LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price, Riley and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software.
This story is an AU. Contains mature language and graphic violence.
A/N: TD may well be the death of my laptop. It wasn't long after I'd bought it that I started writing the story. Hopefully it will survive long enough to finish, since Apple recently informed me that it's 'vintage' and can't be repaired.
So about that recurring long hiatus problem - how about a triple-sized chapter this time? As ever, I'm incredibly grateful for my beta Sassy Satsuma. It's amazing to think that some of the events in this chapter and the next are ones she's known about for literally years now.
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Eyes to optics, bellies to the ground, Delta were taking in a classic sight. In Afghanistan, anyway. A long, squat dwelling of mud and stone, the narrow dark holes of windows like slitted eyes peering suspiciously back at them. No movement, human or animal, had been observed.
"What do you suppose the chances are of that being a dry hole?" Hagar whispered.
"Fair to middling at best," Atticus replied, even more quietly.
"Chances of being an ambush?"
"Excellent."
"Rule number nine." Terry shrugged at the blank looks. "Murphy's laws of combat."
"Jupiter says nothing doing," hissed Shamrock. "No hotspots other than the one down by the river."
Hagar glanced at his mates lying alongside him. "…Suggestions?"
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
The door swung open — carefully, quietly. The stack of men charged into room, peeling off in separate directions. Rifles tucked into their shoulders, both eyes open, looking through the red dots of their holographic sights. Pivoting left, right, back again with clockwork precision, pushing quickly forward. Smooth and silent, with only a rustle of clothing and equipment, boots tapping the earthen floor. Communicating only via handsignals, a touch on the shoulder, a nod. Flowing through the crude structure as they had many times before, in many countries, in a procedure so practiced it had become automatic.
It was over in 30 seconds. The place was empty.
"No weapons, ammunition or first aid," said Terry, examining a small camp stove. Accompanying him in the front room was Mike, who rummaged through a technicolor pile of folded blankets sitting on one of the six short four-poster beds seen in any Afghan dwelling. They were arranged around another common feature: a Persian carpet with a simple red and black pattern, most likely where meals were taken. In the far right corner was a set of stone stairs leading to an underground chamber, where the darkness flickered from Shamrock's gun-mounted light.
"Pantry's down here," he called.
"Ugh," Mike backed away from the stairwell, making a face. "Smells like crotch!"
"Your crotch, maybe."
Hagar joined Shamrock, his own SureFire's cone of bright white traveling down the uneven steps ahead of him. It flashed across metal shelving units holding various hand tools, batteries, pots and pans, big gold-colored cans of cooking oil. Prepackaged food and liter bottles of water set on the shelves of an old half-height dark wooden bookcase pushed against the far wall. Once elegant and stylish, a relic from someone's office or library, from better times. "Phew," Hagar wrinkled his nose. "What is that?"
"Their cook is so fired," said Shamrock, shining his light on a moldy crateful of former vegetables. "Everybody knows you don't store potatoes and onions together."
"Most of this stuff looks fairly new," said Hagar. He popped the lid off a clear plastic tub containing a colorful assortment of packaged dry food, illuminating a bright yellow box of soup concentrate labeled in both English and Arabic script. "Dated this year."
"Place is definitely still in use. For what, though?" asked Shamrock. "Guerrilla hideout, tribe guarding its land…" His light moved over stone arches and thick timbers. "Stout construction. Between that, the limited approachability and excellent lines of sight, I'd say it's well-suited for both."
"So far, so good. Kurt and Atticus haven't seen anything, drone says all's quiet," said Terry.
"Whatever," said Hagar, climbing the steps with Shamrock close behind. "Nobody's home, and we need to get the fuck out of here. It's only a matter of time before more trouble finds us."
"Ain't that the truth," said Mike, stepping aside to make room for them. The floor squeaked beneath his foot. Everyone fell silent.
When they peeled the carpet back in a single motion, four rifles swung down to point at a trapdoor.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
As Price settled his sleeve back over the concealed knife, Soap's eyes darted between everything but that and the Americans. He leaned back against the tree, mentally ticking off the possibilities. They were all shite — not that it had ever stopped the Old Man.
"Learnt that trick in prison, did you?"
"If that were the case, it would have been stashed somewhere else."
MacTavish chuckled, mostly in despair. Price had gotten his sense of humor back - they were proper fucked, all right. Just like old times. "Zakhaev, Shepherd … how is it that we put these bastards down, yet they still manage to have the last word?"
"Seems like it, eh? The amused crinkle around Price's eyes faded, the momentary warmth draining from his expression. "One thing I did learn in prison: there's always a choice. I'd rather die on my feet than on my knees."
"Oh mate," MacTavish shook his head, his chest heavy with regret. "Let's be honest here. At best, I'd slow you down — at best. I've done that too much already."
"Bollocks. We do a runner, follow the river, find shelter with some locals."
"Fuck's sake, man - just go. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be on my feet."
The argument worked about as well as it ever did. "Long enough. It's both of us, or none of us."
It came out as a whispered sigh. "Shite."
"Once that chopper gets here, our chances run out."
Simon's cockney accent rang out in Soap's head. You already saved the world, yeah? What more do you want?
About that drink, mate… His gaze drifted upward, though he knew he wouldn't be able see the drone prowling high above. More odds stacked against them, but not impossible.
Elsewhere, under the same sky, life went on. In Credenhill, where Stirling Lines squatted deep in a quiet maze of hedgerows, tucked away in a vast rolling green checkerboard of fields and orchards. Where bicyclists and joggers orbited the tall fence bristling with razor wire and guard dog warning signs like it didn't exist. Even if he survived this, he'd never pass through those gates again.
A few miles down the road in Hereford, where a text message to 'meet me by the bull' had meant many an epic piss-up with the Regiment lads and the occasional confrontation outside the pub afterward. Sometimes with a local loudmouth, sometimes with each other.
In Elgin, where his family still slept, enjoying a Sunday morning lie-in before late mass at Saint Sylvester's. He hoped someday they'd understand.
In Birmingham … he wondered how she was faring. If anyone could understand, she would.
