With the ACS recovered, Roach and MacTavish returned to base feeling pretty damn good about themselves. They settled back in, got a hot meal, and shook the residual chill from their bones. MacTavish stayed up an extra hour to file his mission debrief and retired to his waiting bed and partner. For once, he let Ghost spoon him.

Yes, things were dandy until 09:50 the following morning, when news came in that Makarov assaulted the Zakhaev International Airport. Mass casualties were tragic enough — they were the reason for this company's existence — but every additional detail that unfolded about the situation made it worse and worse.

Makarov and his men escaped and vanished. The FSB had no luck finding him.

The FSB recovered the body of one of his men in a vehicle depot.

The equipment Makarov's men used were American made. Witnesses also reported hearing the terrorists use "military jargon." A conspiracy blew up online that America sponsored the assault as well as Makarov's previous shootings and bombings.

Shepherd identified this man as PFC Joseph Allen; the Ranger he pulled for the Task Force 141. In an odd twist, Allen also got selected for a deep-cover operation backed by the CIA to enter Makarov's ranks, gain his trust, and report his movements. This was effective immediately.

The FSB also IDed Allen as an American linked to the CIA. They released this information to the public, further fueling conspiracy theories. One Russian hashtag that started trending on Twitter within the first half hour after the shooting translated to #JusticeforMoscow .

All of Russia united in outrage over the US seemingly backing a terrorist and attacking civilians. President Vorshevsky gave an address, reflecting his country's anger.

10:14, MacTavish and Ghost were on another conference call with General Shepherd concerning the latest developments. The outlook was bleak.

"The Russians ain't gonna let this massacre go unanswered. It's gonna get bloody." Ghost said, glowering at the updated casualty count. 129 civilians, 24 security officers, 29 FSB officers. The numbers were still climbing.

"Too right, mate," MacTavish replied. "Now, in the eyes of the world, they're the victims. No one's gonna say a word when the Russians club every American they can reach."

Shepherd remained even toned and stone faced. "Makarov was one move ahead. Now he's left thousands of bodies at the feet of an American."

This mess was warped beyond recognition. MacTavish flipped through the files. "We're the only ones who know it was Makarov's op. Our credibility died with Allen. We need proof."

"Follow the shell." At that moment, Shepherd sent them photos of an identical pair of bullet casings through the network. One casing came from the photo of Allen's body. The other was one of many recovered from their operation in Germany. Its point of origin was Brazil. He sent a couple target files in. "Alejandro Rojas."

"Never heard of him, Sir."

"You know him as Alex the Red," Shepherd explained. "He supplied the assault."

MacTavish sighed and rubbed his face. "One bullet to unleash the fury of a whole nation. Which means…"

"He's our ticket to Makarov."

They'd need to fly to Brazil and find Rojas. He dealt with many terrorist groups over the years, including that daisy chain of armaments the 141 cut off last month. He might have been connected to Fregata Industries (a shipping company, potential "front" business for smuggling) as well, but the link wasn't solid. Any intel they squeezed out of him could bring them one step closer to taking Makarov down. There was a wrinkle, though. Rojas had been living off the radar since 1997. For all they knew, he flew the coop a long time ago. What they had was someone who appeared to be Rojas's assistant. He showed up at dealings in his place, and he'd been last sighted in Rio de Janeiro.

"Given the current political climate, Sir, it'd be a good idea if we have a back-up plan in case things kick South," MacTavish said.

"If you think it's necessary, I'll sanction it. Once you capture Rojas, you're to take him to the U.S.S. Chicago. We can better interrogate him there."

"Understood." The call ended, and MacTavish turned his attention square to Ghost. "Mind rounding up a team? I've got something to arrange. We're leaving ASAP."

"On it." Ghost left the briefing room.

With a moment alone, MacTavish took two seconds to find his center and then called Nikolai.

"Ah, my friend. I was waiting to hear from you."

"Oh yeah? I take it you know about the situation."

"[Yes], more or less. What do you need of me?"

"We're following a potential lead that could get us intel on Makarov. He's stationed in Rio de Janeiro. I'm not saying it's guaranteed to go wrong, but given the geopolitical climate, I'd appreciate it if you'd meet us there in case we need emergency extraction."

"I will be there, my friend. You know the frequency to reach my helicopter's radio, but in case it comes up, I do also have a phone for now."

