Chapter 2: Recovery

Shepherd's corpse lay in a pool of slowly congealing blood. Ghost raised a hand to his balaclava and pulled the edge of the fabric above his lips, and spat on the leader he once trusted. There was no mistaking the general's attempted actions as anything but cold, calculated betrayal. Ghost momentarily pictured unsheathing his knife, digging the blade into the old man's slack face, removing his eyes, the nose, and lips with the care of a surgeon, one by one until the body was no longer identifiable. But it would not bring back Ozone, Scarecrow, Archer, or Toad, and right now he had to focus on saving the one man still alive on his squad. Roach was possibly on the brink of death, dark red had seeped quickly across his abdomen after Shepherd's .44 magnum round made contact, and Roach had already lost consciousness and a good deal of blood. Ghost returned his mask to its original position, hiding the hardline of his mouth, and observed Roach's caretakers: a woman and a man wearing combat fatigues.

Ghost had witnessed, in a matter of seconds, a bullet entering Shepherd's skull, his magnum simultaneously firing and hitting Roach, and the panicked Shadow Company soldiers turning their firearms against him. But Ghost had been faster, landing a deadly hit on the closest of the off-guard gunmen. The additional support from the unexpected Russian military group made quick work of Shadow Company. Even Shepherd's helicopter pilot was dispatched. Ghost had turned his weapon upon the Russian paramilitary group when they emerged from the hilled tree line moments after Shadow Company no longer presented a threat. But they did not fire at him and the sniper rifles in hand made it clear who had killed the general and his lackeys. Ghost had run to Roach's side, feeling incompetent in his inability to assuage the soldier's wounds, and when a Russian approached him and offered medical treatment, Ghost had little choice in the matter.

A goddamn Chrimbo miracle, sure – Ghost's head throbbed from the incessant gunfire that had drowned his hearing during the past hour as he racked his brain to understand everything that had transpired – But I don't trust 'em. Not exactly out of the woods yet.

"He will live," the woman replied while standing up from Roach's side, as he lay on the ground attended by another soldier. She said something in Russian to the man who had applied the dressings to Roach's wound and was applying pressure to suppress the blood flow.

Ghost was still trying to size her up. Even before he had scrutinized her combat attire, he recognized the military training in her posture and body language. She was dressed in assault gear, a sniper rifle slung across her back, with heavy pouches and ammo cases strapped to her legs and belt. The insignia of the Ultranationalist political party emblazoned on a shoulder patch was unsurprising given her native tongue. She had the hardened look of a warrior etched into her features, a stern but attractive face with frizzy auburn hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Ghost reckoned she was about thirty, only a few years younger than himself.

"Care to tell me who the bloody fuck you are and why we're still alive?" Ghost grunted. How many of Mak's men had he and his team slaughtered at the safe house? This woman, who supported the same cause that Makarov's Inner Circle had splintered from, was not exactly an ally. The Russian attack on U.S. soil roughly twenty-four hours ago in Washington, D.C. had anchored that fact.

A corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Is that how you say 'you're welcome?' from where you are from?"

"I don't have time for this," Ghost jabbed a finger in the air with frustration. "I've a man dyin' here!" he yelled.

"I told you, he will live. No spinal injuries, we can move him," She spoke calmly as sweat beaded her dirty brow, a remnant from the firefight that had broken out mere minutes ago. She paused, as if attempting to read Ghost's concealed face – an impossible task – her eyes narrowing as she skimmed over his uniform. Her eyes lingered for a moment on a Task Force 141 patch sewn onto his belt pouch.

"We will talk later. Best to head to a safe place… unless, you want the rest of his men to find you?" She indicated the corpse of General Shepherd with her chin, and turned on her heel towards the U.S. copter. Ghost wanted answers but this was not the time nor the place. Most of Makarov's men had been disposed but more could still arrive at any moment. Or worse, U.S. Army personnel would be following up on Shepherd's current whereabouts. Even taking the U.S. bird was a risk but they could always dump it after covering a substantial amount of ground. Ghost was not about to take any unnecessary risks. His top priority now was to get Roach to safety and reconnect with MacTavish and Price.