The clouds were gone now. The higher he looked, the deeper the blue. Eternal witness to stunning natural beauty and base human ugliness.
Aye, it's me again. I know I've not been much of a churchgoing man for a long time. Do Christmas and Easter to please my ma — Toad called me a 'submarine Catholic' because I surface twice a year. Guilty as charged. Any road, if you're still listening … watch over them for me.
"So what's it to be, then? You up for one more go?"
Price had never given up on him, even when he'd been ready to give up on himself. There was no question.
Except maybe one. "Wait a minute." Soap frowned. "Isn't it 'I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees'?"
"Do you mind?" Price gave him the same withering look that had rendered so many Regimental newcomers to jelly. The very first one he'd ever given MacTavish. He shook his head, affronted. "Let us have our moment, will you?"
MacTavish's snort of laughter died abruptly at the approach of Mike and Atticus.
"Enjoyed the show, I take it? Us too," Atticus called to them. "Since nobody's home upstairs, and our downstairs neighbors have had a sudden change of heart, it's time to move up and wait for exfil. Forty-five minutes, and we're outta here." He swept his upturned palms in the air, indicating that they should rise. "Gentlemen, after you."
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
Grime etched Delta's weary faces, their weapons, the sodden remains of their muddied Afghan garb barely covering modern ballistic vests and gear. Though they were looking as frayed as their clothing, they weren't any less switched on. With the objective finally in sight, their voices were hushed, heads and weapons constantly swiveling, covering every angle. Exfil was the most dangerous part of a mission, and this one was more uncertain than most.
High on the pinnacle, the crude stronghold sat tucked into the mountainside, making for quite an excellent defensive position. There was a fair level of camouflage to it, with piles of stones and brush covering the exterior. The flat roof was covered with grassy turf, accessible by a long, rickety-looking wooden ladder. The largest patch of level ground for miles, and not much at that. But it was large enough to accommodate the arse end of a Chinook.
"Rather convenient," Price muttered aloud.
"What's that?" Mike asked, closing what precious distance remained between them. Brilliant. One thing was for sure: no matter what drama unfolded in the next half hour, Price could at least look forward to being free of this wanker's company.
The bastard was huge, taller than Hagar — at least six-four, and wider, especially across his back and shoulders. Price estimated him at 15 stone; well over 250 pounds, probably closer to 275. Top-heavy build, spotty face, delightful personality … steroids, most likely, he thought. Someone probably had to take the football out of his hand before they stuck an Armalite in it.
"By the way, sorry to interrupt before… " Eyes never leaving his gunsights, Mike paused, withholding the punch line until Price looked at him wearily. "Not really. You and your BFF were getting way too cozy back there. Should've separated you right off the bat, but you'll have to excuse us, we're a little short on manpower."
So we've bloody noticed. Price knew better than to say that one aloud, since he and Soap had contributed to the problem, now their sole advantage. Only six of Delta's team remained, and they'd need every man to secure the LZ. This meant once again being guarded by Buzz and Rev.
Once that happened, a distraction of some sort would be critical. Just long enough for Price's hidden blade to free their hands, then they'd have to move quickly. Both the CIA men were armed, though Rev would be easier to overpower. When it came to that, Price hoped they'd have the good sense to stand down.
He'd shared a look with MacTavish as they'd dragged him off. The lad was ready when he was.
"Anyhoo, you were saying?"
"Cut off from your QRF, driven uphill by a seemingly vanquished enemy, to this vacant mountain redoubt that just happens to be the only suitable LZ in the area," said Price. He turned to Hagar. "That was far too easy, don't you think?"
"Yeah. Actually, I do." Hagar's rifle swept slowly back and forth, his rolling footsteps careful and deliberate, creeping up gray stairstep layers of rock with surprising agility despite being tall and stocky himself. "Whoever blew up that bridge, they had us dead to rights."
"Didn't work out so well for them, did it?" Mike asked. "We're still here, they're fish food."
"After spilling us in the drink, they should have been on us like flies on shit."
"They got all distracted by the shiny things we left behind. That's the trouble with kids today – no attention span."
"Amateurs. Cannon fodder, even. The job on the bridge, that was professional. The effect was spot on, the timing precise," said Price. Hagar nodded.
"Yeah … yeah, it was. Gotta give you that one." Mike stopped, frowning back down the hill. "They're lagging behind." Reaching for his left shoulder, he keyed his radio. "What's the holdup?"
Price couldn't hear the response, but neither looked best pleased about it.
"Go check it out," said Hagar.
They caught an occasional glimpse, each smaller than the last, of Mike's reddish turban winding its way back down the serpentine path beneath them, through the nests of boulders snuggled between islands of trees and brush. In the river far below, a crooked finger of thin smoke still curled from the wreckage of the drone strike.
"What if we were meant to come up here?" Price asked.
Hagar's auburn beard jutted out thoughtfully. "I'd say I like the way you think," he said. "Except I'd be lying."
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
The opiate fog in MacTavish's head had burned off more quickly than expected. Even in his current state, nothing energized him quite like not knowing when or how it would all kick off.
After years of fighting alongside Price, a sixth sense had developed between them, one that had saved them more than once. He had no choice but to trust in it, that he'd be able to act quickly enough at the critical moment. If it even came at all. Soap couldn't see Price right now; they'd been separated, well-guarded by much fitter blokes that were running out of incentives to keep them alive.
To Delta, he and Price were traitors of the worst sort. He couldn't blame them. But what really sharpened the edge of their bitter resentment, of their profound disappointment, was what they didn't yet know, making it cut deeper still: that one of their fallen mates hadn't been just another battlefield death. That had been Rerun's angle when he'd taken aim at Price, forcing MacTavish into that fateful decision. Regrettable, but necessary, and maybe not a mystery for long. Apart from what the Apaches' cameras might have captured, these lads had a sixth sense of their own. Some more than others. Mike certainly seemed to have made up his mind. If he learned that the AK-47 round had in fact been Soap's, what then?
