LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Sledgehammer/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride.
WARNING: AU. Contains violence and multilingual profanity.
*Original post 11/6/2011; Revised 9/29/2016*
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In a climate-controlled trailer, in an undisclosed location, two men sat at a computer console. Their tall-backed task chairs were ergonomically designed for long hours of comfortable sitting. Joysticks were in their hands; keyboards, mice and trackballs were within easy reach. The ambient lighting was dim, leaving their dark silhouettes awash in the ghostly glow of multiple flat screen monitors, a wall of illumination rising from desktop to ceiling. Some showed colorful maps and data readouts. However, each man was focused on the camera feed displayed on the large screen directly in front of him. Rough dark wrinkles of mountains, green carpets of farmland and shiny ribbons of water were all laid out in miniature, teeming with life too small to be seen: villagers, livestock, potential enemy combatants and two known groups of friendlies.
Centered on each image was a white crosshair, along with numbers in the corners displaying a time stamp and information relevant to that man's particular role.
The two straightened, listening to their headsets. New orders, and a new heading.
"Pilot copies."
"Sensor copies."
The onscreen horizon tilted as the aircraft banked into a turn, then evened out. The camera zoomed in on a sprawling, flat-roofed, mud-walled house. A few vehicles were parked outside.
"Roger that. We've got eyes on the target building."
The scene was swarming with tiny figures. Some formed a dotted line surrounding the perimeter. A couple more lay unmoving on a nearby hillside, while a group piled up outside the door. They poured into the house, disappearing from view.
Minutes passed. The ones outside were still. Nothing changed, then the figures inside the house eventually trickled back out again. The others began to leave their positions, moving to join them.
A black cloud burst into the corner of the screen, flashing white, and they all scattered like ants in the opposite direction.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
Throughout the valley, all visible life paused at the dull thud of the explosion. Every head turned – from the turbaned farmers tending their fields to the veiled women and their children herding goats on the hillside. Even the animals seemed to stand still. None of this escaped the notice of the armed men standing on the mountaintop.
A radio broke the silence. "Mustang two one, this is Echo six, do you copy?"
A southern drawl answered. "This is Mustang two one, go ahead."
Oily black smoke from the car bomb was just rising into view at the OP. Radio in hand, Buzz had stepped away from the main group – to maintain some sort of confidentiality, Price presumed.
Rev was in the exact same position he'd been in when Price first met him: foot propped up on the stone wall, looking through the binoculars. Further down along the wall, Sergei and Bogdan were conversing in their native tongue. Bogdan had plucked a lone poppy from between the rocks, pulling it out by the roots. He twirled the crooked stem between his fingers as they talked, frowning, and tossed the dying plant aside. Two other Loyalists were patrolling the steep downhill path that split off from the one leading up to the OP, just past the bunker entrance.
While he spoke, Buzz craned his neck to look up at the tiny speck of the UAV humming far over their heads. Since Price could still hear snatches of his conversation, he decided that his pistol needed some attention. Pulling a small rag from one of his pouches, he idly wiped away an excess smear of oil from the slide.
"Everyone okay?"
"Affirmative," the rough American voice on the other end replied. "They detonated too soon." He snorted. "Fuckin' amateurs."
"Any crows?"
"Just some dude they had playing sentry to an empty house. Seems like a nobody. We'll check it out and be back in time for dinner."
"Roger that. See you soon. Out."
Things are about to get a lot more complicated. Price gave the Serdyukov a once-over with the rag and checked chamber, showing little interest as a frowning Buzz clipped the radio back on his vest and rejoined the group.
Rev looked at him expectantly. "There was no meet."
Buzz curled his lip. "Just the remote-control welcome committee."
"More bad intel." Rev's expression was hard. "Time to cut that one loose."
"Crazy old bastard."
Price kept his thoughts to himself as he watched the activity below, which had resumed as if nothing had happened. The men slowly worked their way through the poppy field. On the terraced hillside, the women's colorful veils fluttered in the breeze. Bells jingled around the goats' necks. A few small children played tag, scattering a flock of chickens in their wake. Beside him, Nikolai quietly smoked a cigarette, sneaking a glance at the Americans.
Today wasn't nearly as hot. The sky was a clear blue, the fields an emerald green enveloped in brown hills. A sparkling river snaked its way through the valley floor, like a path to beckon an unwary traveler.
He felt a presence behind him. Buzz's voice cut the silence.