I don't fancy this little alliance, but what choice have I? Ghost's personal radar was on, alarmed and distrusting. He was outnumbered, out of ammo, and while he struggled to understand why he and Roach had been spared during the ambush, he was not about to complain that the Russian sniper team had assassinated the rogue Shepherd.

The Russian woman waved down the small group of soldiers who had stood back towards the tree line, the men scrambling to her position. Ghost had suspected it, but it was now as clear as Shepherd's attempted murder of Roach. She's calling the shots. She's their leader.

Two Russians carried Roach onto the copter, the young soldier's body slack. Bloody hell, if I hadn't forced him ahead, maybe the mortar wouldn't have gotten him… guilt and anger washed over Ghost like a cold draft. If Roach did not survive this, he was not sure if he could forgive himself. I made a promise to protect him; that we'd make it through this mission –

"Goddamit!" Ghost roared, rage unhinging at his thoughts. Hot fury boiled from the pit of his stomach as he suddenly pounced on Shepherd's corpse and battered the dead man's face with a flurry of punches. It made Ghost angrier that the general was not alive to react and beg for mercy, the punches landing harder, faster. The general's nose crushed into a bloody pulp, a zygomatic bone snapped and concaved a cheek, and the lips cracked open until the face was no longer recognizable. Red splatter flecked across Ghost's sunglasses as shredded skin embedded into his gloved fists.

A pair of arms tugged at Ghost roughly, a voice yelled above the whirring of the spinning copter blades. "We need to go. Now!" The Russian woman called, a faint trace of pity gleamed in her greenish-brown eyes. But Ghost was about to land another punch, abandoning all reason to his bloodthirst.

"Ghost! Come in, this is Price!" The frantic voice crackled over Ghost's headset, made him pause mid-swing. "We're under attack by Shepherd's men at the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!—"

Ghost jumped to his feet. "Price! Copy that. Shepherd is dead, I repeat Shepherd is dead," he managed to croak, his breath hard and labored. "Entire squad K.I.A. with exception of myself and Roach. We've a copter for transportation."

"Good," Priced crackled, the signal fading. "We'll regroup and plan accordingly. Killing Shepherd won't exactly land us the Medal of Honor. Not that we're bloody Yanks, in any case…"

"Didn't kill him, sir. Will go over details later. Area might still be hot."

"Meet us at the one-four-one rendezvous point. Can't risking staying on this frequency more than necessary. Price out," his voice nearly consumed in static when he ended the comm.

Ghost pulled a slip of crinkled paper out of a pocket and stared at the coordinates of a rendezvous point that served as an unofficial Task Force 141 safe house. Only Price, McTavish, and Ghost had access to the information should they ever need a private place to reform, strictly off the record. They had disobeyed the chain of command by concealing the location from General Shepherd – not that Ghost had ever cared – he just never imagined they would actually use it. Ghost admired Price's foresight and the notion of getting Roach to a safe place brought him back to reason. His rage began to quell even as he spared the corpse of General Shepherd one last glance, the bloodied mangled face seared into his memory. The image would serve as a catalyst for bloodlust should he ever lack inspiration for battle.

The woman motioned to the copter. Ghost shoved the paper at her, "I've to get to these coordinates. As soon as bloody possible."

She took the paper and nodded. "We can arrange that. Let me speak with Anatoli, my pilot." She jogged ahead and approached a squat but strong-looking man in his early forties with a trimmed beard.

Ghost stepped into the helo and approached Roach. He was positioned on his back on the cold floor, a duffle bag as a makeshift head rest. He no longer had an attendant and his dressing looked like it had stopped the blood flow. Ghost was impressed with the medical attention provided by the Russians, considering they were not strictly allies. Roach's eyes were closed, but beneath his eye lids, Ghost could see movement, as if Roach might be having a nightmare. Ghost knelt by his sergeant and placed a bloodied gloved hand on his shoulder, gently.

