Note: This should have been updated sooner, but I was travelling recently without easy access to reliable internet. Good news is that I'm currently working on Chapter 8 and have put in about 1,000 words. Bad news is that final papers and exams are coming up, so it may be a few weeks for me to finish it. That said, I'm genuinely shocked this story is about to hit 40,000 words… this is truly the first time I've written anything of this magnitude. I thank you immensely for reading and taking this journey with me!
"I thought you said you weren't followed?" MacTavish spat. He advanced on Isayev, whose downcast face was unreadable as she hunched forward and rested her arms on her bent knees, taking a moment to catch her breath in the monastery's dining hall. Roach observed four less members in Isayev's group as they huddled in the small room.
As MacTavish loomed over her, she moved mechanically to straighten her posture and steadied her ragged breath.
"We took all necessary measures, I assure you," She sneered. "But somethings are unavoidable."
"Necessary measures? Such as forgoin' stealth in order to humiliate us?" MacTavish barked.
"I have lost four of my men – do not insult me by suggesting I would intentionally bring attention to ourselves and place the lives of my comrades at unnecessary risk," Isayev stepped forward, within a foot from the captain, glaring hard at MacTavish.
"Not sayin' it was intentional – just that I wouldn't leave out the possibility of sloppy tactics," MacTavish grimaced, standing his ground.
"John," Price called his former subordinate quietly, stepping forth from the wall of soldiers that encircled the two leaders. "I was explaining to you and Sanderson the other day that someone will track us here eventually… given the proper persuasion tactics, my bought out contacts in the Armenian government would disclose the true intent of my little establishment here. Who knows how long our new friends might've been lying in wait for their opportunity."
Roach nodded slowly to himself. While none of them had anticipated the ambush Price's insight was hardly unreasonable. And as much as he was uncertain about trusting the Russian commander – heck, even as much as he genuinely disliked her – he acknowledged that it seemed unlikely that she would be careless about detection. If he grudgingly admired anything about the woman, it was her dedication to her cause.
The group of soldiers sat in silence for several seconds. MavTavish and Isayev took several steps from one another; neither of their features had softened in the slightest. The staccato of gunfire had ceased since their retreat into the monastery. Gary figured that they all knew the unknowns were advancing on their current position; it was the logical course of action and it was only a matter of time before the hideout was attacked directly. He peered at Simon who stood across the room, pondering what was running through the other man's mind.
Wonder if he got Isayev's word about killing Shepherd on the recorder…
He heard Ghost clear his throat, "I think we all know who's behind the attack – Shadow Company."
"Aye… you're both right," MacTavish nodded to acknowledge Price and Ghost as he stepped further away from Isayev. "We need to act fast. They had the element of surprise and we can't out rule the possibility of bein' surrounded." He glanced at the Russian commander, forced a neutral expression, "Isayev – are you able to contact your pilot?"
"Yes. But first – Orlov, Sharapov," Isayev regarded two of her soldiers. "Return their weapons."
Ghost, MacTavish, and Price received their heavy armaments and slung them across their backs.
"Price," Nikolai's voice cracked over the captain's radio. "The hostiles are advancing on your position. I have not yet fired, awaiting on your signal. They have not detected me on the rooftop. Over."
"Who the hell is that?" Isayev's eyes narrowed. Roach noticed that her hand hover over her holstered sidearm. Several of her men mimicked her gesture and looked at her as if anticipating orders. He placed his fingers over the safety strap of his own pistol, should he need to release it from the holster.
"Wouldn't you know, we've got ourselves our own Russian pilot," MacTavish replied as he examined his own rifle. "Sorry – must've slipped our minds."
"Can't be too careful," Ghost shrugged, casually glancing at MacTavish. His nonchalant tone was curious to Roach, he rather felt as if he was missing out on an inside joke.
"Contact your pilot – check in and see if he can navigate to our position," Price suggested to Isayev. "If we can use his bird to escape the vicinity, our Nikolai has his own pave low not too far from here. Between the two helis it's enough to ensure we all make it out of here alive."
