I'm just writing something as a little experiment. See if it makes a splash and if anyone is invested in seeing something continue. Basically, the latest CoD has got me interested in seeing such a familiar world rebooted, which to me is notable because this is the first time in a while I've seen a reboot not piss the bed. So, my interest is seeing this new world explored. Not rehashed or retold, but a different spin on some familiar faces in brand new places and situations.
Prologue
"Can everyone please take their seats? Thank you," Special Agent Buford announced as the tech fiddled with the projector. The twenty-year intelligence veteran was a bit doughy, his wounding near the Korean DMZ found him chained to desks over the last decade. Still, threat assessments remained his specialty, a task he partook in with his usual professionalism.
"By now you've all read the reports. Assets on the ground are moving against Al-Qatala. Piccadilly was a wakeup call, and we've finally been authorized to terminate the organization. Better late than never, eh?" He asked to a smattering of polite laughter.
Over the past decade, Al-Qatala had grown from one of the several dozen mujahedeen cells infesting the northern Caucasus. As time when on, thanks to the auspicious leadership of Omar "The Wolf" Sulaman, the group ended up either amalgamating or cannibalizing other local jihadist organizations, leaving only scant exceptions like the CIA's nominal allies in the ULF. Of course, the Wolf was significantly more ambitious than the ULF, not merely being content to violently expulse Russia and further humble the waning regional superpower, but also desired to broadcast his message of revolution and liberation to all the superpowers of the world. Among those he singled out were the EU, China, and of course the US, in addition to Russia.
As usual, the rise of these criminals and extremists was often born at the hands of poor foreign policy. This particular instigator being General Roman Barkov, the de-facto regional governor of Urzikstan and lightning rod for every foreign fighter currently swelling Al-Qatala's ranks. Thanks to the General's "lackluster" policymaking, radicalization in the region was at an all-time high, and the effects were beginning to show themselves as far as northern Africa and Asia minor. Those who didn't flock under Sulaman's banner were beginning to either affiliate or at least defer to his organization, creating what looked to the world like a secular caliphate. If the Wolf's men got ahold of enough hardware or minerals, the War on Terror could turn from a glorified police action into a full-on World War Three. All thanks to one Roman Barkov.
That little tidbit was at the crux of the meeting Buford had called. For twenty years, Barkov had been instigating and brutalizing the country of Urzikstan. The international community, as it was wont to do, generally turned a blind eye to the atrocities, taking for granted the notion that a military garrison unilaterally enforcing its authority on some backward peasants would have no lasting consequences. Still, one would think that even if the UN would fail to rein in the man himself, Moscow would have issue with one of their own taking liberties with Russian foreign policy?
That, Buford believed, was the thing. It wasn't that Russia wouldn't rein in or put down its attack dog, but that it couldn't. Reports in Russia were all indicating a rather disturbing pattern of military commanders "going into business for themselves." A dangerous combination of capitalistic ambition (arms deals and merc work were both on the rise throughout Eurasia) and some (like Barkov) who believed that it was the weak nations to the south, not bad international policy, that bred the extremists who now menaced the global community.
About thirteen years ago, a man named Imran Zakhaev attempted to amass a paramilitary force to subjugate Asia Minor, rendering the territories protectorates of Russia, despite the movement being disavowed by the Kremlin. A fortuitous bullet through Zakhaev's sternum had hopefully dissuaded others from picking up what he left off, but in the eyes of certain military commanders (among them Viktor, Imran's son), all the extremists had done was create a martyr. Now, instead of Zakhaev's acolytes going through the trouble of civil war and going against the military, they were now content to rise through it, with Moscow and the rest of the world wondering what these increasingly independent units were planning.
"So, it looks like we can't just chalk up most of these defector divisions to a mass "crisis of the faith" towards the Presidency. " Buford shrugged. "Nor can we say that the Mafiya is splurging all its laundered money and buying them all off. If the reports are true, it would appear that some units near Vladivostok are going as far as competing with and destroying some gangs wholesale, which I'm sure the FSB doesn't appreciate. Right now, what we can safely assume is that whatever movement these commanders are trying to accomplish, right now they are looking to acquire capital. Considering that Moscow had effectively threatened to freeze the wages of any unit who didn't return their calls, it was in their interests to make this look like some kind of union dispute and nothing more. Of course, that would all depend on how creative these renegades are towards their goals. Or how ruthless."