"Sanderson?" Ghost called, his voice hoarse and rough. Roach was still, aside from his eye movements underneath the lids. "Gary?" Ghost breathed, a bit louder. C'mon mate… lemme know you're gonna make it… just say anythin'… Ghost suddenly paused his own thoughts. 'Mate?' Is that the damn word I should be usin'?

Ghost was transported to their chance encounter the night before. It felt like another lifetime ago when he had confessed to Roach that his insular nature and stern disposition towards him and others was his own way of protecting his men, of ensuring their survival on the battlefield. It was his own way of protecting himself, too, from emotional attachment. Roach accepted Ghost for who he was but had wanted to encourage him to let others in, to live a life worth living. And afterwards, the cheeky bastard had actually propositioned him – suggesting that Roach could make him feel something again – And, I felt somethin' alright…

Hot skin, heaving chests, his hardness held and stroked within Roach's deft hand until he had released all over the sergeant who was so transfixed by him. But it was more than just lust, as Ghost recalled the feeling of satisfaction coupled with a knowledge that some things were worth living for, such as the bond that two people could experience even at the brink of despair. Ghost had not intended on anything of that nature transpiring between himself and a subordinate, and they had taken measures to avoid detection on base, but Ghost had needed someone that night – had been grateful even, to have shared it with Gary. Now he wished he could somehow trade places with the younger man who had risked so much to ensure the proper retrieval of the DSM and might pay the ultimate sacrifice for his service.

"He may be experiencing shock," The Russian medic grunted and draped a thick parachute cloth over Roach, "We want to make sure his body temperature stays consistent."

Ghost considered it fortunate that the Russian had clearly handled this situation before but he was furious that Roach had to experience it to begin with. He doesn't deserve this! The hand not resting on Roach's shoulder formed a fist and punched the floor of the helo.

The woman who saved Roach was sitting at the opposite end of the copter, she looked at him from across the bay, startled by the sound. Ghost stood up and walked the short distance. The bird was now flying up into the air, the white peaks of the Caucasus Mountains visible outside the viewports.

"So, fancy a chat?" Ghost was sardonic, irritated for waiting. Could be worse, if this woman and her group hadn't been 'round to save our asses. Ghost forced himself to acknowledge that much and toned down his bristling agitation. He glanced back at Roach and was momentarily calmed by the sight of the soldier's chest rising and falling beneath the parachute-turned-blanket.

"You expect me to 'chat' with a man who hides his face like a coward?" She challenged dryly. "For all I know, you could be Vladimir Makarov under that mask."

"Reckon if you knew I was Makarov, I wouldn't be sittin' at your side this moment. Take it he's no friend of yours?" Ghost figured that if this woman had worked for Makarov's faction, he and Roach would have been killed along with Shepherd. He knew there were members of the Ultrantionalist Party who despised Makarov's brutal tactics and insane vision for returning Russia to pre-parliamentary rule.

"Da. I am field commander of the Anti-Inner Circle movement that saved your asses," she stated coolly.

"Looks like you dunno where Mak is, either. Why go after Shepherd? Not that I don't appreciate the assist, but, let's just say I didn't see it comin' myself," Ghost admitted.

"It's true – we don't know where Makarov is now. Seems we were following the same faulty intel that brought your team to the safe house. Only we traced the intel back to General Shepherd. Our hackers located his private server and found encrypted communications with his right-hand man in Shadow Company. Upon deciphering the message, it became clear that your dear general has instigated World War III. How is that for an American hero?" She scoffed.

Ghost hung on every word, unsurprised given the shit storm that had transpired. Shepherd's actions today certainly convinced him of the double-dealing. "Explains why he was keen to take out my squad. Claim all the glory and fame for himself. Your timin' was impeccable... commander," Ghost trailed, uncertain about using rank with the Russian.

"Natalia Isayev," she offered.

"Simon Riley," Ghost gave his name, preferring his call sign to stay within the confines of his own men. "So you take out the general for retaliation, or to further demoralize the U.S. Army. You know that President Vorshevsky and the POTUS are currently discussing a truce?"