God, he needed to make good on his promise and get Nikolai that case of Imperia for all the shit he put up with. "Thanks, Nikolai. I owe you."

10:40, A team of 10 men deployed and were en route to Brazil. ETA 12.5 hours, or approximately 20:00 local time. Mobilization happened so fast that the mission briefing for everybody else had to wait until they were in the air. They'd keep their presence on the down-low while they better tracked Rojas.

"So we lost the new guy already," Royce said once the plane had run silent for several minutes.

Meat hummed in agreement. "I'll give Private Allen this: he set the record for shortest time in the unit. What do you think it was? Did he just get unlucky?"

"It could've been a lot of things. Too bad we can't ask him."

MacTavish kept a cautious ear on their conversation whilst thumbing the clip to one of his ammo pouches. The circumstances revolving around Allen's reassignment, blown cover, and death were more than just bizarre. Allen's file showed a stunning lack of credentials in espionage. The 22-year-old Ranger had a few deployments under his belt, and only the last one to Fire Base Phoenix (to train local militia, mind you) had open combat. The most stand out thing he did was run a decent time in The Pit. That was all. No special qualifications, no additional skills that'd make him a suitable choice. Surely the CIA had better people they could send to infiltrate Makarov's Inner Circle.

He could squint and see Allen getting pulled for the Task Force. Maybe. But even if General Shepherd needed to pull someone from the 141 for this deep cover operation, why on God's Green Earth did he pick him ? It made no sense.

For all the weirdness involved, MacTavish was still reluctant to call the General out. There had to be some reason beyond his knowledge, outside his clearance even, that Allen got picked. Whatever it was, he couldn't question his CO's decisions.

The fact that his men picked up on it wasn't reassuring. This ugly secret loomed like a shadow in the corner, and he wanted to convince himself that it was a trick of the light. With each person who acknowledged that shadow, it became a little more real, and a lot more intimidating.

"You alright, mate?" Ghost asked him, just quiet enough that it went unheard by the rest of the team.

"Should be," MacTavish said. "Just got the worst feeling, like Makarov and Russia won't be our only problems soon."

"Mm… Something's been off for weeks now. I'm not placing much stock in Scarab's conspiracy theories, but I can't shake the feeling that she might have been onto something."

If she was right… God, he hoped not. General Shepherd was a lot of things, but a traitor? Please. Scarab was throwing spaghetti on the wall and seeing what'd stick. Every theory she presented was baseless. "Even if she was, there's no proof. All we can do is proceed as normal unless something substantial comes up."

Ghost nodded. "And if something does?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

The sun had long set when they arrived in Brazil. Much of their equipment was stashed in cases and hidden away, stowed in the trunks of rental cars and nondescript vans. They'd stake out the city for Rojas's assistant, and the best way to do that was to drive in and maintain a low profile.

Rio de Janeiro as a whole was a beautiful city, glittering with lights in the evening and boasting a healthy tourist industry. In the distance, Christ The Redeemer resided over the city like an onlooker. There were plenty of nice parts, but they weren't staying in any of them. They went to a favela that, like many, sprang up on its own without city officials' involvement. The area was like a tiny city within a city that popped out of the hillside, living worlds divided from the evenly districted and tourist friendly sectors. They found a vacant boarded up living space within the micro-community to set up shop. Green paint chipped off the walls, and the air was so sour and humid that it forced them to crack windows wherever they could. Based on the stained ceiling and rotting floorboards, the previous tenants must've abandoned it because of water damage.

There were a hundred of these low-income settlements in the city, and each was perfect for Rojas to hide in. The difference between this one and all the others was that it'd become a hotspot for local militia activity. See, the situation was much more turbulent than just an arms dealer and his associates. There was a gang with a strong presence in this area, and their hold was like a vice. The unease was palpable, from weary merchants in the market to groups of kids who'd stop playing football when they passed. Rojas used to hold connections to the local gangs via previous dealings, but according to intel, he snubbed them in favor of Makarov's much more lucrative business. If they left the situation alone, the militia would find Rojas on their own and kill him for cutting off their weapon supply. The 141 needed to swoop in and bag Rojas before these thugs did.

It took a long time for them to cart in their equipment from the vehicles into their impromptu base of operations without drawing attention to themselves. At least they had the cover of nightfall and the lack of lighting on this street.

