(Author's Note: Even though I'm visiting a friend, I found the time to finish up this chapter. If it seems a bit rushed toward the end, I apologize. Thank you everyone for the favorites, author watches, and reviews! I initially started this story as one for myself, because I always wondered what would happen if Soap never died. Hopefully I haven't disappointed anyone in this chapter!
If you have suggestions for what you would like to see happen, please include them in your reviews! Although I already have the entire plot planned, I'd like to know if others really want to see something happen in the story. If it aligns with my plans, I don't mind adding it to the story. So, please enjoy!)
Yuri saw rather than felt the fist blow across his face, the corners of his vision darkening for a brief moment. He tasted copper in his mouth and spit at the ground, wiping his hand across his face. He rubbed his sore and bruised jaw as he looked up at the man standing before him in the room, without malice or contempt. There was a reason he was being beaten, a so-called just dessert for his actions. Deciding that staying down was a better option for him at the moment, he waited in silence for the words to fly like bullets toward his face. The moment he knew had been coming was on the verge of crashing down upon him.
Captain Price regarded Yuri for a second, the gleam in his eye communicating the want to kick Yuri while he was down. However, the idea seemed to not work for the British man, because he merely crouched in front of the Russian, smoothly pulling out his pistol and aiming it at Yuri's left temple.
"I want to hear why Makarov knows you, and it'd better be the truth. Otherwise, we'll find ourselves a body to clean up."
Price's words were cool and mechanic; he was being deadly serious, and Yuri almost felt the same form of apprehension squeeze his heart as it had earlier when Makarov's voice had floated through the radio link in Prague, sharp and metallic.
A soft hiss of a sigh escaped past the ex-Spetsnaz's lips, and he looked straight into Price's eyes to show his honesty. "I was young and patriotic when I first met Vladimir Makarov. It was in Pripyat, 1996, when I first learned the true nature of the Ultranationalist movement at Imran Zakhaev's arms deal."
"I was in Pripyat at that time."
Yuri masked his surprise the best he could, feeling the cool touch of the pistol still resting against his head. "I was with Makarov when we helped Zakhaev escape during that time. Our reward was power… but power corrupts." He paused, but when Price continued to stare at him, waiting for more, he continued delivering his narrative. "In the Middle East, in 2011, a nuclear bomb was released, silencing thousands of lives at the push of a button."
"I know."
"Makarov issued the affirmation to detonate the bomb. It was during this time that I started to doubt where he was heading, to a place I wasn't sure I could follow. Five years later, when I knew he was going to massacre the innocents at the Zakhaev International Airport, I tried to alert the authorities. He knew."
Yuri paused to take a breath, closing his eyes as he pictured what his eyes saw as the elevator doors opened to the sickening scene. It was a horror that wouldn't go away, because of his inability to prevent it from occurring.
"I was shot and left to die by his hands while he and his followers carried out the massacre. I tried to stop them, even as I bled to death, but instead collapsed before I could stop even one of them. The man I had regarded for years as my ally, who regarded me as the betrayer, was the real betrayer."
Yuri reopened his eyes, watching Price's reaction carefully. His explanation over, he wasn't sure what Price would do next. A gun in the hands of a restrained, rage-filled man was no better safe than a gun in the hands of a power-hungry madman.
Price didn't move for a minute before slowly rising to his feet, holstering his pistol back into its place at his hip. "Okay, Yuri. You've got a believable story." He looked down at the Russian, who was still on the ground and regarding him with masked anxiety. "Doesn't mean I trust you. The decision about you rests with Soap, not me, so you're going to have to talk with Soap once he's in a condition to interrogate you himself." With his last words still hanging in the air, the British captain turned and left the room.
The ex-Spetsnaz heaved his shoulders, shaking his head. What a mess he had gotten himself into, and now the man who had almost died by his actions was going to decide his fate. He rose carefully and decided to find the nearest sink to wash his bloodied face before it congealed into a mess. One way or another, whether he was still accepted as a part of the team or not, he'd find a way to make Makarov pay for his crimes. He swore it on that day they had chosen opposite sides, and the decision Soap MacTavish would make wouldn't affect his conviction that when he saw Makarov again, only one of them would remain alive.
