Chapter Text
I closed my eyes as nicotine rushed into my lungs, the cold wind removing the last echoes of bullets whistling through the air and taking life indefinitely.It was a dance of death, with the beat of dropping bodies to the ground and the choir of screams of the damned soldiers roaring useless reform commands.There was no escape, no way to run with the hyenas closing in, ripping into flesh and licking up every drop of blood while crackling hoarsely. No more reforming; no more fixing stupid blunders; no mercy on the field with traumatised boys fighting for survival. Loyalty was nothing more than aligning interests, and it was easily broken by unexpected twists of events.Betrayal was a part of life, trust for the weak, and a sure sign of death, which is why I didn't expect anyone to come looking for me.There would be no angel descending from the sky to pull me out of this hell hole, and certainly not a soldier from my unit.
We all signed a treaty that was nothing more than a suicide note, chaining us up like a marionette that could be used, a weapon without human qualities such as mercy. There was no need for that; too much humanity kept you from pulling the trigger and kept you from being useful, and tools without use got disposed of. Tools without a name, without an identity Tools that were lifeless and had died
At times like these, I was grateful for everything. For every stab, every bullet that has ever pierced my flesh, for every time they have set my lungs on fire with endless buckets of water slamming down on me, I am grateful.The memories of pain and suffering kept me alive, seemingly screaming at me to get up because I have had so much worse; this was nothing. The scars made me hard, made me forget what the meaning of pain really was, and left me with a weapon without faults, a weapon that could keep going until their legs gave out. Until the body failed and the mission ended, but not this mission.It was nothing more than an assassination; our opponents weren’t terrorists, and they weren’t high-ups like the man who had hired us weeks ago. NO ur opponents were soldiers, men that fought for what they believed was right and agitated by the betrayal bestowed upon them. They were too human to kill a monster like me. Only monsters could kill monsters.
With a soundless huff getting caught in the mask hiding my face, I forced my
body to flick away my last cigarette and roll over. Blood and dirt clung to my black tactical gear, rustling as I crawled back from the death bed, reaching to the sky as I emerged as a nocturnal shadow inside the building. The corpses of my fallen comrades, nothing more than dishonoured and discharged soldiers, lay around me, empty eyes staring into nothing. Death was a part of life, especially when you emptied bullets like breathing—when your hand moved erratically and forgotten rage took over.They were young—too young to end up like this, but I wasn’t promised a long life either. Not when we have been sent to our deaths again, left behind as the survivors fled, regrouping before coming back to start the cycle all over. There was no one boxing me out of this, no one to stop the advancing men from systematically securing the building and creeping closer by the second.
They were quiet and unnoticeable, and I was able to recognise well-trained and deadly men when I encountered them. Of course, I admired Task Force 141; this was not a personal attack; on the contrary, they were on the job, on a mission.Just as we were their mission, tomorrow they would have a different job and kill different people for what they called justice, necessity, or whatever. However, acknowledging their skill did not imply that I would roll over and die; I was not a newbie, weak, or a member of the "Death squad" for no reason.I knew they were quick, well-organized, and well-trained in combat because I had heard the rumors.They heard whispers of a walking dead man taking down people like a fatal brush of air, and they said he was a beast with a skull mask. The grim reaper himself kept a close eye on a team led by John Price.I've read the files, his incredible career as he miraculously led his team through every trap set for them; every obstacle was pushed back as if it were nothing, and as Graves fell, it was clear that these guys were a problem.a very persistent problem, refusing to back down and pursuing those who had crossed them.That was why the shepherd was so afraid of them and sent us after them. He was afraid that he would be next, after Graves, after Hassan, after every powerful man that had fallen to his knees before them.
Too late did I realise that they worked like clockwork together, one man covering the back of another, building a wall with a machine that we did not have. The "death quad" was not a timepiece; it was a haven for angry and narcissistic psychopaths who had been kicked out of the military for unethical behaviour and unspeakable crimes, only to end up in the hands of men who knew how to channel and gather rage.They put wild animals together and send them after problems like bloodhounds, allowing them to savagely pound around, carelessly killing and destroying everything around them to get to their prey. There was communication but no regard for the men walking next to you, and that was our weakness. Those fucking bastards
I scoffed at the corpses of the men that had come in with me and grabbed my abandoned machine pistol that had been ripped from me as a bullet had entered my shoulder. Only thanks to me sensing the incoming bullet and finding cover under the broken window did I avoid a clean headshot.
My dominant shoulder throbbed, but ignoring the gripping pain was easy as I lifted the weapon and aimed at the door leading into the hallway. There was no use in trying to kill them all alone; I was most likely the only one still alive in this building and would not risk getting gunned down because of my ego. The only objective was to escape and retreat into the woods nearby to find cover and possible transportation options.