Even so, that wasn't what truly condemned them. The truth about Shepherd, the very thing they'd risked their lives for, would spell their ignominious end. The secret they harbored was far too volatile. In less than half an hour, a chopper would whisk them away to parts unknown, to their guaranteed silence. They had to escape. But when? How? Maybe never? Time was running out. Direct confrontation with this lot would prove disastrous; if they tried bringing a knife to a gunfight, they were dead.
He had yet to see anywhere to run. The mountain itself was not unlike a fortress, inaccessible from any other direction. So far, they were on the only trail, caught between solid rock on their left and steep dropoffs on their right, highly visible by anyone at the summit. They were ascending beyond the tree line, any remaining concealment becoming increasingly scant and intermittent. This didn't bode well for any sort of escape plan.
It was happening already. The pain was creeping back, making it more difficult to breathe. Slowing his steps. Though the brief respite had helped, MacTavish's body threatened to betray him again soon.
He couldn't allow it. He wouldn't. If he did, they would both die on this remote mountain, their remains and their secrets swept under the rug forever — Shepherd's will be done. That's what lay in wait at the end of this trail: the same end by different means.
That wasn't what he truly feared, the dying. Not when they'd gone after Shepherd, and not now. It was just part of the business, expecting to meet an eventual bullet or explosive with your name on it. Anyone worried about that shite might as well be stocking shelves at Asda. The men beside you, that's what this was all about. Your mates. That's who you kept sticking your neck out for — not for some political agenda, not some fairy tale of good and evil. To fail them was unthinkable.
But deep down, he knew he couldn't do what Price was asking. After all the times Price had pushed him past what he'd thought were his limits, he understood what they truly were. He wasn't going to make it.
If at least Price managed to give them the slip, then it wouldn't have been for nothing. On his own terms, on his own time, the truth could still be known. MacTavish didn't have much left in him, but what he did have, he would give. Would it be enough?
Shafts of sunlight stabbed through a few gnarled branches overhead, dazzling him. He blinked at the spots swelling across his vision, but they multiplied like rising bubbles, his exhaustion pulling him downward. He felt himself swaying.
"Whoa… whoa!" Atticus grabbed him from behind, guiding him away from the edge. Soap slumped against the cliff face, the rock cool against his rumpled forehead and bound hands. "You all right?" he heard Terry ask.
"Aye," he panted. "Just give me a minute, will you?" Fuck me, not yet. At this rate, he might not even make it to the top. The pain in his gut was getting steadily worse, all the movement and the functions of his own body pulling at the healing wounds. He was pretty sure he knew the location of every suture now, at every layer. The shakes were back too. Oh, joy.
The graying knot of Atticus's hair was becoming unraveled, wet strands plastered to his neck. He tugged at his sweat stained shemagh, frowning. "We're seriously exposed out here."
"I know, I know." Pain is only temporary. Soap took a few deep breaths, letting it pass. "All right." MacTavish took a tentative step forward, focusing his full attention on where he put his feet. The longer the journey took, the longer they stood out on the mostly barren hillside like bollocks on a bulldog—
"Quit stalling, MacTavish."
Speaking of bollocks, Mike now stood in front of him, a scowl further contorting his ugly red face. Soap felt the best way to improve it would be a nice fresh bootprint, Shepherd-style.
"What happened to your lollipop?" Terry asked.
"In my pocket, waiting to get back on level ground," said Soap. "I'm dizzy enough as it is. If I fall, might take one of you with me."
"As much as we appreciate the consideration, you need to suck it up. Almost there, then you can rest, and I can give you a pain shot if you want."
"Aww, that sounds really nice, Terry," said Mike. "Better than he deserves. C'mon MacTavish. Don't make me get persuasive."
Soap's pace quickened with his temper. "A bit rocky for that, isn't it?" His eyebrows shot up at Mike's puzzled look. "Rather rough on the knees."
Delta's normally taciturn medic chuckled a bit at that. Mike wasn't quite as amused.
"Spoken like a true expert," said Mike, lisping slightly from the lump of tobacco crammed in his lower lip. "I wouldn't dream of competing with your girlfriend up there." A sharp curve of the trail brought Price and the others back into distant view. "There he is. Let me guess — you hate to see him go, but you love to watch him leave. Is that a look of longing I see? Ooh … that wasn't"
Soap rolled his eyes. If this was a tactic to get him to move faster, it was working.
"Seriously, though, hope you said your goodbyes. Where you're going, you probably won't have a whole lot of company, at least not the kind you want." Mike shrugged. "At least you'll have some privacy now and then. The painted windows do provide a certain-" he wagged his head for emphasis " -ambiance. If you're a good boy, you might even get your very own floor drain." He spat, a brown splotch just missing MacTavish's boot. "Ever hear of the Salt Pit?"
Soap cocked an eyebrow. No, but this cocksplat probably never heard of Long Lartin either. There were much darker places for those the British government didn't quite know what to do with, but wanted to punish all the same.
"Call me an optimist, but personally I'm hoping for extradition."
MacTavish almost laughed in his face. There was some wishful thinking, even more than his previous comment about the Glasshouse. Since Shepherd's death had officially been ruled accidental, they could look forward to a very quiet 'retirement'. The coldest of comforts. "Right, then — you're an optimist."
"Mike," said Atticus, ending the exchange just as they caught up with Buzz. Mike took the hint and shut it.
"Everything all right?" Buzz asked.
"Yep," said Mike, spitting off to the side this time, putting some space between himself and the CIA man. No love lost there, thought MacTavish, thankful for tender mercies. He didn't think he could take the two of them at once. It's like a relay race for arseholes.
His pulse quickening, he pretended not to notice the goat path that veered off the to the left, spiraling down through scrub and boulders to who knew where. Out of here, that would be a start. Except for the bit about being surrounded. Price would have seen it, though he was just as helpless to do anything about it. MacTavish tensed at Buzz's grip on his shoulder, accompanied by some whispered close-and-personal advice: "Don't get any ideas, son. Not everyone's as understanding as we are. We might not be able to protect you if ya'll do something rash."
"Really, mate, like that's even an option?" A few steps more, and it was out of sight.
"Remember, we've got eyes overhead to help find you, should you happen to get lost."
