The Bullet's Mark (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 Fanfiction)

Chapter 23

    I hated knowing that Makarov had not only set me up, but that I was once more his prisoner. While this time I knew I'd be able to get away—his entourage was puny in the wintery location—what I wasn't sure of was related to the terrorist himself. I questioned his motives, his very actions of taking me into the heated mansion rather than leaving me to freeze outside. Makarov was being a little too much...not himself. Except for maybe the fact that he set up his own soldier to die just to capture me. That was usual Makarov.
    The guards held my arms in tight armlocks as we entered the grand entry. Makarov took off his thick coat, revealing a grey turtleneck and a tactical vest, and handed it to the nervous doorman. I glared at the scrawny little Russian, causing him to scurry off into the depths of hallways without a second glance back. 
    Makarov said nothing as he led the group of us to a large living room—up a staircase and to the left. A bricked, rounded fireplace roared with fire and the curtains were drawn. A set of luxury couches sat facing each other, a sturdy coffee table between them. Makarov waved his guards off his flank and they paced away like obedient guard dogs. 
    Without a word Makarov motioned for me to sit by extending his hand out to the couch across from him. I felt the grips of my two handlers release as they reluctantly gave me freedom. 
    "Join me." 
    His words had more meaning than he tried to let on. I could sense the beginning of a deal, something of which Makarov had tried to convince me of not too long ago. While I would refuse ever working with him unless it would get him killed, I was fairly intrigued by his mood; he had yet to shoot someone in cold blood. 
    I stiffly sat on the couch, every muscle in my body braced for action. My eyes surveyed the room casually, pretending to admire the way it was put together, and I pointed out all of the aspects to help me if needed. 
    "Coffee or tea?" Makarov's voice was cold as he offered a cup of either liquids. 
    I settled my gaze on his face and narrowed it. I practically spat at him, glaring in hostility. "No." 
    "You're missing out," he didn't skip a beat as he helped himself. "This is only the finest." 
    For living a life of such luxury, one could've envied Makarov. Being in his mansion only increased my despise for the Russian. He was only living a life like so because he was a terrorist and a dealer of warfare. Makarov was a piece of shit and someone who lived rich because he'd made millions of others suffer. His cowardly ass got to sit and watch the war he'd instigated. 
    "Stop stalling. What do you want from me?"
    Makarov sipped the steaming liquid, the temperature not affecting his stony expression. "You attempt to sneak into my home and say I'm wanting something? I could ask the same Samantha." 
    I didn't hesitate. "I came to kill you." 
    Makarov stayed expressionless while all four guards in the room tensed; he only expected my response. "I know and look where it's gotten you." 
    "I'm not done yet." 
    He huffed and chuckled in a dark tone, amused. "Let me know once you figure something pathetic out." 
    I didn't respond which prompted him to take another smug drink out of his cup. The eyes of the four guards were pinpointed on my every move, making it a little more difficult to plan out a way to make the bastard across from me bleed out. 
    "Your actions got one of my comrades killed." 
    Makarov cleared his throat and set his cup down. "Wrong. It was your own doing. You led them there." 
    "By the sounds of it, Yuri was the cause of that." Something flickered in the dark, beady eyes of my enemy at the mention of Yuri but I continued. "I'm going to make sure you die Makarov. And your rat self isn't going to dodge it this time." 
    He looked completely comfortable despite my promise. "Ah Samantha...you tend to say that every time we meet and look where it's gotten you. First Simon Riley and now Gary Sanderson..." 
    Heat flared in my belly at the mention of the two names. I wanted to reach across and choke Makarov out but instead I gripped the edge of the couch cushion. If I even attempted to shift his direction one of his guards would shoot me dead. And I knew that's exactly what he wanted.
    "Yet those aren't the only two you've let down, are they?" Makarov leaned forward, smirking with a gleam in his eye as he watched me grow more agitated. "In fact, there was a whole squad right?" 
    I leaned forward—the guards rushing toward me—and picked up a cup to pour tea into. They relaxed only slightly, continuing to be on the highest alert. Makarov stayed put, only smiling to my internal demise. 
    "What would you know about that." A comment, not a question, I made as I poured a healthy amount of the steaming coffee. 
    "Your Blackjack mission was nothing short of easy to track down. Besides," Makarov leaned back, draping an arm over the back of his couch, "that many men dying at the hand of one idiotic woman—" 
    I lost my patience. I threw the burning water right at Makarov's face. He let out a hiss of pain as most of it hit his face and dripped down into his shirt. The guards didn't move, as Makarov gave the signal to stay where they stood. I took the opportunity to throw the mug at him as well. 
    Makarov hit it to the side, shattering it as the white cup slammed to the floor. "—of an idiotic woman isn't a surprise. The fact that it came from her own comrades as well...my, my." 
    "Makarov, you have no excuse to talk when it comes to comrades dying. Look at how many men you've—what did you just say?" 
    Makarov stayed quiet, letting inner turmoil boil inside me. 
    "How do you know about that?" 
    He smirked, leaning closer again and blinking tea away from his eyes. "It could only be assumed considering that many men on the same squad died at one moment. Then again, I suppose only I would know that because I helped." 
