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

Chapter 6

    "So you are Makarov's hitman now?" Price concluded to my explanation. "And he sent you to kill me?"
    I ignored his pressing blue gaze. "I have my own reasons for doing it."
    "And what," Price huffed, "exactly are those?"
    "I don't have to tell you shit," I growled. "You, however, owe me an explanation."
    We'd all returned to their makeshift safehouse in South India using Nikolai's chopper assistance. It was rough place with creaky boards and dim lighting, yet it worked for the purpose of staying off-grid from the rest of the world.
    "We're hunting down Makarov," Price spoke it so simply that I almost laughed.
    "I see that's going well for you so far," my words made Price clench his jaw in frustration.
    "You act like you know where he sleeps," the stranger named Yuri was eyeing me in curiosity.
    I shot him a glare of distrust. "Says the Russian in the room." I moved my hazel gaze to Soap. "You trust him?"
    "He's Nikolai's trusted friend," Soap urged. "We need him."
    A scowl met my face as I looked away from the Russian with tatted arms and a shaved head with darker, tanned skin. "You're the only two who do then."
    "Sam, we want you on the team," Soap brought the conversation full circle.
    I watched him in silence, pondering his wishes. "I only work solo now."
    "You're kidding," Price mumbled.
    "Now you don't have to," Soap suggested lightly.
    He made a point that was difficult to accept. Staying meant becoming part of the dysfunctional Task Force One-Four-One. We'd work as a team once again and work to take down Makarov...
    I shook my head. "If you don't mind me staying a night for the sake of keeping Makarov oblivious, I'd appreciate it. I'll be gone first thing in the morning."
    "All right," Price nodded once and then glanced to Yuri. "You had intel?"
    Yuri looked reluctant to say anything with me in the room. I sighed and rolled my eyes, deciding to leave the three men to their conversation. Turning on my heels, I left the dining-room-like area.
    I headed upstairs to an open room and sat at the edge of the thin mattress there. My hazel eyes were averted to the wood floor between my knees and I clenched the sheets in my palms. While my thigh ached, the bleeding had stopped and just a dull pain filled the void. Opening it up had extended the length of healing time, but at least I was functional.
    "Sam," there was a low Scottish voice at the doorway and I looked up.
    Soap came further into the room at my glance. He was looking out the grimy window with a blank look on his features, the scar over his left eye—above his eyebrow down to the middle of his cheek—making him look haunted.
    "You don't have to be a lone wolf."
    "I want to," I replied smoothly. "It's better for everyone."
    "Is it?" he faced me with a fierceness to his face. "Or just you?"
    I ignored his attempt to fire me up and let out a breath. "None of us can afford another loss like the one a few months ago. We have to do our own thing to make sure nothing—"
    "You're afraid of another comrade dying under your fault."
    I stood, a flare of anger rising in my gut. "Fault? The only one at fault is—"
   "You," Soap snapped. "You knew Shepherd better than any of us! Did you see it coming?"
    I glared at him, a part of my core cracking to let him in. "Yes."
    "And did you do anything about it?"
    "There wasn't enough time."
    Soap raised his chin. "Not by the time you chose to tell anyone."
    "Soap, that—"
    "Isn't fair?" he was practically seething. "Nothing is anymore, Samantha."
    "That isn't true!" I gritted out. "I was going to handle it..."
    "Yourself?" Soap demanded, glaring at me through blazing blue eyes. He huffed in recognition. "Maybe you're right. You are better off alone."
    I didn't say anything, instead meeting his blue orbs with a neutral gaze. What was there to argue about with this man? That he was right? We both knew that. It only made me want to leave as soon as I could. 
    "This all sounds a little too familiar," Soap continued, glaring eyes bearing down on me. 
    I raised my gaze, daring him to continue with the words I could sense coming. "Soap, don't you dare—"
    "What? Mention Blackjack? Your father did the exact same thing yet you seemed to forget your mistakes entirely and because of that Ghost is gone. Roach is gone!" 
    The words stabbed at a sensitive ball in my stomach. Bile rose in my chest and I wanted to throw something at him. I wanted to scream. The heat of tears formed at the corners of my eyes and I blinked to keep them at bay. I would not cry in front of Soap, especially not now.
    He turned to storm from the room, pausing at the door. "What happened to them?"
    The memories hit a wound still healing. I sat back down on the bed, holding my right wrist. Soap turned to watch me head-on, his eyes never wavering from their angry state.
    "Ghost was burned where Shepherd shot him," I breathed, trying to ignore the image.
    "And Roach?"
    "He died trying to escape," I paused, not adding the words "through my plan" to the rest of the sentence.
    "You weren't with him?"
    "I sent him on his way," I swallowed, looking to see Soap's entire face twist into one of pain.
    His clenched jaw showed itself as he strictly looked away from me, as if I was too much to handle in his grief-filled state. When he looked back, there was nothing but satisfaction in his blue eyes. "I hope your actions cause you pain for the rest of your life."
    With that conclusion, Soap closed the door behind him and left the silent room. I had shaking hands as I stood up and angrily paced in the room. Soap was entirely right. I deserved to be in pain, but only after I killed the man who had caused all of it: Vladimir Makarov.
    When Makarov was gone I vowed to never cause suffering to anyone else again. Soap and Price wouldn't be caught in their deaths by something I caused. No one else would have to die because of me.
    I looked at my rifle, stolen from one of Makarov's decent soldiers. It was all black, glinting in the gloomy lighting of the rain pattering the windows. I reached for it, feeling the notches set up for better grip and the smoothness of the clip.
    My legs carried me quickly to the closet in the older room. Inside were two items of clothing: a heavy duty raincoat and a pair of pants. I tore the army green parka off the hanger and slid it on. My fingers fiddled with the zipper and hood as I moved for the double pane window.
    The rain was cool against my hands as I slipped out of the opening, the roofing slippery in the wet weather. I was overcome with the warm temperature as I closed the window best I could and turned. The rain only made things humid...and annoying as hell.
    I cautiously padded down the angled roof, holding my weapon carefully. At the edge, I slid down into a mucky pool of water. The landing made mud cling to my pants and parka.
    Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure no one in the safehouse knew my location and then took off down the longer, winding driveway. Waiting an extra day to create distance was stupidly wasting valuable time.
    The distance to Makarov needed to be shortened significantly and immediately.