Isayev's jaw looked painfully clenched as she nodded curtly. Yet Isayev seemed more compliant towards the older captain, Roach observed, since Price had reasoned with MacTavish when the Scotsman had been quick to blame the Russian for the invasion.
"I will speak in Russian if they are already listening in on our frequency," Isayev replied, directing her words at Price.
"Good," MacTavish agreed. He walked over to Price and held out a hand for the personal radio. Price placed it in his palm. "But first, introduce yourself to Nikolai. Tell him the plan in Russian."
Isayev snatched the radio briskly, eyes narrowed into slits, but she addressed Nikolai in her native tongue. Russian voices crackled over the radio as the two parties communicated the plan.
"Sanderson," Ghost's concerned voice suddenly filled Roach's ear as the lieutenant appeared in his peripheral vision. "Saw you hit the ground out there, you alright?"
"Yeah…" Gary muttered, feeling embarrassed about his recent vision of Shepherd. He glanced into the skeleton mask that bordered the small visible portion of Simon's face, the lieutenant's eyebrows forming heavy lines above his weary blue eyes. Gary knew he was a piss poor liar, especially when it came to his emotions. He also wanted to confide the truth to Simon, who appeared genuinely concerned about the incident.
"Actually, fuck no… When the gunfire started out there, I saw Shepherd attack me. And I know it's ridiculous. I know he's dead."
"That's your brain still processin' what happened. I've experienced it myself… after my lovely holiday in Mexico," Ghost replied quietly.
Gary expected that Simon might offer something further but Price interrupted.
"Nikolai," he barked into the radio. "What'd she tell you?"
Everyone listened as Nikolai confirmed the discussed plan in English. He used previously discussed code words for identifiers like 'helicopter' and 'monastery.' Isayev had not twisted the proposal. They were all on the same page.
"Right then," MacTavish spoke. "Let's see if we can take out a few of these bastards along the way, eh? Price, Sanderson – keep this area secure and wait for Nikolai's signal once we've got our exfil inbound. Isayev, gather your men – we're goin' to the rooftop."
In the cover of darkness, the ragtag squadron of Russian and British soldiers ascended the monastery rooftop where they found Nikolai keeping watch on the advancing Shadow Company. Despite the unanticipated ambush, Ghost rather thought it was a miracle that Isayev's pilot and helicopter had not been detected. This was the second time that the presence of the Russian paramilitary group was vital to the protection of the task force.
"Everyone keep low, use the pillars inside the central turret for cover. Chances are they'll 'ave thermal detection and once the heli flies over, it'll give away our exact positions… let's try'n delay exposure as long as possible," MacTavish suggested.
Ghost braced himself behind a stone pillar for cover to aid Nikolai with the watch. MacTavish took up the opposite side with Isayev and her men filled in the gaps.
"Detected two groups, one from the east, one from west," Nikolai explained. "About fifteen men in each."
Ghost scanned the horizon and confirmed the movement of white-hot figures through his thermal scope. The hostiles were still a way's off yet advancing quickly. He momentarily lowered the scope to view the collection of soldiers on the rooftop who bunkered down for cover. MacTavish was roughly fifteen feet away, bracing himself behind a pillar on the inside of the gazebo-like structure. He thought about Roach, who was downstairs, and his earlier reaction to the previous firefight.
Bloody hell, this outta be the last thing Sanderson needs right now. He's still tryin' to recover from Shepherd.
Ghost worried whether Roach could handle another firefight in his psychologically fragile state. Yet the man demonstrated no sign of apprehension at the impending arrival of their new friends. He had to hand it to Gary, the sergeant was likely more stable now than Simon had been after encountering the betrayal of Sparks and Washington. Then again, the two American soldiers had murdered his entire family at Christmastime. Even now, he gritted his teeth at the thought of Sparks' façade and the welcoming way he had tried to manipulate Simon into admitting some kind of longing and desire for Roba's brainwashing tactics. His pulse intensified as images washed over his vision – his mother's death-blank stare, a pronounced bullet hole on his brother's forehead, the little blood-soaked socks of his nephew's corpse beneath the Christmas tree. He fingered the sniper rifle's trigger, thought about unloading an entire magazine into the approaching enemies as if the action would provide the long sought after catharsis he needed…
Ghost forced his breathing to slow, knew the risk was not worth his personal bloodlust. He focused on the lives he needed to protect now.