MacTavish gave him a disinterested glance before nodding in Mike's direction. "Or in case ya'll do something rash?"
Either that shut him up, or Buzz was more interested in what was being said behind them. Atticus spoke softly into his radio, briefly pausing for responses that Soap could only guess at. "What's their ETA? All right. They'd better stay sharp. Out."
No trace of disappointment, meaning the helo was on schedule. It wouldn't be long now, with hope and their only escape route dwindling away behind them.
"Oi — what's with him?" Soap asked. There was a huddle ahead, with Rev crouched on the ground.
"Aw, what the fuck now?" Mike slung his rifle behind him as he stormed off, followed by Buzz.
Atticus let out a heavy sigh, nudging MacTavish onward. "C'mon."
The trail ahead wasn't any wider, yet half the group was gathered around Rev, including Price. Rev was conscious and talking, his pale face looking pinched as he clutched his broken arm, now bound to his side.
MacTavish caught a whiff of sulfur. There was a cave here somewhere.
"Here - park it." Atticus pointed Soap toward a cluster of boulders that rose up along the right side of the path, interrupting the line of open sky and providing a natural barrier against sudden death. Gripping a crooked tree root that hung out of the rocks, Buzz stepped aside to let Terry have a look, lowering himself down along the mountain's face, bracing his feet along a flat ledge below.
Soap felt the ground moving beneath him before he saw it and leapt aside to safety, clinging to the solid wall of stone. Loose shingle shifted and dissolved beneath Buzz in a cloud of dust, a hole yawning open to swallow him, the root yanked from his hand. With a yell, he disappeared into the ground.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
The chopper flew nap-of-the-earth, its jagged shadow shimmering against the rumpled patchwork rising and falling beneath the Blackhawk and its gunship escort, their haste barely allowing a proper glimpse of what lay below. Tiered green farmland and brown rivers, still heavy with silt from the recent rain, sped by.
With a last-minute call to action, they were currently the only option for exfil. The Delta team along with their 'package' was stuck out in the open in broad daylight, in hostile territory. They'd be happy to see them, and no mistake. Though if they got in and out without someone taking a shot at them, it would be a miracle.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
A burst of damp air cooled MacTavish's face. Several feet down the slope, Buzz hung partially suspended by the strap of his duffel bag with his arms and legs stuck out, bracing himself from falling further into a deep, rocky well. The bag had caught on a jagged stone, saving him in the process, though it also kept him from climbing out.
"Buzz? Buzz!" Some of the Delta boys had to hold Rev back.
"He's alive," said Atticus, who stuck close to Terry and MacTavish, keeping his distance from the edge.
The path was now even narrower, some of it having followed Buzz's plunge downhill. "I'm all right," he drawled, heavy breathing halting his calm words, the sounds echoing in the well beneath him. "Though I would greatly appreciate if you could get me the hell out of here."
Delta were already at work on that one. They were all action plans, carabiners and knotted bights of rope somehow produced from their meager 'go-bags'. Paid attention in mountain warfare training, this lot did. As much as the thought pained him, Soap's own training took over: best to keep the victim talking. "Looks like you've discovered some sort of hidden airshaft, mate."
Buzz's muffled response issued forth from the hole. "Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious."
Price offered another, far more unsettling observation. "Where there's one, it's safe to assume there's another. For all we know, we could be standing over a bloody rabbit warren."
Too right they could. After being chased up here, and their pursuers literally disappearing in a puff of smoke… Soap felt the hair on his arms prickling, and not just from the cold breath of the cave. But no one else had paid Price's comment any mind. Even the ones who'd been watching their six were involved in the rescue attempt. If not actively, then offering suggestions or reassurance. This was fucking bad. These lads knew better. The military leader in him began to open his mouth—
—and shut it again. No one was paying attention to Price at all. The Old Man had been left standing on the far edge of the trail, from where they'd just came. The way was clear.
Trapped between their captors and the rock at his back, there would be no escape, not for MacTavish. Price didn't move, his conflicted gray eyes darting between Soap and the men who surrounded him.
Like five years ago on the burning bridge, when Price had slid him the pistol, nothing more needed to be said. It was time. His time now. MacTavish gave Price a subtle nod. Go.
Price's brow creased, looking to Soap, the way out, and back again.
"Gotcha, " Shamrock said. "Hold on." The mostly human chain grunted, limbs and ropes pulling taut.
For the love of Christ! This was it. This or nothing. The Americans were distracted, but only for the moment. Soap didn't dare risk more eye contact than hurried glances, mute while wanting to scream at him: Run! Go! For fuck's sake - leg it, Price!
For the first time, Buzz sounded worried. "Don't cut it!"
"What do you mean, don't cut it - it's the bag or you," said Shamrock.
"We can't lose this. It's too important."
"We'll lose it and you both!"
"It's not up for discussion," said Hagar. "Do it."
The same look of defeat was coming over the Old Man that he'd had when Vadim had confronted them. Something Soap had never wanted to see again.
"Grab him, I got the bag," said Mike, jiggling the cut strap in an attempt to free the snagged duffel.
"No — wait," said Buzz, looking back as he emerged from the hole.
As the bag tore, Mike yanked it up, but not fast enough to prevent some of its heavier contents from spilling out. "Oops!" A water bottle bounced out of sight, followed by the DSM, which slid out of its plastic bag, cartwheeling into a rock. Its case split open with a flash of shiny green circuit boards, a shower of broken electronic components glittering away into the black hole. Soap could hear its pieces breaking into smaller pieces with each strike against the rocks, until he stopped hearing it.
"Fuck!" Now back on solid ground, Buzz slammed his fist against it. He rolled onto his back, chest heaving. "Fuck," he whispered.
"Well ain't that a B," said Mike, leaning dangerously over the pit, but fate was never that kind. "Wasn't that - " he turned to look for Price. "And just where the hell do you think you're going?"
Price stood staring past the black plastic flexcuffs encircling his wrists at the would-be escape route, down at what could have been. "Nowhere."
MacTavish closed his eyes, wishing away what he'd just seen. Any hope of redemption from the DSM data was gone now, if there'd ever been any. Shepherd's lie would outlive them both, the ink already drying on his false history. All they'd done was for nothing.