"Beautiful, isn't it? Almost looks like a peaceful place." Then he noticed what had caught Price's eye: a truck was approaching the men in the field, the exposed frame for the rear canopy resembling the ribs of some huge beast. "How's MacTavish doing today?"
The use of the name sent a thrill of warning through Price, who wondered if the CIA men were simply biding their time until Soap was fit enough to be taken prisoner. They certainly had them right where they wanted them. "Resting."
"Rest...seems like injuries are the only time we really get it. No rest for the weary...or the wicked," said Buzz, turning to him with a grin. He slung his M4 behind him and rested his forearms on the rock wall, taking in the view. "You forget how to slow down – until the Army or whomever does it for you. The SAS - they kick you out at 40, don't they?"
But you know that, don't you? Price grunted in affirmation. The less he said, the better.
"I don't care if you do know when you sign up." He shook his head, watching the farmers sift through the foliage. "After all those years, all those missions, it's still gotta stick in your craw."
Price didn't offer a response, and Buzz didn't look for one.
"But it's all a business now, right?" said Buzz, turning toward him with a lift of his eyebrows. "And business is booming..." He caught himself with a chuckle, rolling his eyes in the direction of the smoke. Rev gave him a sideways look, shaking his head, an unlit cigarette between his lips as he rifled through his pockets. "...so there's still plenty out there for the likes of us."
Price took his cue with a smirk. "Like standing around all day watching posh lard arses beach themselves? Getting all tooled up for a celebrity shopping adventure? Or maybe a new career as a rent-a-thug in some banana republic?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Nikolai offer his lighter. Rev nodded in appreciation and took it, lighting up.
Buzz's shoulders shook in a spasm of silent mirth, but then his smile melted into an uncharacteristic seriousness. He returned his gaze to the valley. "Every dog has his day, Price – and we've had ours. Can't save the World forever." He sighed. "That's a younger man's game."
The grin crawled back across his face. "Anyway, sounds like you're just not making the right connections, man. You know, we might just have a place for a guy like you..."
Drugged up and handcuffed in the back of a plane, you mean? No thanks, did that one already.
The grin was faltering. "...if you're interested," His voice trailed off at the change in Sergei's expression.
Sergei spoke Russian into his headset, frowning. With a brief word to Bogdan, he turned and headed down the trail that encircled the mountainside directly below them.
Buzz barely hid his annoyance. With a quick glance at Rev, he addressed Bogdan. "What's up?"
Bogdan tilted his head, listening. "They've found something." He fell silent again.
After a few minutes, there was still no more word. Buzz noticed Price's remote stare, and turned to follow it until sudden movement distracted him. Scowling, Bogdan had his rifle at his shoulder, sweeping the valley through his scope.
He responded in Russian over the comms. "Someone cut the wires to the claymores..."
Each man straightened up, now on full alert. Hands unconsciously moved toward weapons.
Price's eyes had never left the field, and Buzz finally caught what he was looking at. The farmers were piling into the back of the truck. Price's eyes narrowed. "They're quitting early, aren't they?"
"Yeah..." Buzz pulled his rifle into reach, while Price picked up his own from its resting place against the stone wall.
With all of the men huddled in back and hanging on tight, the truck pulled away, bumping and jerking over the dirt road.
Rev now held his own M4 at the low ready position, approaching the still-silent Bogdan. "You're right...things just got way too quiet."
Buzz glanced impatiently at the tall Russian. "Well?"
"They're on their way back now."
"It would have been nice to let us know."
Bogdan didn't reply, squinting into his scope. The valley was now just as silent. The other people that had been out tending their animals had left.
Not a soul was in sight.
A hissing shriek sent Price's heart into his throat; he dropped into crouch against the stone wall. The others were tensed in readiness but remained mostly unmoved. Buzz laughed, while the others let out a collective sigh.
"First time hearing an 'RPG bird', huh? They do sound pretty convincing. No idea what they're actually called."
"'Change of underwear' birds?" Rev's suggestion received a few uneasy chuckles.
Price's shoulders still rose and fell with the adrenalin tide, which had yet to recede. Buzz grinned broadly. "Relax, man." His head tilted with a quirk of his bushy eyebrows. "Stress'll kill ya, you know."
Price gave him a withering look and turned to Nikolai, who shrugged and tamped his cigarette butt into a rock.
Price propped his rifle back against the wall beside him. He braced himself, preparing to stand up and trying not to think about how much it was going to hurt.
