LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price 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.

It's been a year. There are so many ways to interpret that sentence! More than a year, actually, the longest I've ever gone without an update. Thanks so much to everyone for your support, and to Lisbet Adair and Sassy Satsuma for helping me get back in the saddle.

MW3 AU. Contains mature language and violence.

x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x

urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com

x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x

It was late. Half the lights were off, most of the patients already settled down for the night. As he slowly shuffled down the corridor to prevent his Nikes from squeaking on the tile, Tim stared hard at the string of unanswered texts on his phone. Anita had always been good about keeping in touch, spotty reception notwithstanding. This wasn't like her, not at all. Neither was venturing out alone. He'd make sure someone was riding shotgun next time, if not him.

For the umpteenth time, he passed the shelves loaded with supplies, arriving at his destination at the far end of the hall. He stuck his head in the doorway of the former closet where, to his ever-increasing irritation, MacTavish still slept soundly. Just as he had been for much of the day, awash in the soft glow of LED screens from the equipment surrounding his bed. The one exception had been when the nurses had finally coaxed him into eating something, though no one could blame his lack of enthusiasm for what he'd been offered as a cautious reintroduction to solid food.

Tim let out an angry sigh, very tempted to rouse him. This was never part of the deal. He should've been gone by now.

He just had to play the hero, didn't he? He could've kept his mouth shut, encouraged them to take their chances with Emergency Services. Anita had never wanted MacTavish here in the first place. She'd been following her instincts. Tim had ignored his. Now she was the one who was missing. No one had seen Price or Nikolai either — not since Price had asked where Anita went.

The screen transformed before Tim's eyes, the phone at his ear before it could vibrate. Only a few steps away, he fought to keep his voice down.

"Helena — what's going on?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Helena replied in her thick Georgia drawl. "I've been texting her for a while now. No answer."

"Yeah." Tim hesitated, torn between worry and feeling stupid. "The police weren't particularly interested."

"The police? Well, they're not going to be interested, not in someone who's been out of pocket for what, five hours?"

"Six."

"Especially not in a mountainous region with plenty of 'dead spots'."

"The lady I spoke to said she'd keep an eye out, but she seemed in a hurry to get off the phone. Something's up. Have you been to the hotel yet?" He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. "Did she even check in?"

"Yep. A couple hours ago, they said. So she's down here somewhere." Tim let out a sigh of relief. "Ready for an epic ass-chewing from her worried friends, I hope. I'm on my way to the bar now."

"All right. Keep me posted, willya?"

"You got it."

Tim resumed his previous pacing, again ending up next to the door with the biohazard warning sign for the patient whose ID bracelet read 'John Joseph' — both his ideas. He rolled his eyes, watching the bedsheets slowly rise and fall in the ghostly electronic illumination, tiny LED pinpoints and scrolling digital readouts piercing the darkness. The sign hadn't done much to deter most of the female nursing staff, even with Eugenie claiming first dibs, since he was officially her assignment. They all had a case of the vapors over Hunky MacTavish.

Anita had at least appeared to remain above the fray. She'd been quick enough to assert herself as his primary physician, rather than letting Tim handle it. He'd thought it was pride, a refusal to be intimidated. At the time, probably. Hell, Price scared the shit out of him. Though Anita could be stubborn enough, Tim wasn't so sure that was still all it was. He'd seen the looks she'd given Price - along with the ones she'd gotten in return.

After only a few minutes, his phone buzzed again. When he pressed it to his ear, he heard sirens in the background. Helena didn't wait for him to speak first.

"Timmy, the place is a shitshow. Cops everywhere, I can't get near it. That racket you're hearing is just about every police car in HP."

He hurried back in the direction of the staff rooms, his shoes squeaking in his haste, while behind him, MacTavish silently watched from the shadows.

-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-

Lightning danced in the distance, the storm's retreat briefly exposing the taxicab's slow upward crawl through pitch darkness, over what was currently a serpentine series of muddy ruts, a mountain road that was daunting enough under dry conditions. The car sank into a particularly deep puddle where it floundered, muddy water fountaining from spinning tires, until its driver rocked the steering wheel back and forth, haltingly coaxing it forward once again.

"They catch up with us here, we're done," said Price from the back seat.

"Price, have you ever driven in Russia in the springtime?" Jerking the wheel slightly, Nikolai squinted into the misty darkness, trying to see further past the weak cone of the car's headlights.

"No."

