Chapter Text
6th APRIL 2019 1600
VERDANSK, KASTOVIA
The convoy of several Mercedes Gs is going way over the speed limit as it’s closing in on the source of the smoke permeating the air. The ride is a rough one; off-road dampeners do nothing to smoothen the bumps and potholes.
Captain Price turns sharply left. The vehicle’s centre of gravity is a tad high for such a daring manoeuvre, and Sergeant “Soap” MacTavish, riding the shotgun, is pressed against the door. Unphased, he switches the chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other and holds on to the handle above the door. He’s used to much harsher means of transport.
Soap looks out of the window, noticing the people on the street stopping to either look around in confusion or stare at their phones, most likely trying to find out what happened. They’re not running, perhaps hoping that the explosion they no doubt heard was just an accident. Nobody wants to really believe it could’ve been a terrorist attack.
The wailing of the sirens gets stronger the closer the convoy is to the stadium. Price takes another turn, revealing the full scale of the attack. Thick, black smoke rises from the stadium; there’s fire visible in several places, tall flames licking at the structure, and sooth and debris falling down. The smell changes, too; now there’s burning rubber and molten plastic to it. The scene is cluttered. Dozens of people running away, vehicles haphazardly changing lanes, going in the wrong way, just to escape. Price navigates the car as fast as he dares, constantly checking left and right, holding the steering wheel tightly to swerve the car if needed.
“Stop! Stop!” Soap cries out at Price as he notices in the corner of his eye a woman running right in front of their truck. Thankfully, Captain’s reflexes are razor-sharp. Price slams down the brake, and they all jerk forward with the momentum. Front fender brushes the woman who leans on the hood, staring at them with pure terror in her eyes before she bolts to safety. “Bleedin’ Jesus!” Soap breathes out, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He’s a soldier, an elite one at that, yet this deployment doesn’t sit right with him. He’s been trained to deal with enemies, with soldiers, mercenaries and terrorists. Panicked civilians scared halfway of their minds is a wild-card he’s uncomfortable with.
Price gets his attention as he updates the whole team as he steps on the gas again: “The orders are clear: we need to bring Makarov in alive. Is that clear?”
“Clear!” Soap and the rest of their commando in this and the following trucks confirm.
The situation doesn’t get any better once they finally get into the garage. They narrowly miss cars speeding to the exit, weaving around the crashed vehicles along the way. There’s smoke as well, impairing the visibility. Slowly, they drive further into the garage. The closer they can make it to the entrance to the stadium, the better.
Price stops the car near the stairs. They see a bunch of civilians running around and some police. Soap didn’t expect them to be here so soon, especially as their command informed them the first responders wouldn’t enter the building until it was cleared by Price and his men. Soap is, however, not picky, and it’s clear they might need all the help they can get.
As if they heard Soap’s thoughts, the policemen raise their weapons and start shooting. Soap is confused for a fraction of a second because those people are unarmed. One policeman turns around, spots their truck and opens fire at them. “Contact!” Soap yells as he promptly jumps out of the car, crouching behind it for a cover. Alright, this is not the help he was expecting.
Price follows suit, taking out his gun. Soap looks over the front fender. The situation becomes clearer as he notices the weapons the “police” are using. Definitely not a standard issue of Verdansk Police. Soap’s quick with his gun, skill honed to perfection by years of training as well as experience. The weight of the Hurricane and its recoil after the first burst is predictable and familiar. Easy to compensate for.
Soap kills one fake policeman; Price gets the other. They’re in good sync, the Captain taking the point on the stairs, moving up, Soap close behind him, covering him.
“Contact! Top of the stairs!” Price warns. Three men are standing above them. Soap’s gun is already trained on the rightmost one. The Tango is holding a Kastov, pulling the trigger as soon as he spots them. Bullets whistle, too close for comfort, yet Soap doesn’t flinch. His aim is good, and the Tango goes down after the first burst. They’re not dead but the wheezing and pained moans mean they don’t have to worry about that one. Price has taken care of the second man, and the soldiers converge on the third.
As soon as they stand on top of the stairs, Soap takes out his pistol and shoots the wounded terrorist in the head. He’s learned to tie up the loose ends the hard way.