SNAP. Buzz staggered backward with a gasp.
Price whirled to face him; Buzz was clutching his chest, crying out, face crumpled in pain as he sank to his knees. With another sharp crack and a grunt next to him, a falling body slumped into Price, the sudden weight pressing him back downward. Everyone was in motion, diving for cover. The sound of the gunshots finally reached them, echoes rolling over the mountainsides.
Struggling to stay upright, Price lowered the man gently to the ground. His head lolled sideways, bright red blood gushing from his temple, his limp hand flopping into the dirt.
"Nikolai!"
The Russian's face was pale, his eyes closed. Price found a strong steady pulse, timing the rhythmic surges of blood streaming from the small hole above his right ear. Price lightly slapped his face. "Nikolai – can you hear me?" No response.
He received a stark reminder that they were now exposed: another crack in the sound barrier as a shot whistled past his face. A cloud of dirt burst next to Nikolai's head. Rev threw himself forward, grabbing the unconscious Russian's vest and dragging him behind cover, as Price scrambled backward out of the kill zone.
Bogdan calmly stood over them, squeezing off loud automatic bursts, empty bullet casings jingling on the rocks. Though the low area of the rock wall spanned only a couple of meters, the sniper fire had now turned it into a vast divide, separating Price and Buzz from the others. Grim fortune was theirs; the shooters had let their excitement get the better of them, otherwise they would have finished the job.
Rev's hand dug into his vest pocket, producing a dull green package. He looked over at Buzz. "You good?"
Buzz gave a curt nod in reply. Dropping his cracked radio to the ground, he cursed and jerked his hand away from the still-hot 7.62 round embedded in his vest.
Rev turned his attention back to Nikolai. He tore open the field dressing and began applying pressure to the wound. The side of Nikolai's face and neck were a slick red, his shirt collar and the right shoulder of his vest now soaked. "Nick? Nick! Come on – talk to me, buddy."
Sergei came storming up the path, something dark clutched in his hand. "Tvoyu mat," he swore. "They used blankets to hide their heat signatures – built a weapons cache right under our noses!" Catching sight of Nikolai lying motionless on the ground, he threw down the heavy woolen blanket he'd been holding and took a knee beside Rev. Sergei called Nikolai's name, addressing him in Russian, his scowl deepening as he got a better look at the wound.
"Looks like he caught a ricochet. A direct hit would have been game over," said Rev, prying open each eyelid. He was rewarded with a groan. His face cracked into a smile. "That's it."
Nikolai's brow furrowed. He stirred and began to mumble in groggy Russian. Sergei chuckled and replied, clapping him on the shoulder. Whatever he'd said, it even got a grin out of Bogdan. Rev glanced at Price in reassurance, and gave a short laugh of relief. "We thought you were a goner."
"Chto?" Nikolai reached up to touch the dressing, only to have Rev catch his hand. The pilot's face creased in pain. "...oĭ."
"Easy," said Rev. His smile had dissolved into concern once again as he studied the now-saturated dressing beneath his hand. Blood continued to ooze from underneath, dripping from dark wet spikes in Nikolai's hair. "You're leaking pretty good."
Rev tied the dressing tightly in place around the pilot's head. Nikolai winced, a hand still hovering near the injury. Rev addressed Sergei, his expression grave. "We need to get him inside. Help me get him up."
Price needed to retrieve his rifle, which lay in the middle of the clearing. Nikolai's was nowhere in sight – he might have dropped it over the front of the wall when he was shot, but Price wasn't about to stick his head up to find out. He found a dead tree branch. Staying low, he reached out, slipped it beneath the sling's webbing and started to pull. The AK dragged slowly along the ground, until the stick snapped. Close enough. He lunged out in a quick grab, yanking the gun toward himself.
With a loud BANG and burst of sparks, the rifle jerked from his grasp. Price recoiled as if stung, hurling himself backward to safety. The gun had fallen back to its starting point, but with one addition: the sniper's bullet had left a big dent in the receiver.
Shit. He sucked in a grateful breath, sagging back against the wall's protective stones. He eyed his now-useless rifle. Small payment for big stupidity.
"Tell them what you found," said Bogdan, helping Nikolai to his feet.
