto the wall for support. Now he would have to risk falling if he wanted to carry the laptop back to the bed.

He sighed heavily before grumbling to himself on the lousiness of his decision. Then again, he'd rather let his effort in getting here not be in vain. In one free hand, he took hold of the black device.

Then, just audible enough to catch his attention, he heard the door downstairs open. Footsteps followed that, and he listened to a specific pair of footsteps. They were drawing closer. Ever so nearer until the door itself opened.

Now Soap hadn't even a chance to start back for his bed with the laptop, so he was still leaning against the desk, just putting the laptop back down as Price stepped into the room.

"The bloody hell, Soap? I thought I told you to get some rest." Anyone could tell, especially Soap, that he was saying it more in a joking way when he said it. But he still had his point.

A curt nod was Soap's reply to this.

Now the older's tone was slightly more serious. "Did you tear the stitches on your way over there?"

"No," He sighed, putting a hand over the closed wound. "Nothing tore. I'm fine."

Price came closer to him and took hold of an arm. "Come on, get back to bed."

No point arguing; Price had a point. But as he came to sit back down on the bed, he asked, "Where were you guys? I was beginning to worry that you might have died down there."

At first Price chuckled, and pushed his boonie hat back into place before it could slide off his head. "Nikolai was going on a supply run, and almost everyone decided to go with him."

"Almost everyone?" Soap knitted his eyebrows and stared at him. "Who was the quiet bastard who stayed? I didn't hear a sound."

"Yuri." Price answered simply. Then he sighed. "It's strange how he's been so silent. I asked Nikolai and he told me that the man is very closed."

Him... Soap had only barely got the chance to meet him; as he was barely conscious and Yuri was shaken up and dripping wet. Where they were was beyond him. All he remembered of the safehouse was the ceiling, being on a stretcher, the doctor getting shot, and the beginning of some gunfight from outside. Then he could also recall the Russian before he had to shove a needle in his chest. Adrenaline or something. Yuri though appeared mortified upon Nikolai telling him to give him the shot, but he hadn't shut his eyes. In the breif moment before he had, they exchanged a look of mutual fear. And after that, Yuri sunk the needle into him and everything went black. He came to with Nikolai shouting, "There he is! There's Yuri!" like he'd just won a prize or something of the sort, and Price grumbling something back to him. All he could say in the midst of his confused, groggy state was, "Who the bloody hell's Yuri?"

Since that, they both hadn't spoken a single word to each other. Never really got the chance; Soap would always be stuck in his room, and Yuri was always dragged on something like guard duty.

Price sat on the edge of the bed. "You alright, Soap?"

"Yeah, I'll live..." He pushed himself into a sitting position, looking outside a for brief moment. The window was open so that a breeze, if one should ever come, would ventilate through the room, though all it seemed to do was allow for Soap to listen to the sounds outside, and keep the furnishings from smelling like sweat. The window provided a nice overwatch position on the walkway and main entrance. Soap couldn't help but think that it would also be a good spot to snipe enemies coming down the dead end road, and with a pair of binoculars, he could look at the market place. It was a very, VERY nice position should he ever need to provide sniper support here.

A sudden weight on his lap brought his attention away from the window and back to Price. Now there sat the laptop on his thighs. He looked up at Price in confusion; his old captain had said earlier that he felt Soap should rest. "Price? I thought-."

"I know what I said." Price interrupted. "But while I was in the market with Nikolai, I was thinking about how you keep bugging the hell out of everyone, simply because you have nothing better to do. So I figure you could make use of yourself and keep an eye on Makarov's movement for us."

"No problem." Soap replied. "So just keep an eye on the news or what?"

"The news should work fine." Price told him. "It's best to keep an eye out for anything that would link up the the bastard. Maybe, if we get lucky, he'll grow careless and leave a trail. When we have his location, that's when we move in and go for the kill. Besides... we can't really rely on anyone to keep us informed at the moment."

"Cause the world wants us both dead." Soap finished. "Just wait until we show them."

"When the time comes," Price assured. "When it comes." He then stood up and left the room, but just before he closed the door, he added, "Don't let that thing keep you up too long."

Now alone, Soap opened up the laptop and turned it on. It wasn't long before he found some news sites where he could check in on the events going on in the war at the moment. So far all he found was that the Americans had been holding their own alright. Well good for them... that's one less thing to worry about for the time being.

It started with war events. Then his searching took him to the debates in Russia, and soon he found himself looking at the news back closer to home; didn't seem like much was happening. Nothing involving Makarov at least Which was a good thing; last thing he needed was to worry about his parents getting killed by some Russian pounding on their front door.

That brought a new thought. Did they miss him? Did they believe the news? If he returned before everything was straightened out, would he be greeted with warmth, or be turned away, or even killed? But he was their son, so why would they turn away from him?

His search then brought him to something that caught his eye. Titled; LOCAL DEAD LEAVES FAMILY BEHIND. He found himself curious and so continued reading...

"In an odd string of events, Mark Lowell had been found with a knife impaled in his back. The murder was carefully done, as clues are difficult to come across. All that police have released is that the knife was thrown at him from around 12 and a half meters distance from their vantage point two stories up. The only other clue is stranger. The knife appears to be a combat knife with dried blood on the handle that doesn't match Lowell's. Two other people appear to have fallen victim to the knife. The first is the deceased General Shepherd-" He stopped reading a moment and did a double take. General Shepherd? But he killed him, if that knife had Shepherd's blood on it, how did it get into Mark Lowell's back? "- and the second is the former Captain MacTavish, who is wanted for the murder of Shepherd. Police assume MacTavish is dead." Soap felt his stomach knot up. They thought he was dead... Reluctantly, he continued reading the article. "Whoever used this knife was very careful not to put any fingerprints; the ones found were of both victims mentioned. 'There is hope that whoever this person is, they left some sort of clue.' Says Officer Michael Gregor. Lowell also left behind his family. A married man, he had two twin children of five years. His wife, Marianna Lowell says that 'his passing was most unfortunate.' A major loss for her and her son and daughter. When told about the two other apparent victims, she made an interesting comment. 'I don't know how the blood of an old lover got on the knife', she had told us, 'But now I know John is dead.'

He had read enough. He closed the laptop as he thought about what he found out. He knew Marianna. She was a girlfriend he had since before he joined the SAS. They went their separate ways five years ago, when he returned from Russia after killing Zakhaev. He was greeted with a lot of yelling and crying. Looking back, he should have known she would have caught wind of his injuries somehow, and it had worried her sick. When he didn't get in touch while in the hospital, since he couldn't, she was even more scared. When he returned, she kept questioning him on how bad his injuries were. So, to try and ease her, he downsized them. Ironically enough, it didn't work as he had hoped. She was even more angry with him and decided that if he couldn't be completely honest, then she couldn't trust him enough to be in a relationship.

So she had kids? Five year old kids? He pondered this for a long moment. The math didn't add up. He and Marianna had been dating five years back, and it took nine months for the children be born. Marianna was never the cheating type, and it was impossible for this Mark guy and Marianna could have had five year old twins. This fact alone, made it even stranger. He found himself dawning upon a realization he wished he hadn't.

If Mark wasn't the father of these twins, that would that mean that... he was?