Sleeping Dogs
Chapter Four


The Soviet War in Afghanistan might have officially ended 27 years ago, but the effects of Soviet involvement in the region were still remembered by some - that, Nikolai knew with a certain kind of clarity.

Too young to have touched the conflict in the beginning, he'd been deployed in 1988 as Russia began its withdrawal. Despite their forces ramping down, the fighting hadn't lessened. Nikolai saw his fair share of carnage in those months - was baptised by more than one fire. When they'd left, the country had fallen right back into civil war.

He'd been naive, then. Ignorant. He hadn't realised how interconnected the world was – how nearly every sovereign state was constantly locked in a game of cat and mouse behind closed doors. Russians may have physically left the arid, unforgiving landscape of Afghanistan, but their money was still padding political coffers. Funding regimes. Inciting violence, instability. Coup d'états.

They had never truly left, meddling with power and influence. Every now and again the occasional black ops mission was greenlit, but it wasn't until Russia decided to help consolidate the Northern Alliance's forces against the Taliban that Nikolai had found his way back to the sandpit. Piloting choppers across the Afghan border without Government authorisation. Sometimes carrying munitions - sometimes carrying the men who best knew how to use them.

It had taken him a while, but eventually he'd come to realise that the lines between right and wrong, good, and evil, weren't set in stone. Forever shifting in the dark, brutal nature wartime.

And with that understanding, there had come another. One that he hoped would be his saving grace.

Friends could be found in even the most hostile of places.

You just had to know where to look.

-x-

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-x-

Price cracks the bedroom door, his Browning HP a cold, but familiar weight in his hands. The narrow corridor beyond is dark, pokey - its walls the only encroaching silhouettes within the small space.

Outside, the ruckus continues. Fists beating incessantly on wooden panelling, as though determined to pummel it off its hinges. Price huffs a breath and slides out into the hallway, his combat boots remaining forgotten in his wake.

Wasn't like he'd need them. He couldn't, wouldn't, leave the house.

There's no moonlight, no streetlight,flooding through the window ahead of him. Just black, filtered into definition as Price's eyes adjust. He stays to the right of it, footsteps soundless now as he pads closer, closer, Browning at his hip.

Seconds pass - the door knob starts to twist, whoever is on the other side trying to override his security. Gaze hardening at the sight, Price reaches out with his free hand, fingers closing around the moving metal, thumb disengaging the lock.

Price knows that the people out for his blood wouldn't knock - knows that he can handle who's on the other side.

He wrenches inwards.

It's abrupt, sudden. The element of surprise working a little too well as a dark shape comes stumbling over the threshold, balance lost. They hit him, the top of their head colliding with his jaw - the softness of breasts pressing against him.

Years of training freeze him in place - index finger stalling on the trigger, the soldier in him standing down.

This isn't a threat.

… It's a bloody civilian.

-x-

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.

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-x-

In the heart of Kabul's Bagrami District, Nikolai pauses on a curb, glancing to either side. Brake lights glint in the distance, the smell of exhaust lingering in the air. The bus he'd just rode in on has left a trail of thick, dark smoke saturating the street.

Fuel efficiency hadn't quite made it to this corner of the world.

Coughing into his hand with a grimace, Nikolai starts to cross the road, pace picking up into a hurried jog as a horn blasts. He jumps onto the opposite path just as a car zips by him, wheels grinding the bitumen with a vengeance. Annoyed, because he knows that zhopa had hit the accelerator just for him, Nikolai throws his hand up, flipping the bird.

He bites down on his tongue, though, keeping his far-from-polite thoughts to himself. It'd been uncomfortable enough, wedged into a vehicle with forty other passengers like a tin-packed sardine - his pale skin making him a curiosity. Revealing his nationality on top of that to any stranger would be a badly played card on his part. Even if the bastard did deserve to be called a glorified goat fucker.