Once things settled, MacTavish stepped out for a smoke and found Ghost by the cars. His balaclava was scrunched around his neck, the white of the mandibles peeking in the folds at his throat. He hadn't worn it in hours, so for once his short hair was a little less matted down. To see him look so inconspicuous was a blend of strange and amusing, a rare treat that MacTavish adored. Acting casual, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to offer him one. "Was it your turn to take watch already?"

Ghost brushed off his offer. "Not really. Meat's taking a piss."

"'Course he is. Man's getting old," MacTavish quipped, leaning against the door of the black car.

"He's barely thirty," Ghost pointed out.

"With two kids. That ages you."

Ghost rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say."

Huh. Usually a dumb remark like that at least got a chuckle out of him. MacTavish double checked Ghost's posture. His arms were folded in front of him in a loose self hug. "How've you been holding up?"

"Just tired is all. I'll manage."

"Go inside and get some rest then. I need you at your best tomorrow," MacTavish said, giving a soft pat to Ghost's shoulder.

The lieutenant dipped his chin and headed in for the night. It wasn't necessary, but MacTavish reshuffled the watch shifts to give Ghost a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Rocket relieved Roach from watch at 03:30. Roach didn't feel tired, since he'd slept like a bear on the flight over, but it was only a matter of time before the jet lag kicked in full gear. He wasn't the only one feeling the effects of the time zone difference, because when he came back inside, Meat, Royce, and Merlin were playing blackjack at the table with just a torch pointed up at the ceiling for light.

"You're still up?" He asked, pulling his cap off his head.

"Shh." Royce tipped his head to the opposite side of the room, where MacTavish was fast asleep sitting in the corner and Ghost had changed positions to rest his head on the Captain's thigh. Royce spoke in hushed tones. "Wanna join the game or do you need to take a nap."

"Deal me in." Roach took a seat on the empty stool by the table. "The militia's gotten pretty quiet. I've just seen a couple of scouts patrolling the street."

"Any civis?" Merlin slid two cards across the table along with a pack of M&Ms to him.

Roach opened the pack, tossed in a bet of 3 candies, and turned his cards over. A pair of twos, he'd need to hit when his turn came. "A few."

"That's good," Royce said and tapped the table. Merlin dealt him a new card. He already had a 14 total, but that six brought him to 20. Almost perfect. He smirked and held. "We'll be less conspicuous that way."

"Yeah, we said that last time too." Meat huffed. "It won't mean a whole helluva lot if we catch the guy and he caps himself."

"That was a fluke. It happens." Roach rested his chin in his hand. "We'll get him this time, I'm sure."

"That's the spirit," Royce agreed. "Who knows, maybe with that kind of attitude, you'll actually win one of these games, Roach."

The Sergeant's nose crinkled. "I'll have you know I can win this game any time I want if I do the math."

"Pull that card counting bullshit and I eat all your M&Ms," Merlin said.

"Kidding - I'm kidding." Roach chuckled.

Merlin disregarded Roach and turned Meat. "You going to hit or hold?"

Meat grimaced at his cards. "I'm gonna regret this, but hit me."

Merlin passed him a Jack of Diamonds.

"Fuck. I bust." He slid his M&Ms in towards the middle.

"How about you, Roach?"

"I'll hit." The card he got was a seven, so all he needed was nine and he'd win. "Again."

The next card was a nine.

"Blackjack, mate."

Royce and Meat groaned in unison.

"Bugger." Merlin turned over the second dealer card, revealing he had 15 total. He drew another card, two. With a heavy sigh, he waved to Roach. "Alright, dealer holds at 17. Give the man your candy."

"Booo..." Meat flicked an M&M at Roach's head, causing it to hit his chin and patter on the table. "You sure you didn't cheat?"

Roach snickered. "Not this time."

"Next time, Roach, you're dealing," Royce said.

"Sure thing."

Nikolai should've made landfall sometime around 04:00, but MacTavish didn't contact his helicopter until 2 hours after that. With such a long flight, he figured Nikolai needed to refuel in several meanings of the word. Instead of his friend, he reached the copilot on the Pave Low's radio.

"Is Nikolai available?"

"He is…" the copilot said with some hesitance. "… but the flight was very long, so he is sleeping. Is it essential that you speak with him, because if not, I would rather not wake him up."

MacTavish full heartedly agreed with that sentiment. "I'm just relaying the coordinates for the extraction points in the event that we need to call you guys."

"I will write them down. — Alright, go."