"A better question is, what are you still doing here? Should've scampered while you had the chance." Mike glanced in Soap's direction. "Ohh. I see how it is. That's so sweet," he smirked, grabbing Price by the elbow. "Really, I'm touched,"
MacTavish never pictured ending his military career quite like this. Disavowed, dishonored. Their victories would fade in the shadow of their disgrace, by crimes they were as good as convicted of. Remembrance Day would never be the same for his family, and by association, not for the families of their fallen men.
"Get over here. So tell me," said Mike conversationally, dragging Price back to the group. "Who pitches, and who catches?" Soap couldn't bring himself to look at either one of them.
"All right, MacTavish." Terry helped him up.
With both their M4s slung behind him, Buzz threw Rev's good arm over his shoulder to steady him as they made their final ascent. "C'mon partner, it's almost beer-thirty."
"You trying to jinx us?" Rev asked. "Fat lady hasn't sung yet."
"Well at least let me warm up first," Buzz replied, with no attempt to smile at his own flat joke. Terry slapped the side of his own neck, examining the results in his hand. Fighting his growing dizziness, MacTavish bent his head to his forearm, trying to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Even the fittest among them was out of breath. The redoubt loomed large above them like a skull, seeming to laugh at their struggle to climb the final steep switchback.
The relief was palpable when they reached it at last. Its thick outer walls made for ideal cover in a gunfight. Pockmarks indicated it had seen a few over the years. Shamrock awaited them in the doorway.
"Honey, I'm home," said Mike.
Inside the dark, cavelike front room was an open hatch in the floor, a sheet of plywood and a rumpled Persian carpet lying beside it. "Wha'd'ya'll find there?" asked Buzz.
"Tunnel, goes out to that path we saw earlier. In case you need to exit stage right," said Kurt, standing guard outside with Atticus while the others were made their way to the rooftop.
"Detainees," Mike jabbed a finger at the two beds nearest a set of steps that led to a lower chamber. "Sit. Think you can handle them for fifteen minutes?"
"Yeah, we got it," said Rev, with thinly-disguised irritation. With a groan, he lowered himself onto one of the beds near the entrance, taking his rifle back from Buzz. Holding it by the pistol grip, he balanced it across his lap, pointing in Soap and Price's direction.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
"What do you think Soap, an accident?"
Beneath the baggy sleeve of his green Russian army jacket, the knife blade was cold against the skin of Price's forearm, waiting for him to slip the hilt out into his palm. That would be the easy bit. "A long car ride to nowhere? After we're left to rot awhile in some covert shithole, long enough for the debate to die down and for World to forget about us?"
Sitting with his feet up on the bed, cuffed hands resting on his bent knees, MacTavish gave a half-hearted scoff. "Shouldn't take long. Just one Facebook outrage away."
"Too right. The Romans never dreamed of bread and circuses such as these." The place stank of damp wool, paraffin and wood smoke, but with a much fouler undertone that Price couldn't quite identify.
"Will you two give it a rest? You're making my headache worse," said Rev. He was fighting weariness, his hazel eyes wandering occasionally. The backwards red baseball cap was jammed over the bandage encircling his head, complimenting the faint bloodstains. Dizzy from the knock to the head, Rev had almost fallen off the cliff. On top of that, Price wondered how much of the fentanyl was still floating around in his system, dulling his senses and slowing his reaction time. In the span of two heartbeats, he could close the distance between them. The American's rifle wouldn't help him then.
"The DSM - it's gone. Smashed to bits," said MacTavish. "Now it's our word against Shepherd's. How do you suppose that's going to turn out?"
"Doesn't matter anyway," said Price. "Never did. I'm sorry, mate." Hearing genuine despair in MacTavish's voice, he willed Soap to look at him. Come on, son — show me you're still with me.
Let the Americans think them broken and defeated. All he needed was one opportune moment. It wouldn't be one of his prouder ones. They weren't bad blokes. They'd just all been dealt a bad hand.
"It did matter. There's still good guys at the Agency, ones that need to hear what you have to say," said Buzz.
More tripe. Price wasn't interested. "That won't be enough." Even if they pulled it off, if they didn't manage to get into some locals' good graces, they weren't long for the world. There were two basic means of persuasion. Yet they had no money, and a gun was a poor long-term strategy here, since if they brought their hosts dishonor, they wouldn't last the day.
"You have a better chance with us than off the grid." Buzz poked around the room, examining its contents.
"I'm sure you believe that."
But rules were rules, and if they could manage to communicate their plea for asylum before they were killed outright, it would be a start. After all, Makarov had managed to survive his time here. Not long on charm, that one, Price mused. It made him wonder further about any local contacts — of either Zakhaev or his twisted scion, though Vadim had made it clear he wasn't one of their cronies. Perhaps it hadn't always been so.
"You know what the bounty is on you? A million," said Rev.
"That's it?" Soap asked. Their eyes finally met, sending a secret burst of adrenaline through Price. The lad was switched on, all right.
"Too many cowboys out there with too little to do except hunt you down. It'll get old fast," said Buzz.
"Like your story," said MacTavish. "You can stop pissing in our ear now."
"Fine." Buzz threw up his hands, hefting his M4 and switching on his WeaponLight. He began to descend the steps, pulling a face as he did so.
"It's not like you have a choice," said Rev. "Did you really think you were just going to walk away from this?"
"A funny thing, truth. Everyone wants it until they actually get it," said Price. He sat hunched over the side of the low bed, eyes downcast to his bound hands. It would make him appear thoughtful, resigned to his fate perhaps, while better able to conceal his weapon. "Had you really thought this one through in the first place, what the reaction would ultimately be? I'll admit I didn't. More than stopping his lie, I wanted him dead more than anything, and once I got what I wanted... " He rotated his cuffed wrists, trying to bring some circulation back into his hands. The sharp steel edge caught his skin, threatening to bite and reveal its presence in blood. "This war began with a slaughter of innocents, pinned on America. The Russians invade, Britain and the EU rally to America's cause, with the rest of NATO not far behind. When Shepherd the savior turns out to be Shepherd the traitor, one of the greatest history has ever seen, what else does that prove — that the Russians were right? That's rather messy, isn't it?"