The dark corridors were quiet as I made my way through the darkness on high alert. My finger on the trigger twitched every time I rounded a corner and expected an ambush, but I was only treated with mocking quietness. The blood loss was bad news and meant that I had only so much time before my movements would lose strength and my vision would become sluggish. My nerves were tingling, and I came to a halt as I looked to the large intersection of two intersecting corridors, where I heard faint shuffling of feet.They were here. Simply breaking out in a sprint would be my demise; there was no cover at the junction, and a bullet would find me immediately.I glanced around, searching for a window I could leap out of. This was the first floor; a drop from this height wouldn’t be too dramatic, and if I managed to land well, it would be almost an ideal way of gaining time and distance.
My thoughts were interrupted as hell broke loose and fire was opened. Out of reflex, I dodged the bullets and slid into the nearest room, shutting the door audibly and barricading it with the nearest furniture. It took less than five seconds before heavy footsteps stopped outside the door, but I had no time to pay them any attention as I rushed to the window, which was still intact. The base seemed peaceful in the moonlight and would provide me with enough cover, but it seemed too obvious, as I realised as I gripped my weapon harder, turned it around, and broke the glass with it. They'd look for me right away, and they'd have an advantage because I suspected most of them were uninjured and fit, and could run much faster than me.They would circle and kill me after a few minutes, blocking the entrances and exits and closing in on me as if they were catching a feral animal. Then it's not the window.The sound of glass breaking had been loud, too loud to go unnoticed, and it gave me a time bonus. They suspected I was going that way and would follow me, giving me enough time to hide or flee.
I turned around, eyes wandering frantically through the room, looking for a good hiding place, before finding a midsized vent right below the ceiling. The oldest trick in history would still work. The most likely scenario was that they did not think highly of us or of me, most likely believing that we were just another lesser-known quad looking for trouble, hintan, perhaps, or terrorists, and thus impulsive and less rational.For them, it was unimaginable that I would grip one of my knives and take out the screws while the door was breaking with every powerful kick. My breathing was even and my hands were steady as I finally ripped the vent from the wall and immediately began to ease myself into the tiny space. It was dark and small, and I was able to feel how the walls were pressing in on me. Old memories of being locked into darkness, with concrete and stone squishing me and burrowing me alive, eased back into my mind. Without having control over it, my breathing began to get more irregular, and my hands were shaking in my gloves as I grabbed the vent and pulled it shut with care. I was too caught up to stay in my right mind and not give in to the panic and the desire to scream and scratch at my throat to pay much attention to the door that gave in. As three men rushed in, weapons drawn, securing the room in a perfect triangle, one of them dashed to the window.
"Tango downstairs. He jumped out of the window on the north side." Moonlight illuminated the pale skull, and a shiver shook my body as I made out the man from the scare stories, his British accent heavy and nothing but a growl as he barked the information into his coms.
"He is one man, nothing to worry about, LT," a second man lowered his weapon and joined the brute at the window, chuckling at him before turning around to the remaining soldier at the door, "hardly the first time someone opened fire at us during a mission."
"Have you seen their tags?" the infamous Ghost inquired, turning his head and nodding towards the bodies in the corridor.
"Nope," shrugged the man with the mohawk, rolling his stiff shoulders, "but I guess they were a gift from Sheperd, that bastard."
"I thought they were nothing more than a scary story for kids," admitted the third man, who, like his two teammates, had a British accent and seemed to understand what the masked man was saying.„You know? Like the boogeyman“
"They are not," Ghost stated, reaching for his coms once more, lowering his head to the tiny device, "the dead men are here."
For a while, there seemed to be silence on the other side, as the three men just looked at each other, clearly waiting for an answer or perhaps an order. Their silence meant that I had enough time to hear my own shallow breathing in the small space, I could feel how blood left my body in a steady flow, forming a puddle below me. Life was flowing out of me, and even though I was considered dead already, I had no desire to die again, to be freed from hell once again. I found it quite comfortable in hell, actually.
My own communications were not working anymore, pierced by the bullet and crushed by the fall, and even if they had worked, there would have been no answer. Something like bitterness burned in me, distracted me from my bubbling anxiety and fear, and kept me grounded. There was no space for that—for me to lose my nerve and become a slave to my emotions. Turn it off, my head said as I clenched my teeth and forced my mind to stay focused on the enemy in the room.
Unable to hear the answer that finally came, I could only guess what it was as the guy with the mohawk exclaimed, "Roger!" and made his way to the door, while Ghost looked out of the window one last time before wordlessly jumping out. The other two left through the door, weapons raised anew, quietly stalking their way through the dark corridors once again. I waited a few heartbeats to be sure that they were gone, but not too long, knowing that they would be back the moment they realised that I tricked them. It took me a moment to move, to find the strength to push against the vent and slowly lower it to the ground, muscles straining from overstimulation as I felt strength leave my body with the second.There was not much time left, and my environment was nothing more than blurred shadows, as I helplessly blinked and pushed myself out of the tiny space. The second my weight rested on my arms, they gave in and folded at the elbow, leaving me to crush into the ground and huff in annoyance. How pitiful was I really looking right now?