There was a knock on the window. Buford saw out of the corner of his eye that it was his assistant. He motioned for her to clear away and wait for the meeting's conclusion when he noticed the shade of her face. "So, I guess we'll take fifteen, we'll reconvene after coffee. Thank you all for staying so late," he stated gracefully as he stepped out and turned to his assistant. "This had better be an emergency," he growled, irritated.
"Delgado is dead," she stated. "And so is Rivera."
"…Explain what we know," Buford replied.
Oskar Antonio Delgado was a rising star of the Sinaloa cartel and one of the CIA's most valuable assets in the region. They had gotten to him early in his career and managed to cut a deal which allowed him to selectively pick off his rivals, allowing him to acquire power for himself while allowing the United States and Mexico to stabilize the region. Agent Hector Rivera, on the other hand, was a more personal loss to Buford. He personally recruited the young man right out of college, the first in his recently emigrated family to have graduated. He had been assigned to Delgado as both handler and bodyguard, a duty he had served with professionalism and distinction up until about two hours ago.
"The police are still picking through the aftermath, but everything we've gathered indicates that the villa was targeted for a robbery," Janice explained, rifling through her haphazardly stacked files. "Some words that keep coming up in the dispatch are "Military precision." About thirty people have been reported killed, about a dozen or so being Delgado's squad of sicarios."
"With poor Hector among them," Buford muttered under his breath. "And none of the perpetrators have been identified?"
"All black-clad. No identifying markings, all cartel acquired weaponry, and the survivor at the villa hasn't given any information yet."
"You're telling me," Buford began, collecting himself, "that some group, without our knowledge, attacked the most secure safehouse in Baja, in the middle of our most feared pet drug lord's turf, and didn't even bleed on their end?"
"None. The operation began and was completed so quickly the perpetrators exfiltrated long before law enforcement arrived."
"And what about our surveillance," Buford fumed. "Please tell us our wonderful fucking tax dollars managed to give us something?"
Janice dug through the files until she came up with some stills taken via satellite. As fortune would have it, Hector had managed to activate a signal right before his untimely demise, allowing the CIA satellite passing overhead to focus on and take several photos of his last position. Largely, it was just an overhead shot of the villa. The only exception being the black van that had crashed through the gates. As Buford processed the scant information Hector had parted with before he died, he felt his blood run cold.
"The police are still trying to put the case together," Janice continued. "Right now they're thinking a rival cartel was responsible. Possibly Los Gammas or maybe the Veracruz cartel?"
"Of course they would," Buford spat. After everything he had just been told, this was just too quick and too thorough to be cartel work. The people who had done this were as vicious as they were efficient when most in that line of work leaned towards one or the other. This wasn't a robbery of happenstance. This was an assassination disguised as a robbery. With Delgado out of the way, his rivals were now free to form that which kept the DEA up at night; a co-op. Mexico was now one step closer towards forming a goddamn narco-state.
"Janice…" Buford started, his previous rage and agitation beginning to subside. "Get Laswell on the line. Tell her I need to speak to some of her associates. She'll know the ones."
"What do you want me to tell her?" Janice asked as Buford slunk back into the conference room.
"Tell her D'yavol just reentered the game."
Alejandro Rojas sat by the gates and fumed. This was the third cigarette he had rolled since sundown, and he didn't even smoke. He listened as his partner just finished fueling up the cargo plane and was going to warm up the engines while he waited for his clients. The ex-Russian was an international smuggler par excellence, having set up shop in Latin America after finding the locales to his liking. His underworld contacts often had him accompany cartel work, so it wasn't unusual for his new name to filter down the channels, nor was it likely for him to turn down jobs from those who paid upfront.