"Anatoli will fly low and release a ladder for our escape," Isayev whispered to the group.
"Once they ready their aim, let's take 'em by surprise," MacTavish ordered. "Target with your snipers."
The men sat in silence for several minutes in wait until the white-hot figures were close.
"They've paused," Ghost shared, peering through his scope. "Looks like they're scoutin' for our positions."
"Fire when ready," MacTavish urged.
Ghost lined up a white silhouette with the crosshair in the rifle's scope. His finger applied pressure to the trigger, the gunshot crackling over the grassy plain as the shell hit the stone floor with a clink. The white figure slumped to the ground as the dozen surrounding bodies scrambled to lay prone or run. He heard gunshots from Nikolai and Isayev's men reverberate within the small stone structure.
Shards of stone and dirt debris shattered across Ghost's scope as he attempted to take aim at another figure. The assailants were firing back.
A Russian not five feet from Ghost screamed out in his native tongue, Isayev called out his name in shock.
"We need to get him downstairs – now!" She yelled.
"Hold on, it'll slow us down to bring him back up here once we've our extraction. Just bring him over to the center for cover. Keep him low," MacTavish reasoned.
"Anatoli – how much longer?" Ghost heard Isayev ask her radio desperately.
"Three minutes to your position, commander," The Russian pilot replied.
"We'll keep 'em at a distance," Ghost kept his tone confident to maintain morale. He edged his rifle over the opposite side of the crumbling pillar, took aim at the white silhouettes. In this past, the cynical side of him rather considered how modern technology like a thermal scope completely dehumanized warfare; made killing less personal and more virtual. Yet it was situations like this that made it easy to disavow the ethics of modern combat. It was his life or theirs.
He squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle's kickback into his shoulder, heard the clang of a metal shell upon damp stone, and another tango laid still.
Ghost heard another yell, thick and bubbling. Isayev swore loudly in Russian; while the words were unknown to Ghost the logical conclusion following the previous guttural scream meant one thing – man down. His intuition had been correct: Isayev offered the deal to Task Force 141 because her men were novice soldiers. It seemed, to him, that her group had been lucky with Shepherd as the general had never foreseen the ambush.
The barrage of enemy gunfire drowned Ghost's audio senses until he heard the distinct crunch of bone snapping as a body slumped down a nearby pillar onto the floor, the eyes of the recently living soldier glazed, the face frozen in slack-jawed surprise.
"You need to fire and take cover for a moment before you attempt another shot! Each time you shoot, you give away your exact position!" Ghost yelled above the firefight, his growing voice hoarse, as he crouched below the stone pillar for protection.
It's futile, they ain't gonna listen. They're startin' to panick. They weren't expectin' this...
Ghost inched the business end of the sniper rifle over the side of an adjacent pillar, remaining crouched, and edged the scope until he perceived the white figures that scrambled across his line of sight, noticed one that paused in position to reload. He lined the crosshair over the body, held his breath to steady his shot, and eased his finger on the trigger. Another tango down, the satisfaction fleeting.
But it ain't enough, the Russians are droppin' like bloody flies.
A quiet whirring suddenly called his attention above the gunshots, the staccato of metal shells raining upon the damp stone, the click as new magazines were loaded, and the mayhem of frantic voices and groans of agony.
Thuwmpthuwmpthwumpthwumpthuwmpthuwmpthwumpthwump – a slow, gradual crescendo, the most pleasant sound Ghost had heard in days.