They enter the concourse, and it’s bloody chaos in there. Civilians are everywhere, running, screaming, tripping over the bodies on the floor, slipping on the blood, scurrying for cover, trying to escape as groups of terrorists disguised as police open fire on the crowd, uncaring if they hit a man, woman or a child. The fact they’re posing as police, as someone who should’ve protected the people, only adds another layer of disgusting irony. Soap feels his blood boil. He doesn’t linger on the lifeless bodies around him; he cannot. Gotta stay sharp and on top of his game. The less distracted he is, the more lives he can save.
Price is close behind him as they push through. It’s difficult and risky, shooting in the panicked crowd. They must not hit the civilians, but the terrorists have no such inhibitions.
“We must press to the second staircase to get to the VIP Lounge; Makarov could be there,” Price tells him over the comms. Soap acknowledges, running up to take a cover behind the counter in one of many shops lining the wide course.
Peaking over, the Sergeant assesses the situation—two shooters in front of him, another two stalking the tribunes further to the left. Price should be on them. Soap’s two targets shoot another group of civilians. Soap grits his teeth, willing himself to stay calm and on the mission. He waits a little before leaning out and taking the shot. Bull’s eye! A young woman who has just narrowly escaped death scurries away, make-up ruined by tears, her eyes wide as she looks at Soap, unable to tell friend from foe. He doesn’t blame her.
“X-rays down,” Soap closes in on the door leading to the staircase, Price is right behind him after disposing of his own targets. There are no more gunshots; the floor should be safe, at least for the moment.
“Take the point, Soap, third floor’s the target,” Price tells him as they jointly shoot another two fake policemen that come right out of the door. Soap checks the mag, switching it for a new one before coming through the doors and entering the stairwell. He keeps close to the wall, ready to drop on the ground if he has to. Coming up the stairs is definitely one of the most disadvantageous tactical situations one can find themselves in. Soap, however, wasn’t trained to back out of a challenge. Who dares wins; that’s the SAS motto, and Soap is nothing if not daring.
A bullet ricochets from the metal railing with a loud clang just as they near the third floor. A single guy is on top of the stairs, holding a young man up as a human shield. Soap switches the firing mode to a single shot before he brings the gun higher, resting his cheek against the cool metal. His gaze is unwavering, and his aim true. The terrorist falls to the ground, and the hostage stands there for a second or two before he processes what happened and that he’s free. Soap urges him to run downstairs and hide.
The hallway on the third floor looks empty, but Soap doesn’t let his guard down. The doors to the VIP lounge are locked. Price pries them open, and they hurry inside, weapons ready for whatever they may encounter there. The moment they barge in, five paramedics turn, raising their hands. Well, four out of five, the last one is tending to a bloke on a gurney. Soap takes a quick stock, sees no weapons and marginally relaxes.
“I need help over here!” the kneeling paramedic calls out, “Soldier- help, please!”
Soap stoves away his gun and kneels down to check on the man on the gurney. Price’s alarmed warning “Gun!” jerks Soap, which is most probably what saves his life as the paramedic draws the gun, not even hesitating before taking a shot. It’s a very close call. Soap’s ears are ringing, and he can swear his heart has skipped a few beats. Price got the bastard, shooting over Soap’s shoulder. The Sergeant feels a faint whiff of blood as a few drops land on his face. He has no time to think; there are still four more threats. Soap has always prided himself on being quick on his feet; time to prove it.
Drawing his pistol, Soap turns around, immediately opening fire to help Price clear the room. It’s a quick and nasty business. “Sergeant, you broken?”
“Just bruised ego, sir, thank you,” Soap replies, picking his submachine gun up from the floor.
Price nods, checking the bodies. “They had explosives; this was their next target.”
Soap listens to Price relaying the information to their command. They still haven’t found Makarov; this hunt is far from over. Price orders the rest of the team to stay behind to take care of the explosives.
“You’re with me, Soap. We’re going to the garage. If Makarov’s still on the premises, he will have to leave through there. Let’s get that son of a bitch.”
“Rog’,” Soap nods with gusto, his grip on the gun tightening.