Scowling, Nikolai slowly turns away as the red hatchback disappears from view. There's sweat trickling down his face. Patches of it staining his clothes. The heat isn't helping his mood - the fact that the Afghan summer should have ended a month ago not lost on him. Grumbling under his breath, he stalks the last couple of metres to the telephone booth.

Neon yellow and nestled on a quiet corner, it's only when he's standing in front of it that Nikolai notices the holes in its metal siding. He eyes them for a second as he pulls the phone of its hook, knowing exactly what they were.

There was a reason this place wasn't listed as a tourist hotspot.

Not particularly concerned about it himself, Nikolai puts it out of mind and punches in a number.

The line hangs for a moment, before it starts ringing.

He rests his free hand on the cash collection box, fingers drumming against it as he waits - dark eyes flicking around, scanning his surroundings. On the fourteenth ring, somebody picks up.

'…Who is this?'

Sharp, accented Dari. Nikolai understands the suspicion - the number having laid dormant for well over two decades, now.

'A friend,' he answers without preamble, his own Dari rough and clunky in his ears. It almost makes him wince. He's out of practise. 'An old friend.'

Silence. Nikolai imagines that the cogs are turning, his contact sifting through years of memories to match a face to the voice. There are only three people that could be standing where Nikolai is now, having this conversation.

Eventually, the man speaks. '… And what does this old friend want?'

'What you owe me, my friend.' Nikolai says, tone light, despite the hard edge in his expression. 'A favour.'

-x-

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-x-

She smells like petrol.

The realisation dawns a heartbeat after the first, instinct bringing Price's hands up to grip the woman, fingers wrapping around her forearms briefly, nails biting into skin, before he shoves her backwards. It's not gentle - anger tying a hard, steely knot in his gut - and she staggers with a startled yelp, almost toppling back out the door. Price brings his pistol up, aiming dead centre.

'Don't move,' he orders, tone hard, furious. Dripping with very real threat.

Because this was how seasoned soldiers died. Blown to pieces by little girls that looked just as innocent as their own daughters.

Price hears a rattling breath - hysteria on the verge of boiling over. The woman regains her balance, trembling so violently that he can see it in her silhouette.

'Please, please-'

She pitches forward, one foot stepping towards him.

'I said don't bloody move.' Price barks, words louder, cracking like thunder. It's his command voice, solid and demanding. Brooking no argument. And it works.

The woman stops, arms flying into the air. Surrendering. Price isn't sure if she's seen the gun - she might have felt it, when they'd been scrambling - or if she's just trying to placate him. Either way, it works - easing some of the tension as he sees that her hands are empty, that there's nothing strapped to her chest as her shirt tugs upward, exposing her stomach.

No detonator, no vest.

No bomb.

'I'm sorry, I'm…' A choked sob interrupts her, and she fights to get it under control, dropping her head as though to hide her emotions. 'I'm sorry, I did not-'

'Who are you?' Price cuts her off bluntly. The stink of petrol is still in his nose, confusing him - his mind struggling to connect the dots. She's speaking Pashto. One of Afghanistan's major dialects, but not in this District. Meaning she was part of an ethnic minority, banging on his door in the middle of the night. Doused in fuel. 'What are you doing here?'

He's starting to piece it together - the picture ugly, the implications warranting far more than a simple headache.

'I'm so-'

'Stop apologizing.'

It's snapped harshly, with no small amount of irritation. Price wants answers. Needs them to understand what's going on here. To assess the dangers and decide a course of action. But when her only response is a soft whimper, he pauses. The noise washing over him, speaking to a part of him that's far too human.

Every playbook he's ever known has the same cardinal rule - don't hurt civilians. The only exception being if they were charging at you with murder in their eyes, and a weapon.

This one doesn't have a weapon.

She's standing several feet away, scared. Crying. A lot of his colleagues, back in the day, had known him as an old breed, traditional type. There were certain roles and stereotypes he lived by. Certain rules he'd follow to a T.

Ever so slightly, he lowers his gun.

'Your name, love,' he says, with marginally less bite, his words slow as he adapts to the new language. He wasn't necessarily fluent in Arabic, but he knew enough to ask the important questions. 'Answer me.'