"The heli!" MacTavish yelled. Ghost could barely discern the Scotsman across the circular stone dwelling's expanse – a mere fifteen feet – through the thickening smoky discharge and the swirling chalk-white dust accumulating from the bullet-ridden stone.
They needed to keep fighting. Ghost aimed his sniper across the dark horizon but failed to detect any white-hot moving bodies. The hostiles had advanced significantly since his last visualization if the soldiers had navigated out of his line of sight.
Bollocks!
"Price here," Nikolai's radio crackled. "We've got contact. They're attempting to breach the front door. Reckon they're planting a charge now."
Ghost hefted his sniper rifle and crouched over to MacTavish; the captain and Isayev fired at hostiles still approaching from the opposite direction.
"Sir, Price and Sanderson ought to have support down there," Ghost suggested.
"Aye, we've got the place covered! Bring 'em up here, evac's inbound."
Ghost charged towards the stairway, all the while listening for the sound of an explosion, anticipating the breach. Sweat collecting under his balaclava dripped over his eyes, blurring his vision as his heavy boots slipped down several stairs in his haste, the loose gravel catching him off guard. He nearly tripped over a cot when he rushed into the makeshift dormitory, his heartbeat erratic from the run and the adrenaline coursing through his system.
Price and Roach snapped their heads at his sudden arrival, the two men huddled by the doorframe adjacent to the corridor.
"Heli's nearly here," Ghost panted.
BOOOOOOM!
A flash of light illuminated the doorway behind Price and Roach, who brandished their weapons.
Ghost made to charge forward but Price lifted a fist, signaling him to stop. The field captain turned to look at him, pointed out into the hall, and mouthed "flash bang."
Tentative footsteps echoed in the hallway along with ragged breathing. He heard hushed voices providing orders, the soft click as magazines entered gunmetal chambers, as the yellow beam of a torch highlighted a strip on the floor of the dark stone hallway.
Price nodded at Roach and the two soldiers chucked their flashbangs down the corridor towards the breached door, taking aim such that the explosives would land at the feet of the new arrivals. The flash bangs detonated into blinding white light. The three men covered their ears in anticipation of the concussive waves; even with the preventative action, Ghost still experienced the uncomfortable shock to his body, cringing slightly from the sensation.
"No time for pot shots, let's get the hell out of here," Price grunted.
They sprinted back towards the stairs that Ghost had descended moments prior. He paused, stood momentarily aside to allow Price and Roach to take up the front, all the while he listened for activity to their rear. Frantic, confused voices and disjointed pelts of erratic gunfire – but nothing that was discernable within an uncomfortably close distance.
"It came from the room to the left!" an American voice echoed as Ghost followed the lead of Price and Roach up the stairs.
"Go, go, go!" Another voice coughed.
Ghost was about to turn the corner of the staircase when he heard movement. Gunfire erupted in his eardrums, which rang painfully as the sound reverberated in the contained space of the stairway.
He ducked as he turned the corner, nearly falling to his face with the quick, sudden evasion. He collected himself on his palms, which scrapped uncomfortably hard across the raw stone, even with gloves protecting his skin. He was scrambling to upright himself when he noticed a pair of camo-clad legs towering above him. Ghost peered upward as he righted himself; even with his injuries Roach managed the proper stance for holding his handgun, the sergeant positioning himself at the ready for any hostiles that might flank their location.
Sanderson held his aim at the corner until Ghost stood fully from the ground. He moved behind the safety of Roach's aim.
Ghost, impressed with his sergeant's quick response, nodded in acknowledgement. Sanderson returned the nod, maintaining his aim as both men listened for movement below their position. Ghost raised his rifle to provide support.
The scrape of a boot across rock announced the assailant before the Shadow Company solider stepped into view, face hidden behind a half-mask and helmet. Sanderson fired his handgun twice, hitting the soldier in the chest, the body crumpling down the stairs.
As the corpse fell, Roach's arm shook erratically, the handgun slowly lowering to his side.