He read out the coordinates and answered what questions he could about both of them. The primary exfil point was in a clearing just past the market. It'd be tight, but Nikolai proved time and time again that he could pull it off. There weren't many open spaces on ground level, so the secondary LZ was a klick away on the rooftops. If neither worked, then they'd need a new plan all together, and he wasn't keen on the prospect.

Of course, in his experience, the only times they used a primary exfil point was when they weren't in danger of being overrun. Given his track record and the likelihood they'd be engaged in favela warfare, it seemed well within the realm of possibility that his bad luck with LZs would continue through today.

After passing that crucial piece of information along, MacTavish pulled out his journal and flipped to the blank page he'd skipped yesterday to draw a map of the favela over two pages instead of compressing it on one. It'd bug him later if he left it empty, so he fell back on his regular pass time of sketching.

It didn't take long before he loosely captured the chaotic sprawl of buildings just outside; of large leafy palm trees, and the distant mountain with its statue landmark. Too bad he couldn't capture the retreating purple clouds on fading blue skies in all its majesty with his limited pen colors. He settled for roughing in their shapes. Satisfied with the drawing, he shut the journal and slid it into his back pocket.

Downstairs, most of the team had cracked open MREs and chatted over breakfast. Meat and Roach were playing hot potato with one of the heater packs, but the minute he walked in Meat tossed it at him with a sharp, "Think fast, Captain!"

MacTavish caught it just before it would've sailed over his shoulder and chucked it back at Meat. "Your aim's too high, mate."

"If you don't catch it, you lose," Meat pointed out as he passed the heater back to Roach.

"Fair enough."

Royce stood up. "It's a big neighborhood, Captain. Where do we start?"

"For now, we'll split up and monitor what the local militia do, see if we can find any leads. You know the drill, concealed arms, and don't fire unless fired upon. Royce, you and Meat will stay here with Ghost on over watch. Doc, take Rocket, Chemo, and Klepto towards the East. Roach, Merlin, you're coming with me West."

He received varied affirmations from the team, from grunts to nods and Yes, Sir 's. Now the actual work began.

{—To Be Continued—

Summary of Plan B Chapters 31b-32

31b: Takedown cut scene. They go to Brazil, sack up in Hotel Rio.
32: Nikolai offers to take Scarab to Brazil. Ghost + Meat spy on Rojas. Gunshots through the window. Soap goes to meet w/ Nikolai to plan LZs, meets Silvia.

A/N: You know, all things considered, this chapter didn't change nearly as much as the last chapter did. Still a fair few things, so let's touch base with them, shall we?

Because I wrote this originally at 13 and couldn't be assed to do research for anything, I sorta sucked my breath and cringed at the strange depiction of Rio. I didn't describe much, but they stayed in a hotel, which sounds like they stayed at the more regulated part of the city. But this is Younger Me who wrote this, and I'm pretty sure I just thought all of Rio de Janeiro looked like what we see in the game. I did some research on Rio this time around and I think it really helped me get a better grasp of what was going on with this mission. Favelas can be super pretty and display human ingenuity.
In Plan B, they meet with some contact named Cortez. It doesn't really add much. The scene got cut.
There's a scene where Scarab is standing dramatically, thinking about that time she and Soap kissed on the balconey(tm), when Nikolai shows up hype because Soap called and asked him for help. Scarab sighs dramatically and Nikolai offers to take her along. I still wanted Soap to ask Nikolai in advance, because the logistics of getting Nikolai to Brazil from India is a nightmare. Later on, Scarab is there acting as Nikolai's copilot (I guess...?!). She's not here this time, period. Gave Nikolai a Loyalist with actual flight experience to come with him. We'll call him Sasha.
There's another scene where Ghost notices Rojas and his assistant talking in the streets, and instead of doing the rational thing and apprehending the guy, he gets Meat to translate what they're saying. No logic here. Hell, the assistant also lectures Rojas on patience. I yeeted this whole part in the trash and replaced it with cards because fuck that noise.
Finally, there's a scene where Soap leaves the group to meet up with Nikolai and on the way he meets Silvia and her son Roberto. Is Roberto relevant? Heavens no! Silvia comes back later and reveals that she's a spy for Makarov. Not before attempting and failing to get into Soap's pants. She does make Scarab think Soap's cheating however, which sparks a whole debacle later. Silvia's a dumb character and I refuse to write her. Ghost and Scarab fight over Soap just fine without her, thank you very much.

Hope you all have a good day. Stay safe and much love! 3