They rappel down the elevator shaft, trading the bright sunlight for dimmed orange lights once more. The smoke filling the garage stings Soap in the eyes and scratches in his throat. He pays it no mind, following Price through the maze of parked buses. It’s a security nightmare; there could be a whole battalion holed up in here, and they wouldn’t know until somebody took a shot at them. Soap does his best to cover the tinted windows and at least some of the corners, but so far, he hasn’t seen anyone.
A noise ahead snaps his attention in that direction. A woman emerges from the gaps between two buses, giving them a bewildered look before she disappears behind another vehicle. Soap slightly eases on the trigger. There’s silence now. Not complete as they can still hear muffled screams and the commotion upstairs as well as outside, but it sounds like there’s nobody else in the vicinity.
Are they too late? Did Makarov manage to get away? The revving of an engine puts a stop to Soap’s thoughts. There’s an ambulance about fifty feet away, headlights making it impossible to tell who’s behind the wheel. “Could be Makarov,” Soap frowns. He’s seen way too many fake first responders today to take anything else at face value. Price nods in acknowledgement as well as agreement, calling out for the driver to kill the engine and step out—instead, the ambulance barrels straight at them. Soap takes a few shots at it, as does Price until they’re forced to jump out of the way and take cover behind one of the buses. It’s a narrow miss.
The ambulance doesn’t make it far, crashing into another car and with a deafening bang and a lot of screeching as well as sparks, it turns over and slides several feet before coming to a stop. They run to it side by side, weapons at the ready. The Sergeant looks at Price, who nods, signalling him to open the back of the ambulance as he turns on the flashlight strapped to his gun.
As soon as the door falls open, Soap grabs his own gun. “Hands, show your hands!” Price commands, illuminating the inside of the vehicle. The flashlight reveals several people inside. Most of them are either dead or unconscious. There is, however, only one they’re interested in. Soap’s eyes meet the hard, cold stare of Vladimir Makarov. Even bloodied and bruised, with his hands raised, there is an unspoken air of defiance and arrogance about him. He doesn’t look defeated; he looks… annoyed. As if them catching him is nothing more than an inconvenience, as if they don’t have their guns trained on him.
Soap feels his hackles rise. He’s seen his fair share of terrorists, lunatics, murderers and psychopaths over the course of his service, yet this man gives him creeps. They order Makarov to come out. Soap quickly divests him of the gun strapped to the front of his body armour. He pats Makarov down, making sure there are no more surprises hidden on him. Finally, Soap takes out the plastic handcuffs and cuffs the man’s hands behind his back. They have an exfil to make.
Price takes the point after Makarov informs them that his people won’t stand down, even if it would endanger their leader. Soap would love nothing more than to wipe that smug smirk off his face. There is something wrong. Of course, there is plenty wrong. Dozens, if not hundreds of innocent people killed after Makarov turned a lovely Saturday into a tragedy. The tribunes and hallways are soaked in blood. Those who survived would no doubt be scarred for life. Every time they’d see police, they would stop or maybe even panic. Every time they will smell smoke, the memories are going to resurface. Some of them will never set a foot on another public event in their lives again. Countless lives were lost today, and countless more were ruined. Yet there’s something else wrong. Wrong, as Makarov mocks Price. Wrong, as he lets himself be manhandled by Soap, still so damn confident as if he knows something they don’t. As if it’s them walking to their defeat. Soap’s eyes are peeled on the tunnel they’re in. He sees the Inner Circle shooters just as Price calls “Contact!” and drags Makarov to safety.
Soap takes cover behind a car and plays it safe. They’re so close; he’s not going to make some rookie mistake like running into the gunfight unprepared. Instead, he waits until the Tangos get closer. Then he makes use of the environment, tossing out a flashbang behind the bus the terrorists are using as their cover, making most of their momentary disorientation as he shoots them one by one. Quick and efficient. That’s how he got his callsign, after all.
They continue to the exit. Exfil helo should arrive within minutes, and they need to be there when it does. There are still hostiles in the area, and the helo attracts a lot of attention. Price shoots another two members of the Inner Circle, covering Soap as he leads Makarov through the tunnel.