"Well it's not like it would ever reach the public," said Buzz, halfway down the stairs.
"You'd like to think so. But secrets aren't quite what they used to be, eh? In this day and age, they have a way of being leaked when it's convenient. A scapegoat is found, then it's back to tea and medals. Shepherd didn't operate in a vacuum. That blank check came from some rather powerful people. The last thing they need is any of this dirt on them. Have you considered what it might mean for the two of you?"
"We'll be off a few Christmas card lists - a few more, anyway… Buzz stiffened, his head cocked. "Shh." He held up a finger, pointing his rifle down into the cellar below. He crept down a step, then another.
Grimacing, Rev stood up. He leaned toward the stairwell, listening. His eyebrows shot up. He heard it too. Tilting his head, he gestured with his M4 to Soap and Price, making it clear he wasn't leaving them up here unguarded. At gunpoint, he herded them both down the steps, into the stinking dark.
"In the corner," Rev whispered. A quick sweep of his SureFire revealed the cellar's layout: a short bookcase piled with nonperishable food, shelving loaded with supplies and a minging gray blob in a vegetable crate, the source of the rotten stench.
Following instructions, Price crowded up alongside Soap next to the shelves. There were tools here that could serve as makeshift weapons, but it would take a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the dark — a few minutes too long.
Both torches followed the noise, an insistent scritch scritch scritch from beneath the bookcase … or was it from behind?
"Some kind of animal," whispered Rev. The scratching turning to a scraping sound. Gnawing. "Some kind of rodent." He took a step back, glancing at the stairs behind him.
"Probably just a mouse."
"Mouse, my ass. That's a rat. Man I hate those things."
The coolness of the knife hilt settled against the heel of Price's hand, just inside his cuff.
"So what's it doing back there?" hissed Buzz. He carefully removed the plastic tubs of food, setting them aside. There was no hole in the bookcase itself. Slinging his rifle out the way, he pulled a small LED torch from his vest pocket and lay down to shine the light underneath it, shaking his head as he quickly got back on his feet.
The far wall was awash in illumination from the two torches and the dim column of light spilling down the steps. The rear of the chamber between the shelves and the stairwell, however, was cloaked in shadow. Perfect. Price rotated his hand, wiggled his fingers. The knife began to inch its way out, too slowly for his liking. He wiggled faster.
Buzz pressed his cheek against the stone blocks, aiming his torch alongside it, craning his head downward. "There's something back here. It's colder in this corner. Can't you feel the draft? C'mon man, don't be such a wuss."
Rev tentatively stepped forward, gun at low ready, while Buzz took hold of the bookcase.
The hilt slid into Price's palm. He curled his fingers round it, easing the blade out further … he nudged Soap with his elbow, feeling him tense up in response.
"Ready?" Buzz whispered. Rev nodded.
There was no going back now. I'm sorry lads, I truly am. But better you than us.
With a screech of wood across the stone floor, they all leapt back at once.
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
The more uneventful their approach, the more uneasy the Blackhawk's occupants became. The land's appearance was changing beneath them, the terrain roughening, rising. Trees were becoming more numerous, darkening in color. Patches of gray stone became more frequent, growing into cliffs and crags, until it looked like the skin of the land was being pulled away, exposing the rocky skeleton within.
The warning came through their headsets: "Ten minutes."
-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
The chamber reverberated with Buzz's barely-contained laughter.
Price's knife, held flat against the back of his arm, was barely concealed. He pretended to cower behind MacTavish.
"That was quite a dance you just did. Hell, them too," he said, indicating Soap and Price.
"Fuck you," Rev grunted painfully from the relative safety of his perch atop the bookcase, shining his light on the small brown rodent near the base of the steps. It reared up on its hind legs, whiskers wiggling, sniffing the air. "Told you it was a rat."
His fun over, Buzz crouched to squint into the long, low opening in the wall. "What've we got here?" The beam of his torch lit up a short passage into what looked like a underground tunnel. "No shit. Bring your light over here."
Hampered by his immobilized arm, Rev crouched down alongside him for a look, momentarily forgetting about the rat — and their detainees. Gripping the knife at last, Price began to creep forward when Soap grabbed his arm, giving it an urgent squeeze. The rat hadn't fled as expected. It wobbled in a lazy circle and fell twitching on its side, its tail writhing snakelike around it.
"Whoa… I don't feel so—" Rev crumpled to the ground.
"Rev? Hey!" Buzz shook him, then stopped. He turned to Soap and Price, who now stood by the steps, poised to spring. But his stunned look wasn't about them. He tried to stand and failed, grabbing a nearby chair for support, his urgent warning a weak whisper.
"They got us. Run. Get out … now." He collapsed.
=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
Price previously hadn't thought it possible to hold one's breath while flying up the steps, two at a time — or to not loudly resume breathing while coming to an abrupt halt at the top. He threw a bound fist up beside him, turning to see MacTavish's grim nod of acknowledgement. An armed shadow lay long across the ground in front of the redoubt's open door, barring their escape. Soap jerked his head toward the rear of the room. They backed away from the windows, quickly creeping along the shadows of the back wall, Price scooping up Buzz's duffel on the way. One after the other, they both dropped silently into the open trapdoor.
As they fled through the black tunnel, the bright pinpoint at its far end growing larger, Price's mind raced along with them. Were the spooks dead, or dying? Was it from a naturally occurring underground gas, or something far more sinister? Had they been poisoned? Did he and Soap get exposed to it as well, enough to be harmful?
Shit … whatever Buzz and Rev had inhaled, was it heavier than air? Could it be down here too? If so, it was already too late. There was no holding one's breath on this mad dash. Well, they were still upright, weren't they?
Their boots didn't stop pounding the ground until they stood blinking in the sunlight. Price cut through Soap's flexcuffs. MacTavish, looking more alert than he had in some time, returned the favor. They'd both be fine, Price decided, with some fresh air and distance between themselves and the Americans.