"Trust me, this is nothing to worry about. Besides, we're not exactly going to outrun anyone in this, even under normal conditions," Nikolai replied to the rearview mirror, his only means of seeing Price. In the dim light from the dashboard, he could just make out the shape of Anita, her head flung back, mouth open, cradled in Price's arms. Neither man commented on the smell of garbage permeating the vehicle. It spoke for itself. "How is she?"

"Still breathing," said Price. As if to further reassure everyone, Anita let out a long snore, which stopped when he jostled her slightly to prop her head up further. It lolled downward against his chest, making her look like she was snuggled into his shoulder. "Going to have one hell of a headache when she wakes up, I expect."

"They're going to think we did this to her."

"Then why would we bring her back?"

Unable to argue Price's point, Nikolai merely shrugged. He was too busy ignoring the jokes forming themselves in the back of his mind, the ones concerning Price's love life and the unconscious woman in the back seat. He'd never seen the man caress anything other than a rifle.

Frowning down at the sleeping face just below his, Price said, "Looks like our time's up, now that we've left our calling card."

"Your calling card, tovarisch."

"Nobody likes a smartarse, Nikolai."

"Soap's not ready to go anywhere just yet," the Russian pilot reminded the mirror.

"They need to get him ready." A female hand slowly wound its way into view, reaching for Price's face. He swatted it aside. "If Makarov's lot is bold enough to try this, then our time here is over. We just confirmed their suspicions, loud and clear. This one won't be too sorry to see us go— " he trailed off with a disgusted sigh as Anita's hand returned to gently stroke his beard.

"Doesn't look that way to me," Nikolai grinned.

Scowling, Price peeled her hand away and let it drop out of sight, as if he'd just removed a leech. "What's the status of our exfil? You never did tell me how you made out earlier."

"Da," Nikolai began hesitantly. "About that…"

Even before he'd stepped aboard the Antonov AN-12 sitting on the deserted runway, Nikolai had barely stopped himself from groaning aloud. Both at the faint outline of the painted-over letters 'CCCP' still visible beneath the hulking cargo plane's new livery, and its ridiculous logo of a shooting star next to the name 'UralStar Logistics' in both English and Russian — no doubt a reference to the meteorite that had struck Chelyabinsk. Appropriate, he supposed, with this model's well-earned reputation for crashing into the Earth with great force.

From the looks of it, this thing might be older than he was. He'd seen newer ones in the boneyard that he'd just helped Price and MacTavish fight their way out of. He was well-versed with the AN-12 along with the Iluyshin IL-76, both favorites of former Afghantsy such as himself who'd found themselves new and far more lucrative careers following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Not because these planes were especially good, but they were readily available and dirt-cheap, especially in the military fire sale of the early years, when one could be had for a mere half-million dollars US.

The residual smell of rotten vegetation mingled with the usual melange of jet fuel, oil, old paint and cracked vinyl offered the strong suggestion of recent contraband. A smugglers' trick employed to literally put potential inspectors off the scent. He'd done it himself.

Morsh, the fellow Loyalist who'd driven him over an hour to see this wreck, strode expansively over the stained plywood floor, arms held wide for effect as he spun around like he was offering up a cushy Gulfstream, the stub of a cigarette in his hand creating a halo of smoke. "She's all yours," he said in Russian.

"You've got to be fucking kidding," was all Nikolai could manage, mostly under his breath at the sight of not the usual one, but three small sepia-toned portraits of saints taped to the bulkhead behind the cockpit. Not a good sign regarding anyone's level of confidence in this beast.

" …On one condition."

Nikolai froze. "And just what the fuck is that?"

"Oh that's just brilliant, isn't it?" Price snarled.

"I knew you'd understand," Nikolai replied dryly.

"He's the last damn thing we need — oof!" Price's eyes bulged as he doubled over. "Not that, woman!" An unseen disturbance erupted behind Nikolai. "Keep your bloody hands to yourself!"

That seemed to have an effect, since things in the back seat quieted almost immediately. After a taking few minutes to compose himself, Price finally said "Right, he's your problem, then."

"He's everyone's problem," Nikolai scoffed. "What would you have me do?"

The angry silence marched on, in step with the car's slow progress. Nikolai would've much preferred that to what happened next.

With a long sniff, Anita's face slowly rose into view. She scrubbed a hand over her eyes, blinking, her hair a crown of frizzy chaos. "Hmm…?" Her sleepy expression crumpled. "What's that smell?" She plucked at her clothing for an exploratory whiff, scowling, just as she discovered Price's face a few inches from her own. She recoiled in disgust, flattening herself against the door. "What the hell are you doing here?" She looked around frantically, her voice rising in panic. "What the hell am I doing here? Where's here? Nikolai? What the fuck is this?" She stopped just as suddenly, with a telltale look of dread. "Oh … I don't feel so good."