He exhaled and disregarded the burnt remnants of his last stogie and reached for his handgun as two headlights cut through the pre-dawn fog. He let out a sigh of relief as he recognized his rental. Looks like the job went off without a hitch. No cartel reprisals, no police interference, no bigger fish called to attention. Just as promised.
The driver poked his head outside the van. Anatoly usually found himself behind a wheel of some sort, often acting as a scout before missions and getaway driver afterward. The back doors slid open and the twins Lev and Kiril both disembarked, their AA-12s slung over their shoulders next to some duffel bags as they jostled one another, both passing Alejandro without a second thought.
"Where the hell do they think they're going?" the smuggler shouted at Anatoly, who shrugged as the next left the van. Little Viktor stood at around two meters tall, ironically the tallest of the band. His PKM hung behind him as he carried several thick duffle bags in his arms. He allowed one to slide down his arm towards Alejandro, who took it and reviewed its contents. It had a lot of wads of bills in it, practically bursting at the seams. All of a sudden, Alejandro found himself in a good mood. "Have I ever mentioned," Alejandro giggled. "That Ben Franklin is my favorite American president?" Little Viktor just sauntered forward, rolling his eyes as he did.
The remaining two then left the van. Alejandro, still elated with his bonus, approached the two with a smile on his face. "And how was today's hunt gentlem-"
The leader stared him down. "Your intel was off, Rojas. CIA almost had us ambushed."
Alejandro's throat clamped shut. "I… I didn't leak anything, Vladimir!"
"I never said you did. Your source wasn't all she was cut out to be."
"…Rosa…" Alejandro breathed. "…What she…"
The leader produced a diamond-shaped pendant. "If we are compromised, you are forfeit." That was what she was told, it was what she should have remembered," he said as he dropped the pendant into Alejandro's shaking palm. The leader strode away, leaving his lieutenant to watch as Alejandro stared at his late friend's keepsake, his pay all but forgotten. He thought about reaching out to touch his shoulder, thought against it, and left without a word.
He joined up with his commander as he prepared to board the flight. "Maybe we shouldn't have told him," he suggested as his partner prepared to ascend. The commander turned back to glare daggers at his comrade. "We are not his friends. We are his clients. His employee failed to keep her end of the bargain, despite what we paid and knowing full well the consequences."
"…Did she suffer?" the comrade asked, hesitantly.
"No," the commander stated, flatly. "Maybe if I gave her to Kiril, but he was too busy raiding the safe."
"As long as it was kept quick," the lieutenant sighed in relief.
"What about you, Yuri?" the commander asked. "Delgado was your responsibility. Any witnesses?"
Yuri thought back to the young woman screaming in terror as he gunned down her father in front of her. She had thrown herself for her father's gun, her hand crushed under Yuri's boot. Yuri remembered the look she gave him, begging him to pull the trigger, to not be left alone in a land with her father's enemies. He wondered if he'd ever forgive himself for his decision.
"There won't be any further issue," Yuri confessed.
Vladimir Makarov nodded, finally boarding the plane. The plan would take them down south, towards Lima. Afterward, the group would split and go their separate ways, rendezvousing at Makarovs behest and the location of his choosing. It wasn't an easy life, being an international terrorist-for-hire, but Makarov wasn't in this for money. With every job, he inched ever closer to his goal. Soon, Makarov would be the leader of his own destiny. And if he happened to hurt Captain John Price along the way, well, who was he to complain?
OK, here it is, the teaser. If it doesn't interest you, I understand, but if it does, PLEASE let me know. I believe this world is worth exploring, and any justification I can get to further it will go a long way! To answer some questions before they are asked, this is a Makarov of the new 2019 timeline. He is former VDV, ex-Spetsnaz, and has been previously acquainted with Price. Unlike the original timeline, his goal isn't world or regional domination. In this continuity, I like to think of him as like a kind of "anti-Price." While Price goes around looking to put out fires, Makarov is setting them. If you would like to learn more, again, FEEDBACK, PLEASE!
Thank you.
Also, special thanks to Sassy Satsuma for the inspiration and motivation to post this. Seriously, read Caught in the System