"Not to demoralize the U.S. but to end a war. You believe General Shepherd would have permitted that truce? I cannot say with certainty, but his documents suggested he was seeking ways of prolonging the war, of instigating further conflict. We had to dispose of him before he launched an assault on Russian soil," she spat.

Ghost pondered her words. It was logical given that Shepherd had previously ordered the task force to focus exclusively on finding Makarov and to avoid meddling in the Russia-US conflict. But Captain Price had directly defied those orders when he led the task force, Roach and himself included, on a rogue operation to infiltrate a submarine base near Petropavlovsk. The mission resulted in Price launching a submarine-launched ballistic missile into the upper atmosphere above Washington, DC, resulting in an EMP blast that gave an advantage to the US forces fighting the Russians. If Price had not acted, had not defied the general, the US Armed Forces may have lost the battle.

"Gonna have to ask you to share that intel with us… we'll need it to clear our names. You didn't spare me and my only survivin' soldier just to throw us to the dogs," Ghost stated matter-of-fact, wondering how Price and MacTavish had discovered Shepherd's duplicity. Probably ambushed during their mission by Shadow Company. But they can handle 'em.

"Let's just say… we recognize the value of Task Force 141," she met his gaze with a hard stare, unfaltering as her eyes scrutinized his mask. "We share common goal, even if our motivations differ: take down Makarov, at all costs."

Ghost was by Roach's side when the helo landed in a remote field in southern Armenia. He gingerly lifted Roach's shoulders and torso up while Anatoli, the pilot, grabbed the wounded soldier by his legs and feet. Together they carried him out of the helicopter and into the dusk.

Roach stirred by the movement. Ghost could just discern in the dying light the white gleam of Roach's eyes as they slowly flickered open.

"You okay?" Ghost queried.

Bloody stupid thing to ask, really…

Roach groaned slightly in reply, "I – I was sh-shot… at the safe house?"

"'Fraid so, but you'll make it. We've been extracted and we're to regroup with Price and MacTavish."

"The Dee-DSM… di-did Shepherd g-get the DSM? Do we know whe – ."

Ghost cut him off, not wanting Anatoli privy to their intel, "Roach… what exactly is the last thing you remember?" And Ghost was concerned, too.

"We – we made it to the LZ, saw Shepherd… wa – was hit by a mortar though and I bla – blacked out? Wa – was I hit by a bullet after that?"

"There's more… but I'll ask you to wait a moment. Price and MacTavish are expectin' us," Ghost gently set Roach into the grass with assistance from the Russian pilot.

"Wa-wait… who's he? Who are these men?" Roach's voice edged on panic as he noticed Anatoli and the others disembarking from the helo.

"Allies, believe it or not," Ghost replied. Fatigue had set in and his mind was dulled. Perhaps, had he been sharper, he would have introduced the Russian paramilitary group with more enthusiasm.

Anatoli looked at him, dislike hardening his features. Ghost's somewhat tactless language had not impressed the pilot. "Why don't you get to the part where you two wouldn't be alive if –"

"Anatoli, enough. Let's just get them where they need to be, for now," Isayev approached. "Riley," She cocked her head towards Ghost. "Place is quiet. I sent some men to do recon but nothing so far. Are you certain your comrades are here?"

"Allow me to assist your men," Ghost suggested. If Price and MacTavish were in the vicinity, they would avoid bringing unnecessary attention to themselves under the present circumstances.

Can't risk usin' our old radio frequency at this time, but if they've left a trail or message I would recognize it…

"Go," she urged. Ghost nodded, but decided to check on Roach first.

"That guy special ops, eh? Looks like he's to play paintball, if ye' ask me," Ghost heard Anatoli mutter to Isayev as he knelt to Roach's side. He decided to ignore the Russian; it was hardly the first time Ghost had overheard someone giving him shit about his unconventional gear. They never dared say it to his face but rather when they thought he was out of earshot. The indirect criticism showed that Ghost unsettled Anatoli and the lieutenant was more than comfortable with that notion.

"Sanderson. Gary," Ghost called to Roach who clutched at himself in pain, eyes watered and red. His dressings were a dark brown, the blood no longer fresh.