The taxi's headlights waved wildly back and forth in the darkness, the car spraying mud and gravel as it fishtailed to a sudden halt.

-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-

Well shit, Tim thought, sitting at the conference table where he'd given Anita yesterday's news about the Red Notice. His suspicions about the police being preoccupied had just been confirmed. No wonder they didn't want to deal with me. He'd been spinning back in forth in the chair, clicking his pen, seething. Waiting for Arvind, the bartender, to call and tell him just what the hell was going on. To tell him anything at all. He played with his phone for a while. He'd read the Red Notice over and over, as if he could glean some new nugget of information about Price and MacTavish. Nothing new, just a deepening regret at having brought them here.

Blinking away the eyestrain, he switched to throwing wadded-up pieces of paper at the smiling young faces of an HPV vaccination poster, as the next 15 minutes proceeded to feel like 15 years. Finally, Arvind called.

"Okay, so what the fuck?" Tim asked.

"Alright mate, here's what the fuck," came the reply, an odd marriage of South Asia and East London. "Car fire in the alley behind our place, a gunfight, and a dead guy."

"What?"

"Yeah. Some Russian Gopnik type. Had an Uzi, he did, and someone took great exception to that. Two in the back, one in the face. Professional, they say— "

Tim raised a hand to the empty conference room. "Arvind, have you seen Anita?"

"Yeah."

Tim's heart did a backflip. But the sudden swell of hope quickly turned to frustration and anger at their favorite bartender's suggestion that she'd left to attend a nearby after-hours psy trance party with a strange woman she'd apparently become enamored with. As if. The call ended with the promise of another as soon as Arvind found out anything else.

Tim proceeded to relay all this to Helena, who was as mystified as he was. Both took some comfort at the news that Anita had been seen less than an hour before, tying one on. The rest made no sense. He picked up his phone again, where the Red Notice had earned its very own browser tab. Professional. He looked into the two sets of cold eyes. These motherfuckers fit that description.

If she was enamored with anyone … he stopped himself mid-thought. It was an insult to someone he considered a friend. Maybe 'fascinated' was a better word — with someone who was also currently missing.

One thing was for sure: it was even more coincidental how once these guys showed up, all sorts of shit began to go sideways, starting with the two private and obviously foreign militias having a shoot-em-up one town over. Then there was the dead Russian doctor. His killers had tossed his backpack not far from the body. Police had reported it to be full of medical supplies, with even the narcotics left untouched. Clearly not a robbery, and he'd been on his way to see a patient — on the same day Price's just-happens-to-be-another-Russian friend Nikolai had tracked down Anita, for someone very much in need of her help.

The phone began buzzing its way across the table. Arvind. Tim snatched it up.

"Alright, listen," said Arvind. "Just spoke to my mate from the restaurant next door— "

"Yeah?" Tim interrupted.

"He'd gone out back for a smoke, saw someone fitting Anita's description. Said she could barely stand." Tim's stomach dropped. "She was with that blond bird I'd seen her with earlier, and the Russian guy with the Uzi. They both pointed their guns at 'im. Didn't have to tell him twice. No sooner had he shut the door again, then the sound of gunfire sent him diving for cover. He heard more male voices, more gunfire. Next thing he knew, the coppers were there banging away, telling him to open up." Tim almost allowed himself a sigh of relief. "Oh — and someone else maybe got shot too. There was a blood trail nearby, ended suddenly. Whoever it was, they legged it."

Tim's chest was pounding. After all the desparate waiting for Arvind to call, now he couldn't wait to hang up on him. Tapping the phone's keypad, he cycled through his recents and hit redial for the police.

This had gone far enough.

"Hello … yes, we spoke earlier, concerning the missing doctor from H3? I've since learned about the shooting this evening, I understand that she may have been spotted at the scene? Okay — I understand, but — just wait a minute — please."

He reached behind to quietly shut the door. She could be pissed at him later. There was only one way to finally get them to listen.

"There's something else you should know… "

-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-

After successfully avoiding the situation for years, Anita had finally gone there.