A new thought presented itself as I struggled to get back on my feet, grabbing the doorway. They knew? They have heard of the tag and seen the symbol of a group so far off the radar that they only had a single cross and a name: "The dead men." We weren’t in need of any more; our squad was shameful, people were disgusted by the monsters in it, and it was we who were called in on unofficial missions. There were days when I wondered how I ended up in there, how I went from being a member of the GSG to being a dead man walking this world like a phantom, only taking physical form to take a life. I liked to pass on the responsibility and the guilt to people that I had trusted and that had betrayed me, but in the end, the fault was with me. Trust had no place in this type of field, and I had been too naive, too fucking stupid, and had paid the price.And now all I had left was anger; it fueled me and gave me the strength to stand up and walk forward. I wasn't done yet; I still lacked the satisfying afterburn of the vibration that shook you to your core when you pulled the trigger, and I lacked the memory of pushing my knife into a pale neck and seeing how the life vanished from the men who had taken mine.
My feet felt heavy as I prowled through the jumbled hallways, stopping every 5 metres to listen for approaching footsteps, but there were none.There was no way that they had just left for good, leaving me alive after apparently realising who was hunting them and who set up the trap. Honestly, I felt like there was information missing; no one had told us that they knew who we were, had intel on top-secret information that was nothing more than a death sentence, and apparently help was coming from the outside or inside, depending on how you drew the circle. After a few minutes of shooting at them and slowly pushing them back, they have twitched their tactics, completely changed their formation, and pushed back as if they knew how to handle guerilla warfare. This whole mission was just a fucking mess, and I swore to God that when I got back, I would drink a fine vodka and buy the finest cigarettes I could find.
The entrance was also deserted, with no one behind the door and no one waiting in the shadows of the entrance to jump out at the appropriate moment. At least that’s what I thought before I saw the shadow of a figure pressing against the rough outer walls of the building, waiting directly next to the door I was about to step out of. What a beginner mistake. My lips pulled up into a humourless smile as I kicked a small stone through the door. As the riffle of a machine gun crept around the corner, this movement was a perfect bait. Without whining about my throbbing shoulder, I put my weight on my left leg and delivered a hard kick to the gun, sending it flying and the owner stumbling with surprise. I used the moment of true confusion to step out of the building, grab the soldier by his vest, and haul him against the brick wall behind him, crushing his skull into the hard stone. A low groan left his mouth as his hands flew up to claw at my shoulders and neck as he tried to push me off but was too affected by the impact of the wall. I got a good look at his face and realised how young he was; his skin was tanned and his cheeks looked round and lively; he didn't have a crooked nose like mine or a nasty scar on his face, just dust and dirt. Nevertheless, I pulled him off the wall just to crash him back again, kicking his feet apart and delivering a harsh blow to his stomach, sending him tumbling over. He went down, and I was breathing heavily, standing above him, bleeding and feral, and my fingers twitched as I had the urge to draw my gun and end it. Why wouldn’t I? The war ended with one less person to worry about. He would have gunned me down as well, leaving me to rot, but still. Something made me hesitate; he was almost knocked out, blindly crawling on the ground, looking for his weapon. Maybe it was that he reminded me of someone that had left me behind a long time ago, maybe because I respected him enough to not slaughter him like an animal. It took a lot of talent and skill to join a task force like 141 at that age, and he seemed to be what I had tried to be, only that he had succeeded and I had failed.
A breathless curse left my lips as I kicked him in the head and watched as he dropped unconsciously to the ground. I crouched next to him and rolled him on his back, taking his coms and pressing them into my own ear to get an idea of where they were. I knew this act of kindness would come back to bite me, but I didn't let myself dwell on it for too long as I grabbed his weapon and checked the magazine. He didn't have much ammunition left, but neither did I, so I took it and left him behind. Someone would find him; from what I heard and saw of them, someone would come for him, looking for him; they had fought like they would take bullets for each other before, and I was sure this wouldn’t have stopped during the firefight. My heart was beating hard as I rushed alongside walls and cover, never staying in one place for too long. The line didn’t stay silent for long as unknown voices documented their location and where they were moving. The unfamiliar banter was even quite amusing, and I found that I liked the guy named "Soap" who was entertaining the troop with his personality.
"Going north, next to the front gates,"
I turned left and went west.
"Nothing in the garage, I'm going to the doctor."
As I heard hurried steps jogging by, I skipped the medical building and crouched down next to the Jeeps, "Gaz, how do I copy?""You found something?"
There was silence that followed, and it dawned on me that the young lad I had stolen the weapon and ammunition from must be named Gaz. This thought was only proven right as another voice clipped in with more urgency, "Gaz, this is Price; how do you copy?"