"Fuck," Roach breathed. His tremor continued, moving gradually from his arm to his entire body.
"Let's go!" Price's voice called from somewhere above. "Heli's here!"
Ghost paused for a moment, weapon trained on the stairway, but no other movement or sound occurred. He locked eyes with Roach, knowing it was insufficient for offering his support, but it was the best he could manage given the circumstances. The trauma was affecting Roach in ways physically and psychologically beyond his control; Ghost knew all too well what it was like to experience the effects of post-traumatic stress. The man would likely require therapy and being on the frontline was not the place for him, not at a time like this.
Roach's eyes met Ghost as sweat beaded at his brow. The man's shaking gradually subsided.
"I've got the rear, go on," Ghost urged.
They scampered to the rooftop without further incident. Anxious relief and exhilaration washed over Ghost in a hot wave of sweat that broke out across his flesh as he spotted the helicopter hovering above the monastery. The last of Isayev's men were ascending a rope-ladder dangling below as Ghost counted four corpses resulting from the skirmish.
Price and MacTavish greeted them below the copter.
"Let's have Sanderson first," MacTavish ordered. Roach hesitated a fraction of a second.
"No time to argue," Ghost shoved Sanderson towards the ladder. "Hostiles inbound," he informed the captains as Roach grabbed hold and climbed.
"You and Price next," MacTavish yelled.
"When hell freezes over, Soap," Price grinned. "You see, I've one last flash grenade to dispose of while you climb that ladder," he said, running for the stairway threshold with the explosive in hand.
"That man…" MacTavish groaned at his mentor's disobedience. "C'mon Riley, we're outta here," he shouted above the swirling helicopter blades. Ghost began to climb, several feet behind his sergeant.
Price was already latched onto the bottom rung of the rope ladder as the helicopter began to ascend upwards into the atmosphere. Ghost looked down at the monastery, the ancient building resembling a miniature model with each passing second, complete with a squadron of animated toy soldiers that poured onto the roof and fired tiny model guns. As the cool rush of wind swept past, he felt his pulse gradually resume to its normal rate.
Ghost clambered up the swaying ladder and hauled his weight into the open side door of the helicopter. A pair of gloved hands gripped at the straps of his ammo vest to assist him into the cabin.
"Thanks, mate," Ghost replied, keeping things professional in proximity of the Russians, taking a step away from the sergeant as he straightened himself inside the helicopter.
Yet as Ghost surveyed the helicopter bay, he realized there was little need for his restraint. Isayev was beside an injured soldier, applying a dressing to an arm grazed by a bullet. Her men nursed their wounds and their wounded, eyes downcast or fixated on the status of a nearby comrade.
This ought to be a rather humblin' experience for her… at least eight of her men dead…
Nikolai was crouched behind the pilot, likely relaying the coordinates of his own nearby pave low, Ghost figured. MacTavish hefted himself inside followed by Price, both men panting heavily as they approached Roach and Ghost.
"You old prick," MacTavish landed a playful punch on Price's shoulder after a moment of rest. "Just 'cause you were my captain in the S.A.S., you think you get to do whatever the hell you want, eh?"
"Don't need to think it, Soap – I do what I damn well please," Price crossed his arms, winded. "Still looking out for you, even after all these years. Only problem is I've got these muppets to worry about, too."
MacTavish pursed his lips thoughtfully but the frown fractured into a small smile at Price's words. Ghost glanced at Roach, who aside from looking exhausted, seemed pleasantly surprised by the captain's affectionate statement, if the small grin playing on his lips was any indication. Even Ghost had to appreciate the gesture, and for a brief moment, their easy disposition made it feel just like old times – before the betrayal and disavowal. Perhaps the others had momentarily thought the same; everyone was quiet as the copter flew higher and further from the ground.
"What now?" Ghost asked, surveying the task force. They had to face the inevitable – Shadow Company forced their retreat from the security of their hideout and they were once more at the whims of the Anti-Inner Circle movement.