A few hours of trucking through the uneven roads led me to a smaller town to the northwest. I entered it in caution, tucking my rifle into the large parka as best I could. The people were bustling around despite the drizzle and shot wary looks my direction.
    One man with greying hair questioned me in a language I didn't know. I passed him to continue deeper into the town. The more distance I put between myself and the Task Force, the better luck I had of finding a way out of India. Makarov would jump on it if he heard Price was dead.
    A woman gingerly offered a loaf of baked bread my direction as I moved down a more secluded alley. She smiled without showing teeth and then held out her hand in expectation. I threw her one of the Rubles in the "ten" amount in my thigh pocket and took the bread, not caring if she accept the currency or not.
    I continued deeper into the town, hoping to find some sort of payphone. One call would have me out of the country in hours. I'd trap Makarov into believing Price was dead and kill him in the process.
    At this point I didn't care if it was quick or slow. Him dead was the ultimate goal.
    I crossed a quieter street into the shadows of a tiny alley between rickety buildings. My fingers peeled apart the sweet bread as I examined the area around me. No one was aware of anything...
    Except for the hooded figure walking my direction down the street.
    I raised my chin and then drew back into the darkness a little better. The figure rounded the corner to follow me, causing me to pick up a faster pace away from people; it was better I dealt with anyone without witnesses. If it was any of the three soldiers from the safehouse, I didn't know what exactly I'd do.
    I stopped at the entrance to a private yard, opening my mouth to question the stalker. My hands fumbled with my rifle as I turned, dropping the bread to the mucky ground. The strong figure was already slamming me back against the material of the house, their face hidden.
    "You fucker," I spat, pulling the barrel of my stolen weapon to their chin. I felt a blade sink into the soft skin of my throat, a threat. "Who are you?"
    The figure snatched back my hood first, revealing my hardened features and messy ponytail with the natural look I'd revealed to few. They suddenly released me entirely, drawing away from holding my throat captive. I avoided coughing by facing them with a glare.
    "Sam?"
    I perked up, the smooth voice hitting familiar memories. As the attacker drew back their hood, my heart picked up a faster pace and made my chest hurt. We both let out a breath of disbelief, hazel eyes wide and mouths gaped.
    "R-Roach?"