I could hear rustling over the channel and basically feel the panic that had erupted and left them slightly less , chaotic, and impulsive enough that I could see how they left the stations to rush away.
I eyed the now open gateway, which was only blocked by a barrier that had to be opened manually in the little shack with the controls for the gate directly next to it. The man who had rushed away was long gone, and I only continued listening to the snippets of information halfheartedly as I sneaked into the small space and looked for the correct button to press.
"Moving in on the main entrance, Ghost, stay back and provide cover."
„Yes, sir"
My gaze was drawn to one of our jeeps, and I cursed as I realised I was no longer the owner of one of the keys, which I had carelessly thrown at the new guy upon our arrival.But it wouldn't change a thing. My vision blacked out for a split second as I stepped out, my left arm reaching out into nothing to find something to hold onto but being disappointed.
"He is steady," the voice said, relieved, and it told me that they had found their missing man, "knocked out. Gun and Com have gone missing."
That shortened my remaining time a lot. It was the cue I needed to blink back the nauseous feeling and jog to one of the jeeps, gripping the weapon tighter and breaking the glass with the sharp end of the gun, like I did with the window. With practised movements, the door clicked open not much later and let me in.
"He is listening," someone stated bitterly.
"Aye, for some time now, LT," answered Soap.
I almost froze as I gripped the cables under the wheel and searched for the right one to cut. Yes, I had been listening, and that had allowed me to escape, to avoid them and sneak around them, and they knew; not much later, silence followed. They stopped talking, most likely communicating with hand signs.
I groaned and sent sparks flying as I connected the two cables, trying to get the motor running. I needed more time—just a few seconds—and decided that my best option would be to find a good distraction, which left them to freeze for just the blink of an eye. I pressed the button and activated the small microphone.
"Isn’t it really nice of me to leave him like that?" I laughed quietly and knew that technically I was right. "No "Thank you," nothing at all?"
"The missing dead man," a voice answered me, and I suspected that it was their commanding officer. "I can't remember that you lads were that lively."
"Just me, sir," sparks flew as I tried to start the car again, "Nice accent."
"We got a good one," Soap said in my ear.
I grinned as the car finally got the energy it needed and started up with a nice growl of the engine.
"Honor to meet you, boys," I admitted, ignoring the stabbing pain in my shoulder as I gripped the steering wheel and stamped on the gas. They did not reply to me and I accepted it with a roll of my eyes.
I heard cursing and glanced at the side mirror, seeing the skull-masked man sprinting from one of the buildings, but he soon realised that I was moving too fast for him to catch me on foot. Ghost changed the direction and instead ran to one of the jeeps, and I rolled my eyes as I accelerated faster. No, I refused to be captured or killed after escaping so smoothly. It would take him some time to get into the Jeep and turn on the engine. That time was enough to make my escape and get as far away as possible from here.
It was something to survive an encounter with 141, and to be injured while taking one of them down. I knew that I was good, I always have been, but that did not matter on the field. No matter how good you were, someone was always better, if not better in combat, then better armed. Gaz, as they called the boy, was taken aback by me, and everyone underestimated me because of how easily my comrades were defeated. Which was a rookie mistake or an indication that they have felt superior, because they knew something we didn’t or because they were sure of a victory. The question was where their confidence had come from.
This mission had felt off from the start, and the delayed communication between us and the stations further north over the past few weeks seemed like sabotage now. On the other hand, why would someone sabotage us? What was the reason? Why would someone send us after 141 and then keep them alive by making us fail? In the end, it didn't matter, which did nothing to ease the rage in me. How dare they betray us? Betray me? Again? When all they did was sitting in their offices and giving orders to good men, sending them to their graves because of their own cowardices. I would have the culprits head, that much was clear, but first I had to figure out how to get out of this mess.
Loyalty had pushed me into a grave; I obeyed orders because the money would have gone to other bad guys if I hadn't. And I wasn’t the worst guy out there. I was just someone who did what he had to do. Not saying that I wasn't enjoying the rush of adrenaline, the high of fighting for my life. There came a point in men's lives when taking felt like breathing and gunpowder felt like cocaine. Even now, bleeding and brushed, I let out a satisfied huff, engulfing the pain and feeding my wrath.
I ripped out the earpiece with one hand and threw it out the window in one swift movement, taking a look at the dark trees of Hungary. They reminded me of home, of laughter and soft eyes, of Christmas with people long gone and long forgotten. Faces I could barely remember, eyes that had vanished from my memories—I allowed myself a second to mourn. I never allowed myself to mourn because I refused to be broken by guilt and sadness; dead men did not feel that. After death, there was no place for sentiments like sadness, regret, and guilt; only anger and rage allowed me to come back as a demon, haunting my killer.
Valerie Koroljow was dead; all that’s left is Besomar. A name given to me years before, one of many but the only one that stuck with me, and I couldn't care less what they called me.