"We split up," Isayev said. She abruptly stood up and made eye contact. Ghost bristled as she walked over to stand amongst the circle formed by the men; he had not been addressing her when he posed the question.
"We have two choppers between us. We confuse the enemy by splintering. We need to regroup and look into the intel on the DSM," she explained.
"We need more time to plan," Ghost blurted, "splittin' up at a stage like this could be dangerous – "
"Riley, it's not entirely out of the question," MacTavish interrupted. "Speakin' o' that, what was on the DSM?" He directed his attention back to Isayev.
Isayev continued as if Riley had not voiced his concern, "Correspondence with Makarov's mass weapons dealers – the big stuff planned for attacks on European cities. The dealers are in the former Eastern Bloc. We need to look into it before Makarov takes action."
"We go after them, we have our closest link to the bastard. But we need to deal with Shadow Company – they ain't gunna give up on us," Ghost interjected.
"In due time," MacTavish nodded. "Riley, I need you with me. We're followin' that intel with Isayev. We don't know how long we have before that particular trail goes cold. Price, Sanderson – I want you two to go with Nikolai to the loyalist hideout. Regroup and find out anythin' you can 'bout Shadow Company and their new leader."
The men nodded silently in agreement as Isayev glanced at them thoughtfully. Her earlier hostility towards MacTavish was visibly diminished. Perhaps in the aftermath of the fighting and his agreement with her plan, she now had a different perspective towards the captain. Ghost figured he probably was biased against Isayev – but not without good reason – she had on multiple occasions asserted an aggressive dominance that was unpredictable and risky. Yet she had not seemed the slightest bit perturbed by Ghost's attempt to counter her suggestion of splitting up, suggesting she had confidence in her strategies. Perhaps he had only fought against the suggestion because it had come from her; ultimately, he failed to see a logical alternative to the current course of action and knew it to be pointless to voice further protest.
"Price, Isayev - let's discuss with our pilots," MacTavish added, walking towards the front of the helicopter with the others following.
Ghost leaned against the wall of the helicopter, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours, the fatigue of his body finally registering now that his senses had a moment to focus beyond mere intuition and survival. His muscles ached, his knee that he used for crouching while aiming smarted, and his ears continued to ring in the aftermath of the gunfire and explosives. He slowly slid his back down the metal wall as his knees buckled beneath him from physical exhaustion, seating himself onto the floor. He peeled his balaclava from his face, allowing his skin to breathe in the cool air.
"Looks like we're heading separate ways," Roach said quietly as he seated himself next to Ghost.
Ghost raised his arm to his face, wiping the sleeve of his jacket across his skin to clean the traces of sweat and grime. Lowering his arm, he stared at his boots. Somehow, he figured that it was going to come down to this.
He slowly turned his head to face Roach, the sergeant's weary expression matching his own. Sanderson had a small scratch across his cheek but otherwise looked physically unharmed.
"You do the need time to recuperate," Ghost acknowledged. "It's nothin' to be ashamed of, but it'll take time to heal from the damage. Take it from me, the psychological can be worse than the physical."
Roach sighed in agitation as he leaned back and rested his head against the wall, "I'm angry. I want to be able to do more. To fight back." His gloved fingers balled into firsts.
"Look, you've the right to feel angry. Hell, I've sought revenge more than once in my lifetime. But the best thing you can do for yourself, for the mission, right now is to heal. You need to give yourself time."
Roach tousled his sweaty, matted hair absent mindedly, looking more than a bit dismayed as he stared at the group of demoralized soldiers seated in the helicopter.
Fuck holdin' back. It's done more bloody harm than good up 'til now.
"I know it's not what you want to hear, but the healin' process ain't an overnight thing. But I trust Price to look out for you – and hope you'll forgive me if it's selfish – but I've nothin' to worry about knowin' that."
Roach turned to look at Ghost and smiled, the first genuine smile Ghost had seen since prior to the assault on Makarov's safe house. Knowing that he meant the words, and that Roach felt better for hearing them, provided a sense of hope despite the encroaching division of the task force. They had a plan of action; against all odds, they had the information they needed to follow up on Makarov.