"Gonna scout the area for the remainin' task force. Made it to a private rendezvous," Ghost explained, as he gingerly patted Roach's unzipped jacket. He felt the hard, square object inside an inner pocket. The DSM. Ghost could not risk leaving Roach unattended with Makarov's entire playbook, knowing full well that the impromptu alliance with Isayev's cause could suddenly go south should the Russians learn of the priceless intelligence and decide to seize it for themselves. Ghost maintained steady eye contact with Roach, indicating the sensitivity of his actions, and the solider seemingly understood, not asking questions as Ghost's hand slide inside of Roach's jacket. He ensured that his body blocked from view his retrieval of the DSM as he pocketed the device into his own coat.

"There's loads to explain but the priority here is gettin' you cleaned up and on the mend," Ghost said as Roach peered up at him, breathing slow and labored.

"Thanks…" Roach managed and placed a gloved hand on Ghost's own. Not wanting to bring needless attention to themselves, Ghost stood up and broke contact. Roach's eyes were more watered than moments before. Hurts to see him like that, but there's a time an' place for everything.

"I'll return," Ghost said as his silhouette dissolved into the darkness of the grassy plain.

He walked further away from the landed helo surrounded by flares, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark blue dusk, until the copter was on the horizon to the southeast. He removed his sunglasses into a jacket pocket and listened for signs of life. The rustle of wind-swept grass across the gentle, sloping curves of the terrain. The chorus of chirping crickets, an occasional swish of a swooping bat. Ghost scanned the skyline, saw a group of Natalia's men to his south, a tree line to the north, a large stone-structure to the east that reminded him of St. Mary's church in Credenhill. And then Ghost detected the faintest crunch of movement upon the earth.

He brandished his pistol, held steady, and waited for a sound or movement.

"Don't think you'll be needing that," The gruff voice of Captain Price spoke as he emerged from a prone position and another, larger figure followed suit.

"Ghost?" MacTavish was already walking forward while holstering his pistol. The Scotsman's arms spread outward and engulfed Ghost in a bear hug.

Ghost clapped his captain's back earnestly. "Bloody hell, it's good to see you," He released MacTavish and shook hands with Price. "What happened out there?" he asked.

"Attacked by Shepherd's men, Shadow Company. Had a nasty confrontation with a so-called 'Viper.' Claimed he was the best of the general's men. Load of bollocks if you ask me," Price replied.

"Who else is with you? How'd you make it here?" Ghost prodded.

MacTavish sighed. "Just us, Ghost. No other survivors. And we pulled a favor from our old friend, Nikolai, who extracted us in the nick o' time. He'll return tomorrow with supplies," MacTavish replied, looking crestfallen with the slump of his shoulders, as if he struggled himself to fully comprehend the scope of their losses.

"We saw your bird land, but it's US Army, as you know, so we had to lie low until we found out otherwise… Never did see another solider with that mask," MacTavish grinned, if somewhat half-heartedly, giving Ghost a playful nudge with an elbow, "Guess you borrowed the helo from Shep?"

"Not me, exactly… an Anti-Inner Circle paramilitary group. Woman in charge, calls herself Natalia Isayev – might be a pseudonym – her group appeared at the safe house and shot dead our general just as he fired at Roach –"

"Roach! Ghost, what happened to Sanderson?" MacTavish cried, his brow furrowed with worry.

"He's alive, lost a lot of blood, but you know how bloody stubborn he is about dyin'," Ghost smiled slightly to himself underneath the balaclava.

"You still have the intel on Makarov?" Price interrupted.

Ghost patted his jacket. "Roach did fine work out there… but I reckon we keep this private from our new friends."

"Good lad, that Roach," Price commented. "And good foresight, Ghost, wouldn't expect any less from you."

"C'mon, let's head back to the helo and I'll explain everythin'," Ghost offered as they turned back to the flares that shimmered on the horizon like exploding stars.

"I'm t-tell-telling you, d-don't know what you're bloody on ab-about," Roach's strained voice carried on the wind as the task force entered the vicinity of the encampment.