They'd found themselves in a tight maze of tall boulders surrounded with prickly brush, enough to put off the less determined. They both crouched down, looking and listening. A short goat path lay before them, presumably meandering down to the one they'd seen earlier — Kurt had said that's where this went. A look around showed steep rock face rising high overhead on either side of them. A few patches of stunted trees lay before them. They could see blue sky through the branches where a steep dropoff lay about 10 meters away from the camouflaged tunnel entrance. The tunnel had deposited them right alongside the mountain's opposite edge, hopefully far enough away from the LZ and with enough cover to elude both the eyes on the ground and those aboard the inbound aircraft that would arrive any moment.
Once they were satisfied there was no one nearby, MacTavish spun the blade around, offering Price the hilt.
"Don't you want your knife back, Soap?" Price whispered.
Examining it, MacTavish chuckled in recognition. "Aye." He stashed the knife in his boot, nodding at the duffel bag dangling from the cut strap in Price's hand. "See what you got for Halloween, I'll have a quick recce."
"Right." Price unzipped the duffel. The hole in one end had been patched with a thick layer of duct tape. It would be an encumbrance unless he could find a way to refasten the strap. Since the Americans hadn't managed it, there likely wasn't one. He swore under his breath. There wasn't much of use left inside. Mostly Buzz's dirty laundry, a spare Glock magazine full of .40 S&W. He pulled a face. As useful as a chocolate teapot. He did find a water bottle and a couple of protein bars, at least. He pocketed those. His head throbbed, but that had been a daily occurrence since his concussion. Just more of the same old annoyance, nothing to worry about. He'd feel better once they got moving.
Soap reappeared with a whispered sitrep. "A two-foot-wide ledge - your favorite. Three, four meters maybe. Looks like clear sailing after that." He squinted at Price. "Find anything good?"
"Not really. Go on, I'm right behind you."
Time to bugger off, sharpish. But the bag had felt heavier than these few odds and sods. As MacTavish disappeared back around the bend of the trail, Price probed the wad of clothing one last time, and nearly cursed aloud in surprise. The bundle of fabric had been wrapped tightly around his 1911.
No ammo, but he wasn't about to leave it behind. Removing it from the plastic bag, he stood and reached around to stuff it into the back of his waistband—
"Drop it, or I'll drop you."
Price froze. The pistol clunked into the dirt behind him as he slowly raised his hands.
"What did you do," Mike growled, taking aim with his HK416, his voice exploding in a shout. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?"
"Nothing," Price breathed, knowing that's what stood in this bastard's way now — nothing. He could only hope that Soap would do the sensible thing and leg it. He would stall for time as long as he could. "Rev fell unconscious. Buzz told us to get out. We just ran."
"You just ran." Mike nodded sarcastically. "Like you did at Hotel Bravo? Lost a couple friends there. When you two showed up."
"Shepherd blew the place sky high, fast movers bombed what was left — "
"Shut the fuck up!" Mike thrust the rifle into his face. Price squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. With a pull of the trigger he'd be gone in an instant, along with most of his head. Growing dizzy, he forced himself to open them again. He felt, then heard a distant pattering, fading in and out.
"Where's MacTavish?"
"Long gone, I hope," said Price loudly, hoping Soap would get the message.
"Bullshit." He spun Price around by the shoulder, marching him toward the clump of trees lining the cliff. "MacTavish," he called. "I know you're there. I've got Price, and if you know what's good for him, you'd better come out – now."
The pattering sound was becoming solid, real.
"Capture or kill, MacTavish. Our orders, your choice. Trust me, I'm fine with dead." Mike shoved Price forward, a few steps closer to the blue sky that waited just beyond the branches. Price heard a rattle behind him, sensing the rifle aimed at his back.
Mike lowered his voice so only Price could hear. "I don't know what sort of sick shit they did to you in that gulag to make you play for the other team, and I don't fuckin' care."
Soap had to be watching. Others would be here any moment, then it would be all over. As far as Price was concerned, it was – for himself. He'd said he'd not be recaptured, and he'd meant it. The slow fade just wasn't his style. But that wasn't how this would play out, not if this Yank had his way.
"Fresh out of flexcuffs, are you?" It wasn't about taking him prisoner. It was about making this look good.
Ignoring Price, Mike raised his voice again, ending on a singsong note. "You know, once he hits the bottom of that canyon, actual cause of death ain't gonna matter much. It's a long way down."
The bastard wanted Soap to have a go at him, so he could slot him as well. Even if he didn't take the bait, he'd be rumbled if he hung about much longer. Though very slim, the lad still had a chance to get out of this. There was only one way to ensure he'd take it.
It's been an honor.
"So what are you waiting for then?" He spun around to face Mike, who tensed in surprise, glaring at him from behind the red lens of his Aimpoint. "Already tried once, didn't you? Oh yeah" he nodded. "You're not the only one." Mike's eyes narrowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, to see if anyone was watching. Price shook his head, disgusted. "Other team? We're on the same fucking side! Your hero, Shepherd? He's the one who killed your mates at Hotel Bravo. His own men. Why do you think that is?" Hands still aloft, Price stepped toward him, Mike's finger tightening on the trigger.
Just get it over with, you twat.
"That airstrike wasn't an accidental blue-on-blue. He gave the order. He started this entire thing, to get the war he wanted. The airport attack? He was in on it. He's in bed with Makarov, and when we got too close to the truth, he killed our whole team to cover it up. We're all that's left." The throbbing in Price's head, along with the dizziness, was different this time. He was starting to feel odd, confused. "Why do you think they want us in cold storage so badly?"
The bewilderment in Mike's eyes flamed out almost immediately, a dangerous calm taking its place. "All I know is, anywhere you two go, my buddies wind up smoked. Lost another one just recently. He was last seen with you, in fact. Just before you and uhh…" Mike blinked, losing his train of thought. "… Armaan disappeared."
Price had an acrid chemical taste in his mouth, as if he were exhaling toxic fumes. He had to focus on getting the words out. "I didn't do it."