"Kalashnikovs, RPGs, ammo for both plus 12.7 millimeter," Sergei said. He pulled one of Nikolai's arms over his shoulder, and Bogdan pushed his large frame past Rev to take the other, earning a fleeting look of irritation from the American. Letting the matter drop, Rev instead picked up his M4. Anger smoldered beneath lowered eyelids and the stringy blond fringe spilling over the strap of his baseball cap. Price didn't doubt that the man, even with his back turned, could feel the unspoken challenge in Bogdan's dark eyes.
Buzz's face grew cold with fury as he stared at the blanket. "Son of a bitch."
Bogdan's voice was a low growl. "It won't be the only one."
With assistance, Nikolai took a few wobbly steps, and didn't seem too sure of where he was. "Where are we going?"
"We're taking you to the – "
Rev never finished his sentence. An explosion rocked the hillside directly below their vantage point, the concussion wave sending them all reeling. They were showered with a stinging spray of gravel and dirt.
"That was accurate – looks like the Flintstones brought a GPS with them when they were up here sneaking around. Get back to base and get Oracle on the horn," Buzz shouted.
"What about you?"
"We can try making our way down to the hillside trail from here, take the shortcut."
"Most of that's exposed."
"Not all of it. One thing's for sure – the next guy to set foot in this gap is gonna get smoked. Who knows, we might even get lucky."
Price caught Sergei's eyes, and answered his questioning look with a subtle nod. Refusal wasn't an option. Rev opened his mouth to protest, until they all heard the faint whump. Everyone, even Nikolai, ran like hell.
The 82 millimeter shell smashed down directly on the spot where they'd all been standing moments before, and Price wasn't quite fast enough. The blast sent him tumbling down the slope, a buzz saw of red-hot shrapnel flying over his head, chattering against the rocks and shredding the trees. There was nothing but tiny white stars, a loud maddening hum and the metallic taste of explosives in his mouth.
Pain was beginning to seep through the cottony numbness. He felt himself turning, felt hands slide under his hat to cradle his head, moving their way downward, feeling him for injuries. He struggled to focus on the blur in front of him, and couldn't comprehend the muffled voice through the ringing in his ears. The hands withdrew. With a flurry of movement, he was left staring into empty blue space.
Something hard bit into his knees and elbows when he rolled over, still trying to determine which way was up. An object was coming into focus in front of him: his own gloved hand splayed against the ground, coated with powdery dust. Trembling, he pushed himself up on all fours. He sniffled and wiped the moist warmth from his upper lip, examining the red smear on the back of his hand.
He felt the ground thumping beneath him, then heard the muffled crunch of approaching footsteps.
"Price – come on."
With a slow painful turn of his head, he peered up at another gloved hand in his face. Buzz towered over him, arm extended, with both his M4 and a soft rifle case slung over his uninjured shoulder.
"You're still in one piece, but not for long if you don't get up."
Price took the hand, which jerked him back onto his feet. "Unh," Buzz winced with the effort.
Price was hunched over, hands on his thighs, eyes shut tight while he waited for the world to stop spinning. The sharp tug on his chest rig almost sent him crashing back down again.
"Let's go!" Buzz shouted.
Whump.
Their boots frantically pounded the uneven terrain, Price's arms windmilling to keep what little balance he had, weaving in a drunken rush down the path. Brambles snagged clothing and flesh as they ran in short downhill leaps, grabbing and shoving at anything that stuck out in order to prevent themselves from falling on their faces. His heart was slamming against his ribs, his throat raw from gasping for the breath that he'd never truly regained.
Thud.
Spent, they threw themselves down in the lee of the hillside, and to the mercy of whatever was coming, hands thrown up to shield their faces. A few dirt clods and rocks bounced around them. A fine mist of soil, then silence, drifted down like snow.
They both lay on their backs, chests heaving. "Pah!" Buzz spat dirt from his mouth and looked over at him. "You all right?"
"Yeah."
"That was quite a blast you took."
"Still breathing. Apart from the ribs, I'm fine."
Though he was anything but fine, he'd been left to count his blessings. A high-explosive blast wave could shatter a man on the inside, leaving him looking whole but spiraling toward rapid death. The blast at the bridge hadn't even been HE, and he'd barely survived it. He pushed the few remaining memories from his mind. The aftereffects might not be felt until much later; he swept that terrible knowledge aside also.
Buzz grimaced, looking down at his chest. "I hear ya. That one's going to leave a mark." He dropped his head back down in the dust, still breathing heavily.
Both were quiet for a few minutes, catching their breath.