"We know you retrieved valuable intel, don't play with us," Isayev was towering over Roach, a pistol brandished in her outstretched hand.

Fuck! Knew this would happen. Ghost charged forward, Price and MacTavish flanked him.

"I leave for all of ten minutes, and you've proceeded to intimidate my battle-rattled sergeant. Perhaps you'd do better speaking with us?" Ghost was loud but forced himself to maintain a relatively calm tone.

Isayev straightened herself, eyed her own soldiers before sizing up the new arrivals, "I see you found your comrades."

"Aye," Ghost remarked, his hand hovered discretely over his holstered sidearm. "Meet the field commanders of Task Force 141… Captain Price and Captain MacTavish," he indicated. Isayev's men slowly encircled the remaining task force.

"Pleasure," Isayev returned dryly. She pointed the gun's business end towards the task force.

"Wish I could say the same," Price offered, clutching his rifle. Ghost sensed the man's rage in parallel with his own.

"I know you have Makarov's playbook," She motioned her pistol on Ghost. "How convenient that Makarov's computers were wiped clean when we arrived to the safe house, only to find you tailing it to Shepherd."

"So why not just kill us right then and there, if you reckon we have somethin' of value?" Ghost gritted his teeth. They were severely outnumbered, four to about twelve, and probably much slimmer on ammunitions. They had entered a trap but perhaps talking this over could diffuse the situation. Their lives were more important than the intel, when it came down to it, but he had to try and protect their one remaining ace in the hole.

"To make Task Force 141 an offer: hand over the intel, serve us, and we help clear your names."

"Think we can manage that ourselves, thank you very much," MacTavish barked.

"'Sides, how we to trust you given your 'persuasion?'" Price's eyes narrowed into slits.

"You will find that the U.N. will not take kindly to branded traitors… we've been listening in on their communications. You're wanted men. Who else can protect you?" She was calm, having the upper hand worked to her advantage. "Or fight your own battles, what do I care? But you must give us the files."

Ghost scanned the faces of MacTavish and Price in his peripheral vision. The three of them had survived deep shit on their mission to eliminate Makarov but they had never been outcasts on the run. At least Ghost had dealt with betrayal before. His commanding officer Major Vernon sabotaged a routine mission to take down a Mexican cartel, resulting in Ghost's capture, torture, and subsequent brainwashing at the hands of drug lord Manuel Roba. It had taken years for him to shirk the psychological madness and pain.

And Price had been captured and sentenced to years of imprisonment in a rotting gulag. MacTavish had narrowly escaped with his life after killing Zakhaev. These men were tough as nails; he saw it written in the grim determination of their expressions. It was Roach that Ghost was worried about, pain etched in the lines creasing his forehead, his discomfort visible as the bright flares placed around the helicopter.

"Well, hesitate much longer and I think the wounded one may succumb to his injuries…" Isayev mocked as she pointed her pistol at Roach's skull. "Poor thing."

"Enough!" Ghost bellowed, causing some of Isayev's men to step forward with rifles and pistols at the ready.

"Ghost," MacTavish was quiet and he placed a broad hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "I got this," he said as he looked at Price for affirmation. Price nodded grimly.

"Alright, we can offer up the intel and we'll cooperate in pursuit of Makarov, under one condition. We both want him dead, that much is certain. No use to us to fight one another about it," MacTavish said, slowly lowering his weapon.

"We've got the right-hand of Shepherd after us," MacTavish continued. "Help us eliminate him and we've no problem handing over the intel."

Isayev maintained her stance, the barrel of her gun lining up with Roach's head. She looked at Anatoli for a moment.

"Pft. I've seen dogs trained better than Shadow Company thugs," Anatoli spat, arms crossed.

"Fine," Isayev consented. "We have a deal, but first show us what you have on Makarov."

Ghost thought MacTavish handled the situation well enough, given their options, although he was hardly thrilled with the prospect of being subordinate to the Russian bitch. He noted the slits of Price's eyes. I'm sure Price is already imaginin' ways of getting 'round her authority. He suppressed a bleak smile despite his mask that already concealed his expression.

