August 13, 2009
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Rio's advantages, as far as Roach could tell, over Kazakhstan were that at least it was warm and no one was trying to shoot him yet. Driving in the clogged city streets was slow going and their driver, a native of the area, was muttering under his breath in Portuguese as they tailed a white van, the same as they'd been doing for the past twenty minutes while MacTavish double checked the plates. Roach was sweating through his uniform, but after the bone numbing cold of the last mission he wasn't about to complain.
"Ghost, the plates are a match," MacTavish said from behind him as the van began to slow.
"Copy," came the reply. "Any sign of Rojas' right hand man?"
"Negative. They've stopped twice already. No sign of him."
Third time turned out to be a charm as the vehicle pulled to a stop. The door opened and two men jumped out, both carefully cradling guns in their arms. As they approached the building, Rojas' assistant walked over to them, hands up. Roach didn't speak Portuguese, and wasn't even close enough to try and guess what was being said, but he doubted it was anything good.
"Got a positive ID," MacTavish said. "Whoever these guys are, they aren't happy to see him." That was when Rojas' assistant pulled out a Desert Eagle and shot them both, apparently settling whatever argument they were having. Another man climbed out of the van, yelling and waving his arms, but Rojas' assistant shot him too. "Ghost, we have a situation here," MacTavish snapped as Rojas' assistant turned and fired towards their vehicle. One bullet put an end to their driver and Roach ducked even as MacTavish yelled, "Get down! Get down!" Over the wailing of the horn, the dead driver's body had compressed the steering wheel to set it off continuously, the young sergeant heard MacTavish shouting, "He's getting away. Roach, let's go!"
He scrambled out of the vehicle, thanking his usual luck for prevailing and keeping him from being shot, and sprinted after MacTavish and Rojas' fleeing assistant. "Ghost, our driver's dead," Roach could hear the captain saying over the radio as they ran. "We're on foot. Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can."
"Roger, I'm on my way," came the reply and Roach pushed on, following MacTavish around and corner and on to a bustling street. A car swerved to avoid them, the driver slamming a hand down on the horn, and suddenly Ghost was just there, running with them.
"He went into the alley," the older soldier snapped near Roach's ear and he nodded, changing direction and vaulting over the hood of another car in the process.
"Non-lethal takedowns only," MacTavish bellowed behind him. "We need him alive!" Roach picked up speed, hoping he'd be able to get close enough to tackle the man. No such luck. Rojas' assistant was in good shape and had gotten enough of a head start to make catching up with him pretty much impossible. "Roach," MacTavish's voice snapped. "Take the shot! Go for his leg!" Roach did.
The bullet exploded out of the barrel of his gun and smacked into one of the man's leg, sending him crashing to the ground with a scream of pain. Roach jerked to a sudden stop, body quickly covered in a cold sweat. Suddenly it wasn't Rojas' assistant screaming but Oliver. Wasn't the humid heat of Rio but the dry, burning warmth of the desert. Wasn't the constant emptiness that haunted him, but the feeling of something breaking into a thousand little pieces.
He was shuddering slightly as a hand on his shoulder her shook him free of a waking nightmare. "You alright Roach?" MacTavish asked and he felt the touch against his shields. Not really a press to get through them, just a gentle brush.
"Y-yeah," he breathed out shakily and stepped out from under the captain's hand to join Ghost in hoisting Rojas' unfortunate assistant to his feet.
He did his best to ignore the fact that Ghost was keeping an eye on him as they dragged Rojas' assistant to somewhere they could safely interrogate him. The last thing he needed was someone asking him what had just happened. This close to one incident, trying to explain what had happened could trigger another one. Then he'd get shipped back to some therapist who would tell him everything would get better with time and there was nothing he or she could really do for him. Been there, done that. It wasn't an experience Roach particularly wanted a repeat of.
They found an empty garage and MacTavish tied up Rojas' assistant while Ghost began scrounging materials, including car battery cables. Roach decided that the less he knew about what was going to happen to the man, the better off he'd be, so he retreated out of the garage to stand with Royce and Meat. "This is going to take some time," MacTavish told them. "Go check the favela for any sign of Rojas. That's where this guy was headed."
He waited for their nods before pulling the garage door closed and a moment later, the first screams made them wince. "Let's go," Royce said, voice a little pinched with something Roach couldn't quite put a name to. "Remember, there are civilians in the favela. Watch your fire out there." They stopped short in front of a broken chain link fence, the concrete support that had been holding it up crumbling from wear and weathering. Civilians were standing in small groups beyond the fence, all blissfully unaware of the chaos that was about to break out around them. "Meat, get these civies out of here," Royce ordered and the Australian grinned at him.
"Roger that."
Meat jumped down into the courtyard area, yelled something in Portuguese, and fired his gun several times into the air. As the civilians scattered, Royce and Roach exchanged exasperated looks. "Not very subtle, is he?" Roach prodded and got a snort in response before they jumped down to join the Australian.
"It isn't his strong suit," Royce agreed softly, just before the local Brazillian militia flooded the area. Roach dived behind the nearest cover as bullets hissed over his head. "Bravo Six, be advised, we've engaged enemy militia at the lower village," Royce snapped over the comms.
"Roach, I'm with you! Watch the rooftops. Go!"
Roach broke from cover, taking down a couple militia men as he sprinted to the next patch of cover. They moved forward methodically, breaking from cover to cover and watching each other's backs. "Royce, gimme a sit rep, over!" MacTavish snapped over the comm channel.
"Lots of militia but no sign of Rojas," came Royce's frustrated sounding reply.
The militia were everywhere. It was as if every building they reached was crawling with men, all armed with guns and grenades. "Copy that. Keep searching," MacTavish said. "Let me know if you see him. Out."
"Roach, move up! Let's go."
Roach followed Royce's command without hesitation, ducking behind the next available cover just in time. A hail of bullets smacked into his cover and, somewhere behind him, a man screamed in pain before being silenced. "Meat is down," Royce's semi-panicked voice yelled. "I repeat, Meat is down!" Roach winced but moved forward at another break in the firing, knowing there was nothing he could do. Meat was already dead.
A minute later Royce's voice was back, this time saying, "Roach, I'm hit! They're all over me!" Then he fell ominously silent. Huddled around a corner as bullets raced by him, Roach bowed his head. This was quickly becoming a deadly mission and there was still no sign of Rojas. The young sergeant really hoped the arms dealer was around, because otherwise Meat and Royce had just died in vain. Taking a deep breath and then letting it out, Roach pushed forward again. Going back would mean certain death. The only thing he could do now, was move forward.