Whump. The sound was further away than before.
Neither moved. They were off the hilltop now, and out of the line of fire.
Thud.
"So...do much sniping in the SAS?"
Price huffed, and turned his head to shoot him a look of weary offense. "Surely you can't be serious."
"You don't say." His arm folded protectively over his injured right shoulder, his brow knotted in discomfort. "Well, I'm not much feeling up to it today. How about you do the honors? Here." He shoved the case over in Price's direction.
Price rolled up onto his good side and pulled it toward him. It was heavy. He felt a warm rush of pleasure as he guessed what he might find, and couldn't help his reaction when he unzipped it and saw the words CHEYTAC .408 INTERVENTION stamped into the metal. Not a problem.
"I thought that might put a smile on your face. Puts one on mine every time." He slid his hand to the center of his chest and smiled mockingly at the sky. "Warms my heart." The grin darkened. "Puts big holes in others." Buzz hefted his M4 and stood up with a groan.
The path they were on curved sharply right, with the edge of a cliff straight ahead of them. There was another rock ledge immediately below it, and a narrower one below that with a small knot of trees. The mountainside to their left partially blocked their view of the valley; they would have to climb down on the ledges to get a full visual of where their enemies were hiding.
Buzz grabbed a small bag from the rifle case. A slow slide on his rear brought him down to the first ledge, where he unzipped the bag and produced a spotting scope, weather meter and handheld targeting computer. He set his rifle down beside him and brought the scope to his eye, getting comfortable.
Whump.
Price rummaged through the case, taking stock of the remaining contents: a partially full box of bullets, rifle magazines, a pad and some pencils, a cleaning kit, a bottle of water and a couple of protein bars.
Thud.
He ripped one open, taking a bite, and began pushing bullets into a magazine.
"Hey," Buzz said with a lift of his chin at Price. "You mind?"
Without missing a beat, Price tossed him the other protein bar. Catching it, Buzz grunted in acknowledgment. He brought the scope back up as he chewed, doing a slow sweep of the landscape across the river.
"Hmm...good boys. They've got the mortar set up out of sight, behind a small ridge. I see their pickup truck parked down there, but other than their spotter running out to see how they did, I only get a quick peek at anybody in between a couple mounds of dirt." He squinted, scanning the surrounding area, and gave a low rumble of laughter. "Well, well...what do we have here?"
Price clicked the magazine into place and stood up, cradling the heavy Intervention in his arms. "What's that?"
"Lens flare. Just located our snipers. Just above and to the right of the mortar team. Two hunkered down next to a tree. That'll do for starters." He set the scope down and held the whirring weather meter aloft, taking a wind reading. Using its tiny plastic stylus, he punched the result into the targeting computer. "Now," he said, nodding toward the ledge below him and turning back to Price with a satisfied smile. "If you would be so kind."
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
Price sat sideways and cross-legged on the rocky outcropping, which was barely large enough to accommodate both him and the rifle. The gun was propped on a tree branch and supported with the folded-up rifle case. Their position was now diagonal to their targets, all of whom were still focused on the OP straight ahead of them.
"Look for the red pickup truck at your eight-o-clock, and keep going northeast. Immediately to the left of the crooked tree. 750 meters. Give it two to the right."
"I see them." Price twisted the scope's windage drum, feeling the two clicks, the stock warm against his cheek. The two dark-haired, bearded snipers lay on an outcropping not unlike their own, partially concealed beneath the tree branches, their plain brown clothing blending in with the dirt. One of them slowly elbowed his way backward from his rifle and eased down the back side of the ridge, leaving only the top of his head visible. "The one on the left just stood up."
"Break time," Buzz observed. Price focused on the prone shooter.
The scope's reticle zigzagged over the man's face, rising and falling with Price's breathing. The enemy sniper was a picture of stillness, his expression one of utter concentration and intent, still seeking targets up by the rock wall. Price's chest was thumping. He was still in fight-or-flight mode from his close shave. It wasn't like he'd never done this before. Annoyed with himself, he took some deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow down, and it obeyed.
Breathe.
Price took a deep inhale, finger barely resting on the trigger. He was ready. The reticle once again alighted on the man's face.
Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.
A slow exhale, a gentle squeeze. The buttstock slammed into his shoulder with an echoed CRACK. Inhale.
With a pink burst, the body dropped facedown in a ragdoll jumble. He released pressure, feeling the click of the trigger reset beneath his finger.