There were some people who lost everything and turned bad. There were some people who lost everything and turned good. I was neither good nor bad to anyone, but I was fair to everyone.Following morals and ethics in a world where those principles did not exist was suicide; it was as if you were setting yourself up to fail. Who defines good and evil? Why did it matter?
My train of thoughts was stopped when I noticed a set of bright headlights next to me, rushing at me with way too much speed. A frustrated scream left my chapped lips as the impact hit me, the car screaming as it was deformed by the Jeep that collided with the side of the car. The steering wheel seemed to throw my hands out the window as the tiles were pushed over the dirty ground, uselessly steering in the opposite direction. I blinked and looked directly at two terrifying orbs that portrayed almost the same rage I felt in me, ignoring how the bright light burned my eyes. Ghost seemed way less affected than me and sat motionless at the steering wheel, while the guy next to him seemed way more concerned. I could hear him scream as he gripped at everything he could, pulling at the tactical gear of the masked men.
The car was roughly stopped by a tree, shaking the Jeep so hard that my head collided with the steering wheel first and then with the door. Darkness overwhelmed me for a moment, blocking out all the noises and letting me drift into nothingness before I was pulled back once again. I gasped and jerked awake, opening my eyes and taking in the loud steam of air and gas that emerged from the deformed front of the Jeep. As the car next to me reversed, creating the space I needed to force open the driver's door, I dropped to the ground immediately after rolling out the destroyed car.Everything was swimming, my limps were not ready to take orders from me, and all I could do was scramble to my knees, head hanging low. My weapon lay somewhere in the Jeep, thrown around by the fall, which is why I grabbed the knife from my leg. It felt suffocating under my mask; the air was too hot and not enough; my hair was wet from sweat and blood; and I suspected a concussion. Blindly, I reached for the dark mask and ripped it off, immediately taking in the fresh night air as it rushed into my lungs and allowed me to breathe. I shook my head to chase the nauseous feeling away as I picked up hurried steps in combat boots.
They were fast, those bastards. Apparently, they were affected much less by their funny little manoeuvre than I was. The headlights of their Jeep were blinding me, and I felt like this was the end, as if heaven had opened up before me to welcome me in. I had always expected to go out with a bang, on the battlefield, in action, falling for my country, my comrades, and the people that could not fight for themselves, but here we were. Who would have thought that I would die as a phantom, quietly and alone, with no one to remember?
Nevertheless, I wouldn’t leave without a fight, without a last attempt to cheat death once again. I sneered as I heard one of them stop to point a gun at me, judging by the little sound of the safety being turned off, but the second one stepped closer. Heat radiated from his hand that aimed to turn me around to look at me before they would kill me—or maybe choke me to death with his bare hands, who knew? I didn’t want to know, so I let myself fall to the ground, rolling around and closing my legs around the ankles of the guy. I brought him down effectively with a grunt and rushed to sit down on his waist as I raised the knife and aimed for his neck. It was really pathetic, slow, and far from my best. I swayed, unable to keep my balance, and I knew that the trembling of my arm was evident.
I stared directly into his blue eyes, calm and trusting, rage slowly drawing back into the deepest corner of his heart as a hard hand enclosed my raised wrist and stopped me from taking Ghost with me. It disgusted me that the guy behind me had earned the title of "trusting friend," because that was exactly what he was to Ghost.I had looked at people in the same way, but instead of saving me, they had stabbed me, and I roared in frustration.
My bones ached as I was pushed onto my back and my windpipe was crushed by an unforgiving grip on my neck.A kick to my hand disarmed me, and stones pressed into my back, flooding my senses and causing my vision to go white.
"Target done," the man with the mohawk confirmed as he stepped on my wrist and crouched above me, immobilising me effectively. I was tired to the bones and did not start a useless attempt to free myself as I starred at him and waited for death.
I saw a flash of something in the exposed face of the guy above me as he took me in, roaming his eyes over my face. The pressure on me eased as he shifted to take a bit of his weight off me, and I let him. Without shifting, I stayed down and let my head fall back against the dirt, some dark strands falling in my eyes. There was relief that it was over and I was finally allowed to rest, but also bitterness that someone had triumphed over me. It was a weird mix, and I knew that Valerie was fighting with Besomar, but this time I let Valerie win. I did not want to meet my mother as a faceless and nameless monster, but as her son who was finally coming home.
Yet the guy did not shoot. A shadow moved, and the skull-masked man emerged behind the Mohawk guy, additionally stepping on my left ankle, eliminating my last chance to throw his partner off.
They were fixating me. I realised it was not to kill me but to keep me down. They were trying to confine me.
Then it was capture and torture. I sighed and complied. There was no way out of this; the blood loss impaired me. I was no match for them. Most likely, I wouldn’t even be able to lift a finger.
It wasn’t long until a second Jeep emerged from the darkness and came to a screeching halt next to us. Doors were opened, and two new step patterns found their way over to us.