"Same goes for you – I know MacTavish has your back," Roach replied.
Ghost felt the heli plunge downward as their bodies swayed abruptly from the movement. They braced themselves on the wall, gripping onto the metal surface of the helicopter for support.
"Let's do this quickly – we are only a couple of miles from the hostiles," Anatoli barked from the pilot's seat as the bird landed beside Nikolai's chopper.
The task force exited the copter, following Nikolai, who busied himself with preparations for takeoff in the pilot's seat.
"Watch yourselves out there," Price addressed Ghost and MacTavish.
"Aye," MacTavish nodded. "You and Sanderson take care… and Nikolai? Perhaps tell your group to consider an alliance with Isayev's cause… I know you've differences and all but you're only givin' Makarov what he wants by forgoin' solidarity."
Price peered over his shoulder, as if to confirm the location of the Russians still seated in the other helicopter. "They're still radicals; different sides of the same bloody coin – them and Makarov's group – if you ask me," he grunted.
MacTavish locked eyes with Price, "There ought to be ways of findin' common ground."
Nikolai emerged from the pilot bay, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "We will discuss it, but it will help for Isayev to speak on behalf of their cause."
"As soon as we finish the recon at the weapon's dealer in the Eastern Bloc, we'll join up at the hideout. In the meantime, find out everythin' you can 'bout Shadow Company," MacTavish replied.
Price stepped forward and gripped his former subordinate around the shoulders. The two men embraced with an arm around the other's back.
"Be careful out there, Soap," Price said. "Remember what I've taught you."
Ghost glanced at Roach, who stood several feet away from the other men, as a corner of the sergeant's mouth twitched upward slightly at the parting embrace between the two captains. He stepped away from Price and MacTavish to close the distance between himself and Gary.
"Rest up, train, and you'll be good as new once the captain and I finish up our recon," Ghost said, offering his hand to his sergeant. Roach took hold with surprisingly strong grip, and a fraction of a second later, before Ghost could register what he was doing, the two men were bound in their own embrace, arms latching onto one another's backs.
Ghost tugged at the bulky ammo vest worn by Roach, felt more fabric than the actual body of the man he held in his arms yet the obstructions unsuccessfully deterred his needy grasp. His fingers kneaded the thick material until he felt the firm body beneath as he recalled their earlier conversation in the armory, just before Isayev's arrival. Ghost had maintained a stoic distance from Roach to maintain order in the squad, to avoid anything that might further complicate everything. Yet now they were faced with separation that might persist for weeks – hell, they were wanted dead by more than one party and, in their line of work, Ghost was hardly about to rule out the possibility of death, for either himself or Roach. They were standing on the edge of endless uncertainties and the only thing Ghost felt certain about was his need to feel the other man closer, more intimately. He failed to consider who might be watching as he pressed his forehead against Sanderson's and placed his hand at the nape of the other man's neck. Their faces were so close he felt Gary's hot breath across his skin as he breathed.
"Stay safe, Simon," Roach murmured as Ghost felt the warmth from the lips that grazed across his own.
The sincere and delicate touch sent a slight shiver through Ghost, his body desiring more contact. Fairly certain that Price, MacTavish, and Nikolai were tied up in their own good byes, and that the darkness prevented Isayev and her men from seeing their exchange, Ghost planted his own lips on Gary's, no longer hesitant or indirect with the touch.