Another whimper. 'R-Rana.'

'Rana,' Price nods once. 'And what are you doing here, Rana?'

There's a sniff, a few more shaking breaths. Rana looks at him - or tries to, her eyes flicking beyond his own to stare at something behind him. '… H-help.'

'Help?'

'Please! They said… they said the Westerners could help. They said you do things differently-'

Price stares at her, almost disbelieving. Of all the people desperate to track him down, it's a young woman in need of a white knight that finds her way to his doorstep

'Who told you that?' Price demands after a moment, brow creasing as he frowns. There's nobody he can think of. Nobody who might put that thought in her head.

Except -

'She did,' Rana sobs, like he's supposed to know who 'she' is. 'T- The doctor.'

- that bloody little MSF bint.

If there was one woman he'd have no qualms about strangling, it was that one. Even if she had saved Soap's life. What little that meant at the moment.

'Look, love-'

Perhaps she hears the rejection in his voice, because before he's even uttered the words, she's launching at him. Crossing the distance he'd adamantly enforced between them in seconds, her fingers clutching at him with complete desperation. Price grunts, quashing his surprise enough that he doesn't reflexively drive the butt of his pistol into her face. He tries to push her back again, but this time it quite literally involves prying her off.

'No, no. Please, you have to help me. I swear - I swear I did not do what he's saying. I didn't - I would never -'

'Rana -'

'- he tried to burn me. He is going to burn me. Please -'

It's luck, that Price sees it.

Luck, that as he's trying to disentangle himself from Rana - who's clinging to him like a lifeline, her snot and tears wetting his shirt - that he catches the flicker of light from outside. A tiny little flame, illuminating the body of another.

Seconds before it comes arcing towards the both of him.

Price reacts so fast that he doesn't have time to fully comprehend the entirety of the situation before he's literally hauling Rana off her feet, spinning them both around. She cries out - from pain, from fear, he doesn't know. Doesn't think as he half-pushes, half-throws her further into the house.

Something collides with his back.

It's quick and brutal. Price is upright one second and on the ground the next. His head bounces off the concrete, hitting face first. There's a cracking sound - cartilage crunching as his nose bends at an impossible angle. Blood wells in his mouth, streaks down his chin.

For the slightest moment, his vision fades to nothing - his thoughts stutter to a halt. Complete and utter stillness.

Then everything comes back at once.

Price knows what a momentary black out feels like, as his skull throbs so hard that his eyes water, blurring his sight even more than it already is. There's dark on dark, shapes on shapes. He raises his head slowly from the floor, squinting to try and understand what's going on.

Funnily enough, this is familiar territory.

A large, heavy object thuds down next to him, scraping his cheek roughly - the noise distant through the ringing in his ears. It's a boot - he figures that out an instant later, as it moves, thudding down a little ways in front of him. High above, there's another flicker of orange - the only light source in such a confined area, that it seems to illuminate everything.

Not that Price can see - his world still limited to blobs, albeit on a slightly brighter canvas.

He still has the presence of mind to put two and two together, though, understanding on a base level that the boot belonged to a man - most likely the same sodding bastard who'd just put him down - and was moving towards Rana. Or the blob Price assumes is Rana, cowering against Soap's door.

The fact that it's Soap's door barely registers - Price's focus solely on the girl. There's a priority here - one that Soap would understand.

Without hesitation, Price's fingers snap closed around his MIA Browning - the gun having been knocked from his grip. Swearing thickly around a mouthful of blood, Price switches tactics, reaching out to grab his target's ankle and wrenching hard.

He doesn't have the strength that he used to - that was stolen from him in the Gulag, one item on a long, long list of things that he's still fighting to get back - but he does have the element of surprise, and enough muscle to make it count.

There's a loud snarl as Price's target unbalances, crashing down on one knee. Price hears it with crystal clarity as his senses slowly return. An echoing clatter follows as the now extinguished lighter falls in the scuffle, but it's quickly drowned out. Somewhere, Rana is screaming bloody murder, though apparently nobody's listening.