"Hello, dead man," a new face moved into my vision, peering down upon me from under a hat as the beard moved with his words, "Your shoulder doesn’t look good, son."
"Yes, sir," I replied as I recognised his voice and couldn’t help a breathless laugh, "the Scottish guy over there is not helping."
I saw the Mohawk guy smiling as if my comment had been a compliment; maybe to him it was.
"Where is Shepherd?" a booming voice echoed.
I looked at the infamous ghost and raised an eyebrow. "Who is Shepherd?"
A disappointed noise came from the man with the hat as I looked over his shoulder at the fourth person that had not entered my vision yet: "Gaz, your honor."
As if Gaz had only waited for that moment, he made his presence known and peered down at me, a nasty bruise already forming on the left side of his face, and I knew that what would follow was going to be painful.
"Sleep tight, princess," was the last thing I saw before everything went dark and my consciousness slipped out of my reach.
I came back to the world suddenly and without warning. My body jerked involuntarily, but I was immediately stopped by tight restraints around my wrists and ankles.My awareness creeped slowly back into me, and the first thing I really felt was an awful burning in my shoulder and head. The bright light was also no help, and it took some time to blink my crusty eyes open. Dried blood left a foul stench in the room, and I rolled my head as well as I could to get rid of the stiffness in my neck. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper, and I wished for water even though I knew it would not come true.The room, I realised after my eyes had grown accustomed to the light, was almost empty except for the lonely steel table next to me, and I knew what was coming. I was wondering how cruel they would be—not that they could be any worse than him. I was bitter to admit that he had broken something in me, as he had me begging for death and choking on my own agony. The scars on my body burned with the memory. No matter what they would do or how many times they would break me and fix me up again, you couldn’t break a broken man.
It took them hours to end my waiting. I had rested my head on my collarbones while staring wordlessly at my feet, paying no attention to the steps that were closing.It was cold; they took my tactical gear and left me with just my cargo trousers, boots, and my long-sleeved shirt. A loud squeak echoed in the tiny room as the door swung open and two men stepped in.
"Good morning, sunshine," the man in the hat, whom I recognized, said.
"Morning, Sir" I rasped, licking my chapped lips and swallowing in an attempt to not sound like I had been crying for the past hour.
"Always polite, huh?" said the combat boots as they came to a halt in front of me, just at the edge of my vision. A gloved hand found my messy hair, tugging at the dirty strands. My head was mercilessly pulled back, my throat baring as my adams apple popped under the pressure.
Slowly, I blinked up at him and got hung up by the water bottle in his hand. My hands twitched behind my back as I had the urge to rip it from his hand and swallow down the whole bottle.
"Thirsty?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. His voice was almost kind, calming, as if he were talking to a friend, and it dawned on me what he was playing at.
"Bad cop, good cop?" I chuckled and glanced at the unmoving shadow at the door. It was Ghost, his build and skull mask far more intimidating with proper lighting and a chance to look at him without being shot at. His shoulders were wide, and his vest made him seem even bigger; his muscles were hidden, but I knew that they were there. How could someone be this tall and bulky and still as quiet as a whisper of the wind?
He was fascinating to check out from so close by, and I contemplated my own build. Of course, I had muscles; everyone in the military had muscles from wrestling and running for miles on end, jumping over fences and punching someone in the head, but I was much smaller and leaner.The hat guy—I didn’t even know his name because we rarely got intel on the names of our targets—was big as well. His accent told me he was British, maybe in his mid-thirties or forties; it was hard to tell with the beard, and I could smell a faint note of really strong cigarettes from him. maybe even a cigar.
"Water for your name?" asked the hat guy, invading my thoughts.
"My name won't help you. You cannot bargain with a dead man," I tell him, sending him an empty grin, "but I would appreciate your name. That way I can moan nicely when you cut me up."
He ignored my comment and started with the next question, "How old are you?"
That did throw me off. My confusion must have been obvious as he started to explain, "You look like you are still wearing diapers, and I am not fond of torturing a child to death."
"Such sentiment," I gritted, pausing for a second to consider, "I stopped counting at 22, Sir. But I pinky promise that you will not get into trouble for assaulting a minor."
"What is a fledgling doing with the death men?" "Are you running out of recruits?"
"With all due respect, sir." "I took down two of your men."
„Gaz? Yes. Ghost? No“, he explained, and I glanced at Ghost once again. Maybe, when thinking about it, he was right.
"Still one man," my gaze returned to his, "do you want to recruit me?"
"Eager on switching sides, I see," he commented, and seemed to think, "I don’t recruit people I cannot trust."
"Smart move, but trust in this field of work is a weakness, not a strength. Gets you killed, Sir," I pursed my lips as I decided to get the inevitable over with, "Should we skip to the fun part? I was told, I'm a pretty screamer. You’ll like it."
