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

Chapter 2

    "Samantha," there was a soft, whispering voice that attempted to wake me up. 
    I shifted, a deep ache twisting in my gut and thighs as I did so. There was a cool object pressed to my head and a light tap on my wrist. The annoying things brought me to open my eyes.
    "Ah, there are your pretty hazel eyes," a woman cooed.
    I scowled at her as best I could; all drugged up, the room looked like something out of Alice in Wonderland. Behind her, someone came out of the shadowed part of the room. His presence alone made the nurse scurry off to the other side of the area. 
    "How do you feel?" 
    "Like I could punch something, come a little closer." 
    Makarov found my threat amusing and it pissed me off. Did he not take me seriously? Killing him was going to be easier than I originally figured if he thought so little of me. 
    "You should be thanking me," he stood a little straighter. "I did save your life." 
    "And what you're planning now will counter that."
    A twitch in his lips caused Makarov to shift. "I only want to know one thing, Samantha. Where is Price?"
    "I don't know," I breathed. 
    Makarov looked to the nurse standing patiently by a set of controls on a screen. He jutted his chin once and she nodded in return. Upon her pressing a button, I felt a compression on my thigh.
    "Where is he?"
    "I told you I don't know you dumb bastard." 
    My thigh was given even more pressure and I let out a breath of pain. I refused to cave into Makarov's torturing methods, no matter how much they hurt or destroyed me. I wouldn't tell him a fucking thing.
    "He knew where MacTavish was, so why not you?" 
    "He couldn't see me," I smirked. "Or so you think. Perhaps this is all part of the plan." 
    Makarov's eyes flickered. "You know what I think?" 
    "I could give a fuck less what you think." 
    "Price left you," Makarov leaned forward, pressing his palms into the mattress. "He looked right at you next to that car and didn't say anything."  
    "You have your facts wrong, idiot." 
    "He's never liked you, has he?" 
    "No one ever does." 
    Makarov was getting to me and we both knew it. I, however, refused to show it. Any weakness and he would pry me open like a clam. Once that happened...he would try even harder to get whatever the hell it was he wanted.
    "Think about it for yourself, Sam," Makarov hissed. "Were you ever on good terms with Price?" 
    "Of course." 
    "Until he launched those missiles." 
    My mind faltered. Missiles...that mission felt so incredibly long ago. Ghost and Roach...Soap and Price. All of us were together, as a team. I had never trusted Price to begin with, but Soap did and, at the time, it had been enough for me. 
    Makarov did voice a deep worry I'd had. Perhaps, maybe, Price had seen me bleeding out nearby my dead father with a knife handle sticking out of his eye. Maybe he hadn't wanted to save me because he knew I was related to the man who'd caused life-threatening wounds to his comrade. 
    In the ways of Price, those "maybe's" were more than likely "purposefully." 
    "What did they leave in?" 
    "A helicopter," I blurted. 
    Looking up from my covered legs in hatred, I found Makarov's devilish smirk. His dark and shiny eyes were studying me like a damn book. He was able to read between the lines, yes, but between each word...he was working on it. 
    "If you work with me, I'll give you what you want Sam." 
    I laughed emotionlessly. "And how would you know what I want?" 
    Makarov's eyes narrowed as he watched me shift in pain on the bed. "You want to be a lone wolf, as you always have been." 
    Not always. Not in the beginning. 
    The reminder that my past caused what I was currently always made me gulp in guilt. Those men who'd died because I'd been too stupid...it was all-too-familiar with Shepherd. Ghost and Roach hadn't needed to die if I'd used my head a little more. 
    No longer. 
    The comradeship had softened me. I was going to be what I'd been for a long time leading up to the Task Force 141. That Samantha wasn't one to be taken lightly. 
    Makarov would see that soon enough. 
    "What's so wrong with a lone wolf?" I narrowed my eyes to his level. 
    "Absolutely nothing. It's rather helpful."
    I cocked an eyebrow. 
    "What about going after Price?" 
    "Price is on his own." 
    "Just like you," Makarov agreed. "However, you're forgetting his dismissal of your existence just a week ago. Don't you want him to answer for that?" 
    "I'm sure you'll make him." 
    "Not without your help of tracking him down." 
    I studied Makarov. His black eyes were revealing nothing and everything at the same time. His hair was swept back and he wore a nice suit as if ready for a party at any moment. It was infuriating yet intriguing. 
    Meeting his gaze again, I found ultimate smugness. I immediately smacked myself for even letting my eyes wander. Hell, now the killer before me thought I was seeing something I liked. 
    Never in a million years. Never in forever. 
    If I had to go my whole life without ever laying with someone again, I'd be damn fine with that. The last time was a perfect one to remember and end on...
    "You and I have a lot of work to do, Samantha," Makarov moved back from the bed and looked to the jittery nurse across from him. "But first, you need to heal." 
    "I'm perfectly functional, thank you," I snapped.
    "Functional, not ready." 
    I huffed. 
    "How long do you think?" Makarov was eyeing the nurse. 
    "Another two weeks I'd say. That's a question for the doctor." 
    "Hmm," Makarov moved his sinister gaze back to me. "Well, we'll start with the mental part of things then." 
    "Mental?" I laughed. "There's nothing you can do to change that." 
    "Oh no, of course not. We can refine it." 
    I glared at him as he strode toward the door. 
    "Starting in two days. Rest up for now, Samantha." 
    I hated any sort of words coming from his mouth. They were full of nothing and dishonest; that infuriated me in itself. How smoothly and carelessly he said them was the real catch. That was skill that took time to perfect when one didn't have emotions. 
    Time to turn yours off. 
    I looked to the nurse once Makarov had disappeared. "My old clothes. Do you know where they are?" 
    "The uniform? It was torn up and bloodied," she glanced to the doorway. "But..." she walked to me and pulled a small, silver tag from her pocket. "I grabbed this because I knew you'd want it." 
    I let her drop the dog tag into my palm; I'd never had any myself, but I understood the importance of them for some. The last name was Shepherd engraved center and top. I practically threw it across the room. 
    "No, throw this way." 
    "But, he was your father, wasn't he? That's what they said about the body they brought in with you." 
    I found her soft green eyes, so innocent and caring. "That body should be burned for what it did. This tag should join him. He was never my father, just a military general with a twisted mind." 
    "I understand," she took the tag back. "I guess Hall and Shepherd don't really add up anyway." 
    I shook my head. "What's your name?" 
    "Millie." 
    "Millie," I mused. "I'd really like it if you were always my nurse while I heal. Can you make that happen?" 
    "Of course." 
    "Excellent." 
    I have plans for you, dear Millie. Oh yes I do.