    My muscles were burning with anger. "Helped. With. What?" 
    "Have you ever wondered who offered a better deal than Blackjack?" 
    I was shaking, the memories flooding my vision. The shift in attitude. The distancing in emotions. It was all there from the beginning we'd started hunting Blackjack and while I had questioned it then, I thought myself stupid now. It really had been there...the betrayal...just moments away. 
    "Ever wondered, perhaps, who convinced Erek to turn against you...at a better price?" 
     My eyes snapped up from where they'd been glued to the table. Eyes narrowed, brows crunched closer together, and lips parted I spoke just loud enough for Makarov to hear. "You..." 
    He was smug. He sat up just slightly straighter. He swallowed in content. His fingers tapped the couch beneath him. In that moment, just for a single moment, Makarov was sitting on a throne instead of a couch. He was powerful and smarter and just...better. 
    "It was you all along," I whispered, a part of me breaking down to my own words. "Why..." 
    "To get where I am now, one has to play his cards right Samantha," Makarov tilted his head. "It just happened that all my plays were on you." 
    "And where has that gotten you?" I spat, standing and drawing my pistol from a hidden pocket his guards had missed. They inched forward, bracing and shooting each other looks as I held their boss at gunpoint. "You move another step and he's dead," I spoke in Russian and then readdressed Makarov. "Where has it, hmm? Now all you have are bloodthirsty, war-ridden soldiers on your ass. One of them has just a few more reasons to hate you and she's right here." 
    Makarov had grown stiffer knowing one bullet and one finger twitch was all that rested between life and death. I enjoyed the bit of unsettlement deep in his dark eyes. 
    "You're right," Makarov pulled open his vest to reveal explosives, armed and ready. "You're right here. So what are you wanting to do about it?" 
    I managed a laugh. "You honestly believe I care about dying." 
    "No, yet MacTavish does." 
    The bastard struck a nerve I didn't realize was so tender. I hesitated—Makarov could see the doubling back in my eyes—and thought of Soap. We hadn't been on the best terms when I left for this moment, and I knew that, but he had still held a silent plea of worry and well-wishes. Though he hadn't said a word I knew Soap hadn't wanted me to do this. 
    The thought of hurting him indirectly even in this moment hit me harder than one of Makarov's guards. I tumbled down and to the side, my pistol sliding away to a spot on the floor I didn't even bother reaching for. The guard continued to pin me as I struggled against his weight and glared over toward Makarov. 
    I hated that he knew my weakness. In the beginning I'd been so reluctant to even allow myself to fall for Soap for the sole fact that he would eventually become a weakness. And now that only proved to be true. I knew that I'd given in completely to the one thing I'd sworn to never do....and it was clear because my biggest enemy was still breathing less than four yards from me. 
    "Perhaps if you weren't so...distracted by him your previous goals would be completed," Makarov cocked his head. "Blackjack dead...myself, well...we know that will never happen." 
    "You have it coming to you Makarov," I spat out, the saliva hitting his shoes where he still sat unfazed on the couch. "If you manage to kill me now, then it'll be someone else." 
    His eyes were black and emotionless as he watched his guards lift me to my feet. He sounded confident when he spoke next. "I'm sure." 
    I only wanted to make sure he wouldn't talk about others, specifically Soap. I didn't dare give him that power over me....smug bastard. I'd always been good about making sure my enemies didn't know weaknesses; I never really had any up until Soap so it hadn't been an issue. 
    "You're lucky I don't kill you right now," Makarov examined his stained clothing from the tea I'd thrown at him earlier. 
    I huffed, daring him to try. "Coward." 
    Makarov's dark eyes snapped to me. "You wish to die?" 
    Despite the comradeship I'd gained with Price and Yuri, no longer the latter, and the relationship I'd developed with Soap, I wouldn't have minded one bit if Makarov chose to slit my throat right where I stood. The release and freedom of death was something I thought about a lot, especially shortly after the situation with Blackjack. While I didn't want Makarov to be the one to claim my death, I did want him dead—and him ending my life would light such a forceful fire under Soap's ass that the Russian wouldn't live more than a week. 
    "You do don't you?" Makarov cocked his head as he cradled my chin in his fingers, much to my distaste. "You wish to die and be free of all your demons?" 
    I didn't say a word, but I suppose that wasn't the best thing to do. Makarov's eyes lit up with a triumphant attitude, a revelation of more evil intentions. I yanked away from is grasp, averting my eyes to the floor. 
    "Killing you would be too easy," Makarov smirked. "Allowing you to live would give you more suffering. That, Samantha Hall, gives me more satisfaction than anything." 
    I hated him. I had always had a strong dislike for enemies or targets in the past, but this thing with Makarov was an entirely different animal. It was rage. Blinding and deafening and I wanted to scream aloud with it leaving my lips. The rage was boiling underneath every inch of my skin and it made me overheat in the layers I wore. Rather than revealing my inner struggle I only faced Makarov with a determined smile, glancing away from the giant ticking clock on the fireplace mantle.
    "You've had too much time to talk. I think it's time we really get around to business." 
    He opened his mouth to respond when every glass window in the living room shattered from Nikolai's Little Bird.