In the smallest hours of the morning, Nikolai had assisted her walk of shame into the waiting arms and exam room of her coworkers. Though they'd finally relented and let her retreat to her own living quarters, they'd been by several times to check on her. Hours later, she still lay sprawled on the sofa with her feet up, wishing she could disappear beneath what had been, at one point, a bag of frozen okra. It wasn't like they had any damned ice to soothe her throbbing head. It was still enough to block out most of the hateful daylight stabbing into her small window, trying to drill into her brain. Any attempt to move made her feel seasick. This was easily the worst hangover she'd ever experienced, which was saying something. Unable to sleep or stay fully awake, with nothing to do but marinate in her own dissipating alcoholic fumes and humiliation. If anyone had predicted that she'd have an evening starting with a few drinks and ending with a burly British commando tugging on her hair, she might've told them not to threaten her with a good time. One she could barely remember, and that part she desperately wanted to forget.

The shelter of the okra bag obscured her vision enough to allow the sight of her feet on the armrest in front of her, but not much else. It was about all the stimulation she could currently tolerate, like the in-flight movie that you stared at but didn't actually watch once you'd lost track of what time zone you were supposed to be in. The embroidered message on her socks was designed only to be seen when her scrub pants rode up above her ankle while sitting: This meeting is BULLSHIT. Bullshit indeed.

Doctors made some of the worst patients, it was true, and that was without being treated by your own. When your fellow caregivers became your caregiver, it was something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, you know them, she reflected. On the other hand, you know them. But what's a little blood and piss between friends?

Tim's familiar knock came a split second before the door opened a crack, then admitted the rest of him. He settled into the plastic chair opposite her, the same kind as in the waiting room, squirming uncomfortably. "I hope you feel better than you look."

"Thanks," Anita mumbled from beneath the bag.

"You know, I gotta say, I'm pretty disappointed."

His voice sounded tense, Anita thought. He had every right to be pissed off, though. "Do tell."

"You went to a rave without me?"

"Ohh… " The moment she'd been dreading had finally arrived, causing Anita to blow an accidental raspberry into the plastic covering her face. "For fuck's sake."

"Whatever got into you, we didn't have the capacity to detect, other than a slight hit for benzos. Lab just called. Rophynol, GHB, a dash of Ketamine. No wonder you don't remember much."

"Jesus Christ," Anita groaned. Just the kind of results that were her employer's business as much as her own.

"Helena called me. After not hearing from you, she'd gone to the bar only to find it surrounded by police and you gone. Arvind said you'd left with some other lady — hey, not judging — and that you looked like you were having a great time. Maybe a little too good, you were a bit unsteady on your feet, which surprised him — said you didn't drink that much. He heard her say she was calling you a taxi to take you back to your hotel, which sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. Except right after that, there was an incident outside. They found some Russian dude in the alley behind the bar, shot dead. Looked liked some sort of gangland shit. Meanwhile, you were completely MIA. We feared the worst, but a couple hours later, a taxi pulls up here. You remember at least that part, right?"

"Yeah… "

"You're sure you're … you're OK?"

"Yep," Anita said tersely. She'd been glad that Eugenie had been the one to ask all the truly personal questions. There was another knock at the door, sharp and unfamiliar. "Yeah?" Anita said, glad for the distraction.

Price was the last person she'd expected to see. "A word," he said, addressing them both. Without asking, he stepped inside and shut the door. "It's about your patient. You said you'd prefer that we left as soon as he's able. So is he?"

"Not right this minute," said Tim. "But I could make that happen."

"Do it." He paused awkwardly at Tim's raised eyebrows, clearly used to making orders rather than requests. "If you could, please. It's high time we were going, wouldn't you agree?"

Tim was already rising from his chair. "Yeah — okay. I'll go see him right now."

Watching him leave, Anita marveled at how quickly he'd done so the minute Price had showed up. After his previous macho posturing, was that all it took for Tim to leave her alone with this guy? Yes, they were all in agreement here, but… Though he said nothing, Price seemed to share her opinion, giving the closed door a pointed look. He lowered himself into the newly-vacated seat before making it clear that he'd overheard part of their conversation. While the chair was a bit too small for him, the way he took command of this wobbly piece of shit - bolt upright, feet rooted to the floor, arms draped over thin white plastic - suggested this wasn't going to be a friendly chat. More like he was granting her an audience.

"So what do you remember?"

"Some Russian headbanger guy sat down at my table, told me to go back to my hotel room."

A curt nod. "But you didn't."

"I — " Heat flooded Anita's face. Who the hell did he think he was? Who was he to judge anyone? Including her, in all of her current yoga pants-and-faded-tshirt braless splendor? "I was on my way. Finishing my drink at the bar." She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Saw some outrageous story in the paper, saying someone nuked the ISS."

