So, this is my first crack at a story of this kind, any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Its both exciting and challenging writing this already, so I hope you stay around with me to see how it unfolds!
Tension hung in the air; a heavy lingering veil. Behind the steel door came the hum of muffled voices. The tones were low, but changed pitch frequently, suggesting a conversation was taking place. It was estimated that there was three, maybe four present. The exchange went on.
From his position at the other side of the door, Captain John Price gripped his rifle tighter, and nodded sharply at the soldier opposite. Reacting immediately to the command, John 'Soap' MacTavish slammed a square device onto the door, where it stuck and beeped twice, flashing a red light. He jabbed a thickly gloved finger into a button on the front and then both men turned away, each with an arm held protectively over their face. Within a heartbeat, the device detonated, blasting the door from its hinges and sprinkling fragments of the wall into the air. A cloud of white smoke rose from the explosion and seeped into the room. There were indistinguishable shouts from within the smoke, all in a foreign tongue but undeniably urgent. What followed was the deafening cackle of guns and the sinister thuds of bodies dropping to the floor. After a few intense moments the gunfire ceased, and silence hardened. The smoke slowly faded and revealed a bloody scene. The bodies of four men scattered the ground, all but one clad in armed attire. The room was run down like the rest of the building and was sparsely furnished, with crumbling walls and worn wooden flooring. Two chairs had been knocked over and the desk in the corner was spread with a clutter of paperwork. Price and MacTavish moved in, guns still raised. They quickly scanned the small room before they lowered their weapons in defeat.
"Damn it." MacTavish's gruff Scottish voice cut through the silence.
Price pressed a finger against his earpiece and spoke into his radio. "No sign of Makarov, I repeat, no sign of Makarov. Move out to our position, we'll search for intel."
"Roger that." came the deep response into his earpiece.
MaTavish, who was pushing one of the fallen men's face to the side with the toe of his boot in inspection, looked up at his old comrade when he exhaled heavily.
"Search that desk, we need any leads we can get if we're going to find that slimy bastard." Price said, kneading his fingers into his jaw in frustration.
Slinging the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, MacTavish stepped over the bodies and made his way to the desk in the corner. Price remained in the centre of the room, muttering into his radio. Standing at the front of the desk, MacTavish rummaged through the mass of paper, searching for something, anything useful. He, like most of the other men in Taskforce 141, was becoming increasingly maddened by the lack of success. His desire for Makarov dead was becoming consuming.
It was then that two figures appeared in the doorway, both strapped with weapons and armour. Ghost was the taller and slightly broader of the two and was wearing a balaclava, printed with the face of a skull, a headset, and dark red tinted sunglasses which almost completely shadowed his eyes. Roach had a somewhat boyish face, and the way he hung behind Ghost validated their ranks.
"Got anthin'?" Ghost asked as they entered the room. Neither of the two even reacted to the bodies sprawled across the floor.
MacTavish didn't lift his head as he replied. "Nothing." In his hasty search, several pieces of paper fell off the back of the desk. "Most of this is-" He froze and immediately held a hand up to the others, signalling silence. One piece of paper had fallen and swooped into the space under the desk on the other side. The unusual crumpling sound had ignited MacTavish's suspicion that it had touched something before it landed on the floor. Something that was under the desk.
Sliding his gun off his shoulder and into his arms, he glanced at the other three men who had all also readied their weapons. He ducked into a crouch, and slowly, stepping as lightly as his heavy boots would allow, he moved around the desk.
He didn't falter when his eyes met those of another; his instincts had told him there was someone there and they were rarely wrong. However, although his composure didn't show it, he was caught off guard by the sight before him. There, crammed under the desk at the end of the aim of his rifle, was a young, terrified, beautiful woman.
She was clutching her left thigh, blood seeping through her fingers. The blood on her light skin was a harsh contrast; she didn't belong in such a brutal environment. Her blonde ponytail was bedraggled, and her face was smudged with dust from the explosion, but her features were flawless. Icy blue tear-filled eyes, straight defined nose, round full lips. She stared up at the soldier before her with wide eyes and a quivering lip. Her voice was shaky and on the edge of a sob, but coated in a thick Russian accent.
"Please, do not kill me. I can help you."