Ghost unzipped a pocket and offered the DSM. "As far as we know, it's all here," he said quietly.

"Good," she stepped forward, holstered his pistol, and plucked the DSM from Ghost's grasp. "Not wise for us all to bunker down together, with Shepherd's men and Makarov abreast of the situation. We will discard the army helicopter far from here and return in forty-eight hours. Should give us time to decipher the intel."

She turned to her men, "Alkaev, Orlov, bring them rations for two days and medical supplies." Two men boarded the copter and returned with US Army supply backpacks, handed them to the task force. "See, I am reasonable."

"What about ammo?" Price asked.

"I'm sure you have someone supplying that to you soon enough," Isayev commented. "I assume you had some help getting here, after all. Just keep in mind, I will have a larger force with me when I return. Do not do anything you would regret," she turned on her heel and returned to the copter.

Ghost ran up to Roach as the Russians dispersed, "Let's get you inside that monastery and I'll tell you everythin'."

Price examined Roach's wound, the young man lying on top of a stone slab covered by a thin blanket, inside an ancient Christian monastery in the Armenian wilderness. They were joined by Ghost inside a small room probably used for prayer in the tenth or eleventh century. Now it was an impromptu medical bay lit with an oil lamp. MacTavish had retired for the evening some minutes before, exhaustion setting in now that the task force had reached the relative safety of the hideout.

Price had explained that, a number of years ago, he purchased the property under a pseudonym and officially listed the site as undergoing renovations for future use as a bed and breakfast for the elite. Unofficially, Price had bribed Armenian officials through private contacts and had stocked the building with enough supplies to abscond from the world for a few days. A few changes of clothing, an assortment of combat gear, rations, a few cots and blankets for sleeping, pain killers, medical gauze and antiseptic; hell, Ghost had even found an old porno mag from 1999 stashed under a box of MREs.

"Looks like they did a decent enough job suppressing blood loss," Price muttered, dabbing the wound with a cotton ball drenched in antibacterial fluid. Roach's abdomen quivered slightly at the sting. "Good on them giving us extra supplies, this should be cleaned again in the morning," Price handed Roach a canteen and an antibiotic. "Drink plenty of that," he added.

"Still, you're gonna have to take it easy for a while," Price continued as he reached for fresh gauze and tape. The Kevlar that lined the Task Force 141 issue jackets had slowed the entry of the point-blank shot, leaving Roach with no exit wound. Price had expertly retrieved the bullet from the shallow wound and now applied the fresh dressings after ensuring the wound was clean.

"Fuck, I can't believe that asshat shot me," Roach groaned after downing the pill. Ghost had informed Roach of Shepherd's actions as he and MacTavish carried the wounded soldier to the monastery.

Ghost had removed his balaclava after retiring inside, unconcerned with maintaining his anonymity among his men. His mouth twitched upward ever so slightly around his cigarette at Roach's comment. He was hardly a chain smoker but it had a way of easing his tensions when the shit hit the fan. Although they had been coerced into cooperating with a potentially hostile group they did not entirely trust, Ghost was relieved that they had survived the ordeal, and that Makarov's whereabouts would soon come to light. He focused on that and the prospect of Roach's full recovery. The nicotine was nice, too.

"Recommend you two join Soap and get some rest," Price grunted as he secured Roach's dressing. MacTavish's uneasy snores could be heard from an adjacent room. "Been a hell of a day. I'll take the first watch."

"You get some shut eye, I'm too wired to sleep," Ghost offered truthfully.

"Well then, Sanderson, you need help getting to a cot?" Price asked.

Roach hesitated a moment, glanced at Ghost and then Price, "I'll be in soon, I just need a few minutes to… you know, meditate. Ghost can help me out should I need it."

"Right then," He eyed Ghost and Roach for a moment. "We'll switch in a couple hours," he added to Ghost as he departed for the sleeping area.

Ghost and Roach stood in silence for moment, Roach seated on the blanket-covered slab, looking at Ghost expectantly.