"Hit." Buzz's voice was without emotion.
With a twist and a jerk of Price's hand, the empty bullet casing spun out in a smoking arc. He settled his finger back on the trigger.
The remaining man ran over to investigate. Decent shooters maybe, but seasoned fighters – not so much. Price allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Squeeze. A punch in the shoulder.
The man staggered, hands on his chest. He fell writhing to his knees alongside his dead comrade, suffering the fate they had just attempted to exact on Buzz.
"Hit. A little rusty, huh?"
"Shut up."
Price racked the bolt and took a followup shot. The man folded over backwards and didn't move again.
"Nice. I don't think they'll be shooting at us again for a while," said Buzz. "Now about that mortar team..."
On scope, both men slowly panned in a multicolored blur, attempting to get a glimpse of the men gathered around the mortar tube.
A white streak plunged to Earth and smote the mortarmen like a bolt of lightning. A fountain of dirt, rock and tree branches burst into the air, along with a ragged swirl of what used to be human. The mountains shook with the sound of thunder.
They looked at one another in momentary disbelief. Buzz's expression was a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.
"Oops."
Startled, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a vibrating satellite phone. He glanced at the screen, extending its thick antenna. "Yeah? Nice one, good effect on – " The smile faded. Price was quickly learning that this was not a good thing.
It got worse. "How many?" For the first time, Price saw the man's face growing pale beneath his sunburn. His voice lowered to a whisper, which to Price sounded an alarm. "Well see what you can do." Thumbing the red button, he turned to Price. "We've got company. Oracle just spotted seven foot-mobiles coming up on our six. They're too close to strike with the drone, and air support's at least half an hour away. We gotta move."
Price lowered his voice in response. "Move where?" The only path was the one behind them, a steep rocky plunge was directly in front.
"Hug the cliff face, they're almost on top of us!"
Using exposed tree roots as handholds, the two eased down over the edge, stashing their rifles and equipment beneath the rocky shelf. Their hearts pounded with both urgency and the knowledge that a bad step or snagged gear could spell disaster.
"They're just seeing them now?" Price hissed. He sidestepped his way out over the precipice, watching gravel spill between his feet and tumble out of sight.
"The blanket-party boys, probably. Who knows."
They heard voices, growing louder by the second. They pressed themselves flat against the rock, heads craned sideways, eyes glued to the cliff edge above them. If the enemy infantrymen had been close enough, then they would have heard the Intervention despite its suppressor.
Price froze – a pair of tattered Nikes and baggy gray pant legs appeared directly over Buzz's head. The Texan's stiff posture indicated that yes, he was very much aware of that. Body odor alone announced the strangers' presence. Price didn't recognize the language, but their hushed tones told him enough. These men were hunting them. Their plan was now obvious: inflict casualties with sniper fire, follow up with mortars to cause chaos and division, then track down the survivors. Were they just out to kill them, or would they drag them off to some other fate? Kamarov had told him a few war stories; this was the same country that saw captured Soviets left tied to trees, skinned alive and covered with flies. Hardly daring to breathe, Price watched Buzz's hand slowly drift to his hip, unsnapping the thumb break on his holster.
The flesh of his scalp crawled. A stream of crumbling dirt rained down over his shoulders and pattered against his hat, spilling down over the brim. Someone was standing over him too. His fingers curled around the grip of his own pistol...
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Chto? [Что] - What?
Tvoyu Mat [Твою мать] - motherfucker!
'Blue Badger' - Having a blue badge indicates an actual employee of the CIA, while a green badge is issued to contractors
Original A/N: Hello again, and sorry for the delay. Life intervened once more, I'm afraid.
Here we are, poised on the eve of MW3. So there will likely be another delay, while I play the game! Thanks so much for your wonderful support, and for sticking with me. Much gratitude to Stoneface, Ordnance, Brooding Pariah and Sassy for the reviews, and to everyone who followed/favorited as well.
...and Rooby Roo, you deserve an extra-special mention of your own, for coming completely out of the blue with those, for a fic that by that time was deeply buried, all while studying for those exams!
As ever, a shoutout and huge hugs to my lovely beta Sassy Satsuma, and to my friend Illusion for his guidance on sniping.
As for any similarities between TD and MW3, Chapter Six was posted in April 2011, and has not been altered in any way.
Please forgive any non-English language mistakes...and my terrible cruelty to Price. ;-)
-UO, 11-6-2011