Price drags himself up the Afghan's leg, fingers digging into the belt around the man's waist - trying to pull him down completely. There's resistance. A twisting body - a fist, lashing out violently to try and clout Price about the head again. It misses - the virtue of darkness and clumsy panic.

Realising he's not going to win the upper hand like this, Price starts to drag himself up further, grunting with the effort - using his weight rather than his strength to force the man to the ground. An elbow in his ribs almost dislodges him, but he grits his teeth, pulling, pulling, pulling until he reaches just the right point to overbalance them both.

With haggard, panting breaths, the two of them slam back onto the ground.

' - you fucker. Get off of me, get off -'

A burst of adrenaline gives his target an edge. The realisation that Price is playing to win in the most absolute way possible dawns, and the Afghan flings himself upward, the back of his skull catching Price's already buggered nose.

Pain - blinding, dizzying. Price rolls off the bastard, momentarily seeing stars.

' - son of a bitch -'

The Afghan is on top of him in seconds, Christmas-ham sized fists raining down on Price in quick succession. His lip splits. His eye gets hit so hard it starts to swell shut. Hot, sticky blood cascades over his chin as he coughs.

With blind, searching hands, Price reaches out - finding the bastard's collarbone, bypassing his neck. Looking for something vulnerable.

He finds it.

Price holds the man's face with two hands, his thumbs stretching to press savagely into the bastard's eyes, his nail puncturing one almost instantly.

His ear drums are almost shattered by the resulting howl of agony - the body on top of him seizing, trying to pull away. Price feels fingers wrap around his wrists, tugging, ripping.

But there's no stopping.

To stop is to die instead.

Price ignores the pleas for mercy, the arms beating at his own, and drives his thumbs deeper, forcing them as far as they'll go, and more. The left eyeball goes first. It moves under his thumb a little, being pushed back into the socket. Wet starts to trickle down his skin. Warm, thick. Then the right starts to move.

The Afghan starts to thrash wildly, emitting a high-pitched wail. Price pushes upwards as the bastard wrenches backwards, using the man's strength to get himself upright. Still attached to his face, Price straddles his victim, slowly, methodically leaning on him, shoving him down.

It doesn't matter where he's hit. Doesn't matter how much it hurts.

There's no stopping.

Suddenly, abruptly, the Afghan stops yelling. It's at the exact same time that Price feels an odd sensation - like he's jabbed a water balloon so hard that it's burst. Something squelches - liquid pouring over his hand.

A garbled, choking sound. The man slumps the rest of the way to the floor, limp. Price doesn't skip a beat, shoring up his position. Throwing his entire mass behind what he's doing.

Another squelch. The gurgling starts to taper off - the Afghan twitching beneath him. Blood spurts out from around Price's thumbs, gravity eventually dragging it to the ground with a soft, steady pitter patter.

Still, he forces himself deeper, deeper, deeper, digging into meat - tearing holes in it, until the man stops moving all together.

Until there is silence - the only breathing he can hear, his own.

Price stays there for a time, gazing down at the obscene sight before him, tempered only slightly by the limited light. It's like he's looking through a grey filter - the gore censored out with desaturation, though it does nothing about the all-the-too-familiar stench of blood. Of a bladder voided somewhere before or after death.

In the background, a door clicks closed.

It catches his attention, thrusting awareness onto him like a white hot brand. Price pulls his thumbs out of the man with a wet, sickening pop - leaving two large, gaping holes in a face frozen in terror. This time, he barely glances at it - instead climbing onto his feet and shaking his hands, as though that might clean them.

Behind him, a whisper gives him pause.

'Thank you.'

Price had honestly thought she'd left.

'Don't thank me, love.' He rasps after a long, long moment, far too aware of the mess he's made, his heart refusing to thump back into a normal rhythm. '… I doubt this has solved either of our problems.'


A/N - Thank you to everybody who has followed, fav'd and reviewed so far - it really means a lot :).