"I owe you my life," he whispered as Ghost approached him.

"Just doin' my job, lookin' out for my best sergeant… 'sides, even I grudgingly admit we'd both be six-feet under if not for that Isayev woman."

Roach laughed weakly and winced as result. "Well, could be worse. Shepherd could have burned us alive with his disgusting cigar, or something."

"Hah," Ghost laughed briskly at the mental image, as disturbing as it was. "I'm glad you pulled through, Sanderson."

Roach glanced up at him with a small grin, a slight mischievous twinkle in his still bloodshot eyes, "We still on a call sign and last name basis, Lieutenant?"

"You really gonna give me shit about that, considerin' the circumstances?" Ghost wanted to reach out and hold Roach, but the thought made him uncomfortable given the close proximity of the sleeping Price and MacTavish. His actions would be perceived as inappropriate, given the rank between him and Roach, and a sense of guilt crept over his conscious as he imagined having to explain to MacTavish, a man who held him with the utmost trust and confidence, that he was cavorting with a subordinate.

"Yeah… I get it. Just glad you're here, you know?" Roach replied sheepishly, his eyes glancing away from Ghost's face to study the crumbling walls. As he examined Roach's forlorn profile, it was clear to Ghost that his sergeant had been longing for him, and he slowly admitted to himself that part of him also pined for the bond he had previously experienced with Roach.

"Fuck it, Gary, I'm glad you're here, too," Ghost reached out, abandoning reason, and roughly collected Roach's chin in a gloved hand, pulled Roach's gaze back on the lieutenant. With his other hand, he stroked Roach's cheek, moving his fingers upward into the younger man's cropped, sandy-brown hair. Roach closed his eyes at the touch and Ghost could sense his tension dissipating with the contact.

"Damn this wound," Roach moaned quietly. "Not much I can do in this pain…" He opened his eyes. Ghost had leaned in towards Roach without realizing, their faces close. Roach's lips grazed the corner of Ghost's mouth, and Ghost returned the act by tenderly planting his lips on Roach's.

"Never worry… I'm serious, you ought to focus on your health," Ghost murmured as he pulled away. "You should get some sleep, here, I'll walk you over…" He eased Roach off the slab, allowing him to cling to his shoulders and abdomen for support. He walked Roach over to the sleeping quarters and placed him in a cot.

Ghost lit himself another cigarette out in the dank foyer of the monastery, using the oil lamp for light. He leaned up against the wall, inhaled the warm smoke, felt the solid weight of a pistol in his hand. He usually took solace in a good smoke and a firearm, but he realized now that whatever he was experiencing with Roach was a different kind of pleasure and comfort. It filled him with a sense of contentment he did not recall having felt in recent memory. It had made the last twenty-four hours actually worth living through.

The events of the previous day reeled through his mind. Him and Roach, naked and vulnerable in the shower room on base, the mutual pleasure and release… working like hell to breach the estate, the disappointment of not locating Makarov, of losing good men in combat… their desperate flee from the safe house, Ghost dragging Roach to the LZ not knowing if they would make it, Shepherd's arrival a momentary elation, gunshots, blood, chaos –

Footsteps echoed in the stony hall and Price's silhouette manifested from the dark. Ghost, deep in thought, had experienced the two hours in the course of what felt like fifteen minutes.

"My watch," Price murmured.

"Thanks, reckon I could use the sleep," Ghost yawned and started down the hall.

"So Sanderson's a bloody ponce, is he?"

Ghost paused at that. Had I heard him correctly?

"I saw enough," Price grunted. "Man up, Riley. This mission's got more at stake than your dick. Focus that energy on killin' Makarov, eh? Not on seducing some sexually ambiguous boy toy."

"Y-you saw wrong, sir," Ghost stammered, feeling a fool. For fuck's sake, he knew it was wrong to feel what he felt with Roach. And it was more than it being uncharted territory for Ghost – he was disrupting chain of command by acting on his emotions.

"I thought so," Price said quietly. "Get some sleep."

Ghost disappeared without another word.