Tentatively, Gary's hand moved behind Simon's head. He felt the other man's fingers twist into his short hair, pulling him in closer, the aroma of musky sweat and gunpowder strong but not unpleasant, the familiar scents overwhelming his senses. As he closed his eyes to take in the sensation of their lips pressed together, Simon felt Gary's warm tongue slide between his dry lips, entering his mouth gently. He felt Gary swirl his tongue around his own, slow at first and then quicker, slightly rough. Simon responded by gripping at Gary's neck with both hands, pulling their kiss tighter, their teeth gently clashing together as they pressed into one another, their bodies close despite the bulky fabric adorning them. He felt Gary's tongue slowly retreat, an invitation for him to explore the other man's mouth, as desire swelled within the pit of his stomach. He slid his tongue across the edge of Gary's bottom lip, gently bit the soft flesh and pulled at it slightly with his teeth. Filled with wanting, he applied more pressure with his incisors and tugged harder; Gary released a contented sigh of enjoyment in response to the bite. Simon, aroused by their bodily contact and his partner's response, ploughed his tongue into the other man's mouth, pressing his entire body into Gary. Yet Simon was momentarily surprised, rather expecting to take charge, when Gary sucked forcibly on his tongue, pulling him in even closer with the suction. As Gary intensified his sucking they twisted their faces to the side to accommodate their deepening kiss, the exchange growing heady as Gary consumed Simon's tongue, their pelvic regions grinding together. He felt Gary's teeth nibble as he intensified the momentum of the sucking sensation, an intoxicating mix of gentle pain and pleasure. Their stubble rubbed like sandpaper across flesh, the friction from the contact generating intense heat between them. After several long seconds that transported Simon from all thoughts of reality, Gary relinquished him from the kiss.
"You too, Gary… stay safe," Simon managed to breath. Slick saliva sealed his words as he planted his lips firmly across the other man's. Gary responded with a final press of his lips into Simon's as they slowly released their hands from each other's bodies. They turned towards their brothers in arms, brought back to the unfortunate situation.
Price busied himself with words between MacTavish and Nikolai. The old captain cleared his throat, looked up to acknowledge Ghost and Roach, his face an expression of forced neutrality in a concerted effort to avoid any sign that the two men's display of affection had made him uncomfortable.
Rather, Price approached Ghost and extended his arm. The lieutenant shook Price's hand firmly before they simultaneously pulled each other into a brief hug, each man clapping at the other's back.
"You keep an eye on Isayev… Soap is sharp, but he lacks your experience. Keep your wits about you," Price said.
"Got it, sir," Ghost affirmed as they pulled back.
Roach, MacTavish, and Nikolai were likewise exchanging parting words as Ghost and Price approached them. MacTavish directed a sly glance at Ghost, who momentarily dreaded that MacTavish would crack an awkward joke about how his lieutenant had received a "helluva nicer partin' gift" courtesy Sanderson, or a similarly cringe-worthy comment. Yet the captain restrained his cheeky tongue if any such thoughts had occurred to him.
"Captain MacTavish, Lieutenant Riley – we must be going!" Isayev shouted, stepping into the moonlit night.
MacTavish confirmed with a noncommittal "Aye" as she jogged over to Price.
"Here's a freq where you can reach us, and the times we will listen in for communications," She said, handing Price a sheet of paper. He nodded and placed the document into his jacket pocket.
"Now if you please – we need to put more distance between the hostiles," she directed her words at MacTavish and Ghost. He noticed that her eyes lingered on his face for several seconds, a searching look that he did not return.
The hell she starin' for?
He pondered her curious glance as she disappeared into the bird and realized that she had seen his physical face for the first time. And for some reason, her fascination made him slightly uncomfortable. For now, he stowed it in memory.
"Sanderson," Ghost called, holding out the ACR for Gary. "Take it with you, MacTavish and I ought to have plenty of gear with this lot."
"Thanks," Roach replied as he retrieved the gun from Ghost's grip. Ghost stared into his brown-green eyes, a slight ache settling into the pit of his stomach. But he did not resist his longing and instead focused on it for motivation, to focus on the task – the recon at Makarov's weapons dealer. The sooner it was completed, the sooner the task force would be united.
"Let's go, Riley," he felt MacTavish place a hand on his shoulder.
With their parting kiss having already said everything Ghost could imagine expressing in that moment, he nodded a final time towards Roach, followed his captain, and boarded the Russian helicopter for destiny unknown.