His gaze flicked aside thoughtfully, his expression otherwise unreadable. "So that's what they're saying, are they? He refocused on her. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Just … talking to this Romanian lady I met at the bar, she had a hell of a story."

"She can spin quite the yarn, can't she?" Price asked dryly. "You just had a run-in with 'Auntie Natasha'. Not everyone lives to tell about it. Especially not when it involves a van and a dark alley."

A chill washed over Anita. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the rest. "She said her name was Dana."

He lifted his chin, correcting her. "Daniela. She's no more Romanian than I am. Czech mother, Russian national. One of Makarov's girls."

Gooseflesh prickled her forearms. "Makarov? Wait — Vladimir Makarov?"

"The very same. Not the only middle-aged woman doing his dirty work, mind. They have a unique power, one most desirable for an assassin." Peeking out from beneath the edge of the bag, she caught the fleeting hint of a wry smile. "To be underestimated is to be invisible, and who's more underestimated than the starookha?" Ask any actress — once the years start to catch up with her, but not enough to bestow the rank of grand dame, no one pays her any mind." Anita dragged the mushy, lukewarm bag from her face to shoot him a look he'd clearly been expecting. He lifted an eyebrow. "That's a quote, by the way."

She set the bag aside, finally giving up on it. "He's not wrong, though."

"At least three countries have a kill/capture order out on her. His lads joke about it, came up with the whole tyotenka nickname, though none of 'em will say it to her face. People assume it's just someone's aunt, someone's gran chatting them up. Then they have a way of winding up dead."

Scarcely able to believe what she was hearing, or the level of her own stupidity, Anita took some deep breaths. But how could she have ever suspected that this lady who spoke almost perfect, American-accented English would be slipping her date rape drugs?

"Nasty customer, that one. Quite skilled with drugs, poisons, chemical agents of all sorts. Radiologics too. Not someone you'd want to have a drink with. Good job she wanted to talk to you first, or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Anita had a scattering of bruises she couldn't explain. She pulled up her sleeve for another look at the ones on her left arm, now obviously fingermarks. Her mind wasn't the only thing that reeled.

"Shall I get you a bucket?" Without waiting for an answer, Price rose to retrieve the one sitting in the corner, removing the mummified mop within. Plunking it down beside her, he returned to his seat, folding himself back into his exact same position and cool, measured stare.

An astute observation. She gulped a couple more deep lungfuls of air, determined not to give him the satisfaction of using it. "Was this what happened to the man they found in the woods?" she asked, fearing the answer.

His gray eyes narrowed slightly, as if he hadn't liked the question. "Who knows. She could've been involved at some point, but that body wasn't her style. She's more the 'here today, you're gone tomorrow' sort. Or at least on your way out." He held up a hand, staving off Anita's wide-eyed reaction. "If that had been her goal, you'd no longer be able to speak."

"Why m— " She stopped mid-sentence, as it hit her. "It's because of you isn't it? They're the ones after you and other John. How did they figure out to go after me? I haven't been down there since the day you both came up with us."

Price shrugged. "Someone heard or saw something, process of elimination … your lot doesn't exactly make it difficult for a tail. Doesn't matter. What does is making our exit, as quickly as possible. Until then, you need to stay put. You can't go back down there for a while, at least not until we're long gone."

"And then what? How long is that?"

"They'll lose interest eventually."

"Oh, that's just fucking great, thanks."

His eyebrows shot up. "Are you missing us already?"

"No!"

"Right, then." He rose in one smooth pivot like a figure skater rising from the ice, forcing Anita to block out the spandex-clad mental images that followed. He paused, his hand on the doorframe. "I must admit, that was impressive," he began, quickly clarifying himself in response to her sharp look. "The work you did on S— on other John. I realize us darkening your doorstep was something you could've really done without."

She sighed. "It was the right thing, bringing him here. He thought he was dying, you know. When people think that, they're usually correct."

For a moment, his steady gaze held no sarcasm, no judgment. Only the weariness of knowing exactly what she meant. He nodded. "Couldn't have asked for better. You did right by us, now we need to return the favor, by f—" He took a breath, someone not used to stumbling over his words. "By getting the hell out of here. Now keep your nose out of that phone and your head on a swivel."

"W-what?" She followed his glance at the iPhone lying beside her.

"Take care of yourself, love." Before Anita could even register what had happened, he was gone.

The phone vibrated on the cushion next to her, her chest tightening in response to the text message from her Director: Come see me in my office, please.