A Ghost Encounter: My Time with Simon "Ghost" Riley

Part Eighty-Three: The End of Makarov - Part Four

Captain John Price's Point of View (POV)

Fucking bastard thought he could just slip away, did he? Oh, no, no, no. That won't do. Not after he had one of mine killed.

Bolting down the stairwell, I can see Makarov running a few feet ahead of me. I need to keep up my pace or I'll lose him. The idiot couldn't make it easy for me, could he?

Bloody fucking hell...

"Makarov!" I yell at him as the chase continues.

We reach the bottom of the staircase and he makes a sharp left, turning toward an emergency exit.

Shit. It'll get ugly if we take this to the streets, out in public.

Makarov throws some boxes near the door out in front of me to trip me up as he pushes through the emergency exit, setting off the alarm.

I'm able to dodge the falling boxes and slip past them effortlessly. I follow suit, exiting through the emergency door, and a bullet whirls past my head.

"Shit!" I bellow as I dodge Makarov's bullet, taking cover behind some trash bins.

"Zere is nowhere for you to hide, Kaptain," Makarov croons tauntingly.

The sound of his footsteps crunching against the leaves and grass on the ground fills my ears.

Without visibility, I'll use sound to guide me.

I'll need to be crafty. I have two smoke bombs, a handful of throwing knives, and my P890.

Looking to my right, approximately 100 or so feet away, there are hotel staff coming in and out of the building through a back exit employee door.

This mission was intended to be one of stealth, not one where I have a firefight for all to see.

"Kaptain Price. Kome out, kome out, wherever you are," Makarov continues to taunt me.

I can use the darkness to my advantage; and still engage in stealth.

So I take a deep breath and make a swift and calculated run to a truck parked nearby, taking refuge behind it.

Makarov didn't see me.

I can peak and see Makarov looking around frantically, trying to figure out where I'm positioned. He knows better than to be too loud.

You also can't miss the sound of multiple police sirens approaching. We'll be surrounded soon. If we're going to do this, we'll have to be smart about it.

"I'm groving bored, friend," he snarls, his tone laced with annoyance, but even more so, fear.

I pick up a rock from the ground and use it as a distraction, throwing it.

He takes the bait.

Makarov is now standing 10 feet away from me with his back turned. Either he's gotten sloppy over the years or he drank too much wine during dinner. I'm going to assume the latter.

This is it. My opponent and I have hunted each other back and forth for ages. This isn't our first battle together but bloody hell it will be our last.

I remove two throwing knives from my pouch, throw them, and watch them plunge into Makarov's calves.

"Augh!" Makarov muffles his cries when the blades make contact with his skin and he falls to his knees.

Without hesitation, I jolt for Makarov and pin him on the ground. But the bastard is stronger than he looks.

Although I'm on top with the advantage, he's putting up a fight. We are equals in this tussle, I'll need to do something fast if I hope to come out victorious.

And then seemingly out of nowhere, I get distracted by the sounds of radio chatter, sirens, and officers entering the hotel.

A thought flashes in my mind: did my team make it out? Did they fly away?

The distraction costs me.

Makarov punches up and knocks me back. With this, he flings himself on top of me, turning the tide. With pure rage and hatred burning in his eyes, Makarov wraps his calloused hands around my throat and begins to squeeze, tightly.

Think, John. If you die here not only will Makarov get away but everything you put your team through—every pain, every hardship, every...loss—it will all be for naught.

"Price, we disarmed the bombs and removed them from the hotel. We're at the helicopter now," Laswell reports over the comms. "Law enforcement is here. We need to leave now!"

As I continue to be choked, Makarov gives me a wicked smile, chuckling, "What is it, Kaptain? Not going to say goodbye to your friends?"

"Price, do you copy?" Ghost yells frantically. "It's now or never, Captain. Don't force us to leave you behind!"

Makarov laughs maniacally, "If only zey knew zeir poor Kaptain von't be koming home."

As Makarov briefly closes his eyes and throws his head back to laugh I find my opening. I grab another throwing knife from my pocket and jam it into the side of his neck.

Makarov's eyes fly open and widen with shock, fear, and the realization that this is the end for him. Makarov grabs at his throat—gurgling and choking on his blood—in an attempt to subdue the wound but a blow to the jugular vein is a fatal one.

THUD.

The sound of his body hitting the ground is music to my ears. I smile down at the slowly dying terrorist, enjoying the view.

I crouch down near him, look him dead in his eyes, and say, "For Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish'."

Makarov's eyes widen even further and flicker with boiling rage until the life from those eyes completely fades.

A rush of relief and exhaustion washes over me. We did it. Mission complete.

"Laswell. Ghost. Do you copy?" I ask over the comms hoping for anyone to respond, hoping that they left before the police reached them.

"About fucking time, Price," Ghost growls, but I can hear the relief in his tone. "We had to leave without you."

They left. Good.

"I'll find my way back," I say with confidence. "What's the status on Roberts?"

I might still be frustrated with her but only God knows how deeply I care for her.

When we were in Afghanistan, when we had our late-night conversation, I realized then how much she means to me, and our team.

I won't stay mad at her forever.

"She's going to be alright, Price," Laswell responds and I let out a deep breath of relief. "And how does Makarov fare?" I can hear the anticipation in her voice.

I give the long-awaited answer, "Neutralized."

"Good work, Captain," Laswell says with approval. "I'm sending over the coordinates of where we landed Makarov's helicopter. The sooner you get your ass over here the sooner we can leave this fucking country and go back home."

I let out a chuckle, one of relief and humor, and say, "Copy that, Commander."