The British guy crocked his head and said, "I get the feeling you want to tell us something, but not without at least pretending to have a backbone."
„I will not tell you anything, because I genuinely can’t. I don’t ask questions. I follow orders; they don’t tell us who we are shooting at, only when and where. You would know, we are soldiers."
"You are not a soldier, you are a terrorist," Ghost said, his voice booming like a wild animal's roar.It sent shivers down my spine, and I found enjoyment in it.
"A terrorist, a soldier, and a hero. It doesn’t matter, it's all the same. I guess it depends on who's telling the story," my neck ached in the unforgiving grip, and I shuffled downwards on the uncomfortable piece of metal to lean backwards against the back of the chair.
"What about morals?"
"A dead man has no need for that; I am more the selfish guy anyway," I said as I returned my gaze to the hat guy, "I'm interested in vengeance and leave hero stuff to guys like you."
"Vengeance by killing innocent men and women?"
"None of them were innocent. You are not innocent. We are all killers trying to kill each other. Don't tell me you are after Shepherd because you want to invite him to tea."
After that followed silence, as the two looked at each other and seemed to communicate quietly. I squirmed around more, assuming that the time for talking had now officially ended and that a painful end awaited me.
The moment of silent communication passed, and I made a noise of surprise as Ghost closed the distance between us with two big steps. A large hand gripped my jaw, fingers pressing into my joints, forcing my mouth open. The other hand of the hat guy stopped me from jerking my head back as the cold water was poured into my mouth and closed off my airways. Water filled my throat, keeping me from breathing as I struggled in my bindings, bucking my hip to throw them off. A heavy knee was placed on my hip and pressed me back onto the chair, stopping my advances. The water kept coming, and half of the bottle dripped out of the corners of my mouth onto my shirt, completely drenching it. I was choking and gurgling, and tears were streaming down my cheeks.It felt like suffocating, even though my body cried with happiness at the hydration. Waterboarding was still worse, I decided, but the water in my airways that gave me the feeling of drowning brought back old memories I had tried to lock away. As it seemed, unsuccessfully.
After endless seconds of coughing out water just to find known fluid creeping into it, it stopped, the bottle was empty, and with one last gulp, the water disappeared into my stomach. My heart was beating way too loud and fast in my ears, and my chest rose and fell with short huffs, telling me that panic would soon follow.
The heavy weight of a body pressing down on me, almost as if he were sitting on my lap, seemed like the only thing to hold on to and not lose my sanity just yet.
My voice was rough when I spoke, and I winced. "Thanks for the water, babygirl."
I knew that this had been a mistake even before I had uttered the words. It was never a smart decision to antagonise your captors, especially if your capturer was Ghost, the man that everyone knew and feared, the legend himself. So, of course, I had expected a strong response. My head flew to the side, taking my entire body with me, as a fist struck me in the face.
"Bloody Jesus, Ghost!" exclaimed the hat guy, releasing his grip on me and retreating so as not to be buried beneath me. I slammed into the ground. The chair made a loud noise when it collided with the steel of the floor, and I let out a high-pitched scream as I landed on my bad shoulder, pressing the bullet impossibly deeper.
"реана сука!" The insult slipped past my lips before I could stop it. Rattled breaths left me as I tried to breathe through the pain, failing miserably because of my weight, which was still pressing on my shoulder. My legs flailed helplessly as I tried to turn on my back, which was unsuccessful due to the chair. That hurt like a bitch, and rage pulsed inside me, urging me on to get out of the restraints and return the favour tenfold. The fact that I would have done worse if it had been me went ignored. The hat guy was still trying to calm the ghost down, not shouting but raising his voice and ending it with a harsh, "Get out!"
I was surprised to hear him leave; he hadn't said anything and had left quietly, his steps echoing away.So the guy in the hat really was in charge. And the great Ghost had enough respect for him to follow his orders. Interesting.
I groaned pitifully and pressed my eyes together in an attempt to block out the pain, which was not ebbing away but just seemed to get stronger. It felt like I broke my collarbone, which was not an experience I wanted to relive.
Finally, a hard grip found my healthy arm and pulled me up seemingly effortlessly. Hat man leaned down as I was placed back onto the chair and fought against the black dots trying to invade my vision, asking, "So Russian then?"
My voice was rough, and I had the urge to cough until I could taste blood. At the very least, hot blood would calm me down; it would wash away my fear and cold; it would leave me grounded rather than lost as I am now.Blood was an old friend, a strange comfort, as if death was petting you.
"Where is Shepherd?" he tried again, and I had the feeling he really wanted to know where Shepherd was, but I had no idea who this Shepherd guy is. I picked up his name when it was thrown at me in an identical manner when they kidnapped me, but beyond that, I had never heard of that name.
"I don’t know," I answered truthfully, and I could see how his eyes closed off and he straightened up again, glancing at me with indifference.