Time passed unsteadily, the days running into each other. While Nikolai busied himself with the tasks of keeping the safehouse, well, safe, and the upkeep of the men, Price used all the resources Nikolai had at his disposal to track the events occurring in the outside world. As for Yuri, he merely did what he could to help Nikolai in-between bouts of cleaning his weapons and wandering the compound. Soap continued to recover from his near-death experience, and as the days passed, he slowly built up enough strength to stay awake for most of the time.
It was no surprise to Yuri, therefore, when Nikolai came seeking him.
"Captain MacTavish would like to speak with you," he calmly announced to Yuri as the man set down the sniper rifle he was cleaning. Yuri pushed himself to his feet, turning around to notice the faint smile on Nikolai's face. It was almost a sad look, if he wasn't mistaken. Wordlessly, Yuri began to walk past the other soldier before feeling a strong grip on his lower arm. "Don't forget your reason for being here, my friend. We all want the same thing."
"… Da, I know," Yuri quietly agreed, pulling his arm away gently and heading for the door that would lead to the long hallway, where at the far end would lay Soap's recovery room. He had avoided that area ever since his interrogation with Price, but, of course, he couldn't avoid it forever. Once his feet stopped outside the door, he took a steadying breath. If Price had interrogated him like a stranger, then MacTavish would interrogate him like a prisoner. He had to be ready for whatever the man questioned.
Yuri twisted the doorknob and stepped into the room. It was a plain, dirty room, same as every room in the safehouse. In the middle of the upper wall was the bed Soap was currently lying upon, with a small wooden desk to his right and a wooden chair facing the bed. His small, battered journal rested on the table. As the ex-Spetsnaz moved further into the room, the Scottish soldier turned his head just enough to look at who was entering. His neutral look took on a furious one, and his tone was hinting at a hard-to-restrain anger.
"So, you're here. Have a seat."
As soon as Yuri took the only chair available in the entire room, Captain MacTavish stared pointedly at him, his eyes blazing and his jaw clenched.
"You're going to tell me why you know Makarov and why you thought it convenient to hide the truth from us."
Yuri stayed silent for a moment, avoiding Soap's fierce gaze that seemed to swallow him in a hole where the only way out was to speak. Fixating his focal point at a location above Soap's head, Yuri began to retell his history with Makarov, avoiding any stops he might have given, but instead recounted every detail he could recall.
Once he was finished, a heavy silence coated the room, Soap's gaze resting firmly on the thin, weakly-made blanket covering his torso and lower body. Beneath the covers, his fists were balled into tight fists gripping the bed, attempting to keep his cool and not strangle the Russian.
"So," Soap began, his voice low and slow, "that's your history." It wasn't a question.
"Da," was all Yuri mustered to say, his hands clasped in his lap. It was an unsettling feeling – knowing your fate was decided by a man who almost died because you failed to mention something that occurred in the past. Why should it matter now what his relation to Makarov was? Soap's injury was not a direct cause of his reluctance to speak about his past; it was merely a poor hand they had been dealt for the situation.
The Captain lifted his head up, turning to look once more at the ex-Spetsnaz, regarding him coolly. "I'll be honest with you, because I think you need to know the truth." He paused, letting his words sink in; Yuri knew the reason wasn't a good one. "No matter what kind of history you've had with Makarov, it doesn't excuse the fact that you never told us. You might've had valuable information we could've used so that all of this could be over and done with. But now, I can't trust you, not until you prove to me whose side you're on, mate." He closed his eyes and turned his head away. "Until then, I suggest you don't stick around here."
Yuri instantly rose from his chair, MacTavish's final words causing a strong jerk in his heart. Essentially, he wasn't needed anymore because he couldn't be trusted by the man. It didn't sting to know he didn't trust Yuri, but understanding the hidden message – he was useless to them – made him want to move out of that room and start his own search for Makarov. He knew the madman's moves (for the most part), and that information alone could aid him in his own search, until he was accepted by the Scotsman and Briton again, should that ever occur.
Deciding to have the last word, to let the man see that his words didn't affect him, Yuri faced Soap, giving him the faintest of smiles. "Of course, my friend. Should you need me, you know who to contact."
The Russian left the room, letting his feet take him to the one man he needed at the moment. Stopping behind the man who turned toward him at the sound of his approach, Yuri felt himself start to speak.
"Nikolai, I need your help…"