"Do…WHAT? What didn't you do, you son of a bitch?" Price staggered backward, the ground seeming to heave up beneath him. He recalled seeing a small hill, the last barrier before the trees and ground all came to an end. This must be it. The HK416's flash hider followed, wobbling a couple feet from his nose. "One minute, Josh is with you, the next minute, he's fucking dead."
Price's lips and fingertips were going numb. Alarm bells were screaming in the back of his mind, but the immediate threat was right in his face, demanding an answer. He had to concentrate long enough to give one. "He was shot, right next to me."
"No … shit… " Mike was huffing and puffing like a drunk about to be sick. "These fuckers blaze away … full auto at the drop of a hat … God's will if they actually hit something." He blinked rapidly and shook his head, shaking it off. "Right next to you? Should have stitched you both." Swaying, Mike lurched toward him.
Backing away, Price tripped over something and fell right on his arse. Strangely, it didn't hurt too much. The same obstacle sent Mike sprawling facefirst, his rifle landing somewhere behind him.
The pattering sound became a steady thump, then a thrumming chorus: choppers on approach.
Mike was almost on his feet. Price half-lunged, half-fell at him. The punch didn't quite land where he wanted, his knuckles glancing off bone. But it did knock Mike off balance. Ignoring the dull jolt of pain shooting up his arm, Price dove for Mike's holster. He kept reaching, the Glock kept twisting away as they grappled, Mike's powerful legs bulldozing Price backward until they were a rolling, grunting tangle on the ground, kicking up dust.
They crashed through a thicket, broken branches scratching and stabbing them. Mike slammed Price onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. Price curled up and blasted his heels into Mike's oncoming midsection. They both lay wheezing in the dirt. Recovering first, Mike crawled on his hands and knees, struggling to get up.
Dimly, Price realized what they'd tripped over. A body.
MacTavish lay on his side, motionless, one arm flung out over his head.
No matter how he tried, Price couldn't seem to get his feet beneath him. His limbs felt heavy and difficult to move. "S-Soap? S-suh…"
Lumbering toward him on all fours, Mike clamped a meaty hand around Price's throat, dragging him toward the edge of the cliff.
Heels digging, knees twisting, Price tore at Mike's fingers, trying to pry them away. But it did nothing, his attempts swatted aside with ease. He felt like he was wearing mittens. The ground fell away beneath his shoulders, his head hanging over empty air, while Mike's bloodied face blurred and swam in front of him.
Between skill and his greater size, he had Price well pinned down now, rendering him almost immobile. Price splayed his one free hand out, pushing hard against Mike's jaw, fingers sliding over greasy pockmarked skin to dig at his eyes. Shrugging that off as well, Mike responded by leaning his weight into Price's throat and reaching for his pistol.
Price could barely hear him now — the ground vibrated with the choppers' impending arrival. "His head was blown off," Mike said, scrunching his face up and opening his angry eyes wide. "You were left untouched." The Glock's threaded barrel pressed a hard circle into Price's forehead. "Why is that, Price?"
Price couldn't answer. He was gasping for air, struggling and kicking, his attacker not bothered in the least. No one was going to stop this. No one would see or hear what was about to happen. It wouldn't matter now if he'd screamed at the top of his lungs. The fluttering roar filled his head, thumped in his chest.
An Apache rose up out of the canyon behind them, blotting out the sky. The M230 chain gun mounted on its chin turret swiveled toward them as it passed overhead, sweeping away over the mountaintop.
The gun at his forehead wiggled and clattered aside. The hand around his throat relaxed, allowing Price a partial breath before crushing pain as Mike slumped down on top of him, squeezing out what precious air he'd managed to draw in.
They were lying now, cheek to cheek, on the edge of the precipice. He squirmed, punching and clawing, once again fighting to breathe. Completely unresponsive, Mike snored in his ear, loudly enough to be detected over the aircraft noise. The bulky American's dead weight was pressing down on Price's injured ribs, squeezing more air out of him with every exhalation.
He strained with everything he had, over and over, but Mike's inert form wouldn't budge. Price felt himself fading with every attempt. His remaining strength, his will to fight, his consciousness — they were all leaving him.
The roar softened to a hum, not unpleasant. His pain and desperation were giving way to a warm, fuzzy euphoria. His eyes were getting heavy, they didn't want to stay open. That was all right, though. He'd done his utmost, with his best friend beside him. That was enough, all anyone could expect of him.
Thoughts themselves were a struggle to form, becoming difficult to grasp, like leaves swirling in the wind. With great effort, he was able to work out one last thing: that even out cold, Mike might manage to kill him anyhow. Sod's law. What a way to go…
A shadow fell over him. Price felt the crushing weight being lifted away while gray unfocused images played themselves out before him, like he was watching a blurry old film. An arm wrapped around Mike's chin, wrenching his head back. A fist smashed down on his collarbone with a sharp twist. Mike gurgled, warm liquid splattering Price's face, then fell away.
The ground slid back beneath him, solid and reassuring as the air returning to his starved lungs. Someone stared down at him from on high. Some thing, a dark figure with bulbous eyes and a long snout. A black elephant-headed creature. Price was unsure if it was real or imagined. There were others. They reached for him. "N-nn…" Price mumbled, trying to push them away. They grabbed his arm, pulling him up, and the dim world flipped upside down.
=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
Reaching the grid location, the Apaches circled round, threatening anyone brazen enough try their luck. The Blackhawk flared over the LZ, tiny figures spread out in a circle below. With the drab clothing of locals but the discipline of soldiers they knelt on one knee, guns pointed outward, while one waved the orange VS-17 signal panel. The rotor wash blasted back the yellowing grasses, and all disappeared into the dust cloud.
=xXx:xXx:xXx=-
In the redoubt's lower chamber, the bookcase slid back into place, its contents returned to their original arrangement. It looked undisturbed once more, except for the bodies of the two Americans lying before it.
Back on their shelf, the water in the bottles rocked gently back and forth.
x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x
Armalite – Blanket term for the rifle platform based on this company's original design, most commonly chambered in 5.56 mm. Known colloquially in the US as an AR (Armalite Rifle).
Asda – The British version of Wal-Mart, owned by the same company.
Paraffin - Kerosene