"Despite your brave words, it appears that there is still some loyalty left."
My head jerked to the side as I recognised another familiar face.It was the Scottish guy with the Mohawk and the pretty smile who hid from me behind a mask of professionalism. He strutted into the room and took the place of the ghost, telling me that my favourite babygirl wouldn’t come back. What a shame and relief at the same time; I feared he would do worse than a simple punch should he see me again. This man was no joke; in fact, no one on a taskforce like this was a pushover.
"I don’t know where Shepherd is; you are asking the wrong questions." I sighed. "Your Shepherd guy has nothing to do with this, that is, if he doesn’t work for Makarov."
"Makarov?" Scott drew his brows together and told me that he knew as much about Makarov as I did about Shepherd.I couldn't stop the breathless huff, a phantom of a smile escaping me as I realised how ironic this situation was.
"Why would you tell us this?" I found sceptic eyes as the hat guy began to circle me, his boots drawing transparent lines around me as if he were a boa trying to tie herself around me and squeeze at the right moment. The lack of irritation and his serious expression told me that he knew who I was referring to, and that spiked my interest. If he knew about Makarov, he was certainly powerful and clever enough to kill that man. Otherwise, he would be dead by now. He should have been dead by now. After all, that's how I ended up here.
"As I previously stated, the only loyalty I have is to myself.I won´t talk; I die here. I talk and I will die by Makarov's hands, so I might as well fuck him over before dying. He is not a likeable man, and the world is certainly better off without him," I said, staring at the wall opposite me as I heard him moving in my back. My nerves tingled, and I had to admit that he was intimidating; it would take him maybe seconds to eliminate me, certainly now that I was injured.
A moment of silence passed during which I braced myself for a quick shot to the head, as it was risky to keep someone with a connection to a man like Makarov alive, and I found myself jerking in surprise as a hand came down on my good shoulder.
"Very good, son." "I believe we have a common goal for the time being, and you appear to be the key to finding our way around Russia without getting lost," I felt the cool Metall press against my skin and the zip ties tying me to the chair, "You help us, we help you, how about it?"
"Why would I need your help?" I couldn't believe what was happening and craned my neck to stare intently at the bearded man.Was he really cutting me loose?
"We keep you alive until the mission ends; we protect you from Makarov's wrath."
„And then? "You hand me over to the Americans or the Russians so that they can then trial me and lock me away for the next 60 years?" I shook my head and grimaced at the nauseous feeling that hit me. Definitely a concussion, then.
"I'm not a fan of that, sir," I stated.
"I am afraid you don’t have much of a choice." You said you are a selfish guy, and a selfish guy cares about his life above anyone else’s. "The most selfish choice is to work with us, kill that bastard, and then vanish."
„Vanish? "Are you implying that I will not get any glory after the mission, I glanced at Scott, who eyed me attentively as the first zip tie snapped and fell to the ground. They were implying that they would let me go, that I could simply slip away and do whatever I wanted.Or was the verb "vanish" referring to a bullet that would find me after it had found Makarov?
"We do the heroic stuff, you do the selfish stuff," my second wrist was freed, and I immediately rested my left hand on my knee to relieve shoulder tension.
"I'm beginning to like you, sir," I admitted, smiling as he cut the zip ties around my ankles before coming to stand in front of me.
„Yeah? "I am afraid you won't like what fo he said, which alarmed me as he nodded and gave the Scotsman an order I couldn’t fully comprehend. The comprehension followed moments after the Scot pulled out a small flask and gripped my arm sharply. My fabric was rolled up and the round device pressed against my skin before I could complain. And then pain followed—a burning pain as something small was pressed deeper into my flesh. They chipped me like I was a fucking god.Anger built up inside me, making me furious as I ripped my arm out of his grip and took a look at the bleeding little hole. Of course I could just carve it out with a knife—no problems here—but I didn’t know what the chip was made for. It could be that it was just a tracking device, or it could be something worse. It was already too late.
And indeed, as expected, it was worse.
"Besides tracking you, this chip is also going to explode if I want it to." "So be a good boy and stay close."
"That is so against protocol," I hissed, gripping my arm and staring at Scott, who was still holding the small device.These law-abiding idiots were worse than everyone I had ever encountered so far. Everyone else would have just shot me, but now I found myself on an official task force, which was sure as hell against the rules. I would have been categorised as a terrorist, murderer, and war criminal if I hadn’t been listed as dead.
"Maybe,", he admitted and patted my bad shoulder, which left me tumbling over, "I’m Soap. Welcome to the team, Dead man."
"How long have you been planning this for?" He knew I spoke about the chip that they had ready on command and how they had already decided on the field not to kill me. This required some planning and free thinking on their part, which I had not anticipated. I starred at the man with the hat and saw how his lips stretched into a smile that told me I had no clue what this man was capable of.
"We planned this before deliberately running into your trap."
Oh, fuck me.