Finally, they arrive at the exit, barred by a rolling grille. Between the two seasoned SAS soldiers, the gate doesn’t stand much chance. They manage to lift it up enough to slip under it. Soap feels marginally better as soon as he takes a deep breath of much fresher air. Then he notices they’re to cross yet another parking lot full of buses. Their exfil is right past it.
“We will have a sniper support,” Price says just as the gunmetal grey helo whirrs overhead, hovering nearby. The sliding door opens, and the first shot from an unsilenced rifle cracks through the air. Soap nods as he trots between the buses. This is the last stretch.
“Two Tangos, ten o’clock,” an unfamiliar, rough voice rasps in the comms. Must be the soldier in the helo. Soap acknowledges, turning left and carefully going around the bus. He dusts one armoured hostile; there’s another bang, a splash of blood, even though the fucker wore a helmet. A clean headshot. “Chalked ‘em.”
“Thanks,” Soap mutters, advancing further.
“Cheers,” the voice replies. It’s calm, almost emotionless.
Until Soap kills another terrorist. “I had that one,” the voice says in a tone warring between annoyed and mildly amused. The lad sounds cool as a bloody cucumber. Not that Soap has time to ponder on it. He’s already through the parking lot, Price coming up with Makarov.
“Last two, shield coming up at two o’clock, heavy armour with a shotgun on fourth.”
“Take the shield,” Soap barks out as he turns around. Four o’clock is behind him, meaning they could get a shot at Price or Makarov. Soap lowers his stance, going around a bus. He hears the hurried footsteps and makes a split-second decision to slide the last few feet. The gamble pays off, he surprises the armoured terrorist who already had Price in their sights. Soap pulls the trigger, aiming up, where the helmet doesn’t protect the neck. Soap is close enough to get splattered by blood. The sniper above takes another shot.
“All clear, proceed to exfil,” the sniper rasps.
They come up just as the helo descends enough for them to board. Sniper jumps out of it to check their six, just in case. As soon as Soap sees him, he understands the skill and the demeanour. Their sniper support is Ghost. Soap has never met the man before, but the balaclava with a somewhat ostentatious skull print and the sunglasses to further obscure his face are a dead giveaway. Ghost is a legend.
Soap nods his thanks to him but is wholly ignored. Alright, not every lad in SAS is a friendly ray of sunshine like Soap is, he gets it.
As soon as they’re in the air, they crack down on Makarov. Price shoves him into the seat, pressing him against the hull while Ghost is hovering above him. “You bomb a stadium and kill countless civilians… why? What was your plan?” Ghost says. There’s a tension to him and a slight lilt to his voice that betrays just how much he is holding back the true extent of his anger.
“There are no civilians in war,” Makarov stares at Ghost, his face blooming into a cruel smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Soap’s had about enough of this son of a bitch. Usually, as soon as he’s out of the fry, he settles. Not today. No, with every passing minute, he’s angrier. He doesn’t have to focus on staying alive and in perfect control anymore. Soap grabs Makarov by the hem of his vest, throwing him on the floor of the helo as he draws his gun, pressing the muzzle to Makarov’s forehead in one swift motion. “’M gonna kill ye right ‘ere! I swear I’m gonna blow yer fucken’ brains out!”
“Do it, Scottish boy! Soap, was it? Do it!” Makarov taunts him, smiling, not even trying to resist—something wild and mad swirling in those dark, shark-like eyes.
“Soap, don’t do it! Don’t!” Price talks to him. He’s not ordering him; he’s not pulling rank.
“I’ll finish him right ‘ere, Captain!” Soap roars. He feels like he’s on fire, like he’s shivering, but his hands are absolutely steady.
Price carefully places a hand on his back, leaning in closer, lowering his voice but speaking still loud enough to be heard over the whirr of the helo. “Listen to me, John, we’ve got him; he’s not going anywhere, and we need to interrogate him, find out the rest of his plans and operations. You know I’m right, Soap, you know what we need to do.”
Soap takes a few deep breaths. “Stand down, Sergeant,” Price says to nudge him the last bit of the way: Soap steps away, and Price hauls Makarov back up and back onto the seating bench.
“Yer gonna rot in the Gulag,” Soap growls, still seething as he clicks the safety on the gun back and holsters it.
“We’ll see about that,” Makarov shrugs, turning away as if he got bored with them.