Call of Desire

30. Turmoil

tur·moil
/ˈtərˌmoil/
noun
a state of great disturbance, confusion, or uncertainty.

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Content Warning: Blood, Gun Violence, Gore, Graphic Descriptions

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"Price, the building is in sight." Calling through comms, Soap pulled the rifle off his back. He checked the magazine of his M4A1, making sure it was fully loaded as they approached.

"Hold back while we take out the guards," Price ordered.

Ghost and Soap obeyed, crouching in the snow.

"Move forward, slowly. Be wary of unexpected men."

"Rog'." Both men responded as they moved forward.

"To the east," Ghost muttered, bringing John's attention to a guard smoking a cigarette, his back facing the two.

"You want him?"

"I'll take him." Standing, Simon removed a throwing knife from the belt on his chest, holding the blade. He flung it at the guard, sinking it into the back of his neck. Letting out a quiet choking noise, the man crumpled to the concrete.

Soap smiled. "Beautiful, sir."

He nudged John's shoulder. "You get the next."

"Yes, sir."

As ordered, Soap carefully snuck up behind and slit the throat of the next guard they came across. His blood splattered across the snow and his body writhed as he collapsed.

"Only one left," The Captain reminded them.

"Move in," Ghost ordered. Creeping up behind the last guard, John quickly snapped his neck before he could make a sound.

"Clear?" Soap asked, carefully observing his surroundings.

"Clear," Confirming, Ghost and Soap approached the open door. "We start on the second floor, we'll work our way down."

"Copy."

The first floor was empty. Most of Makarov's men resided in the top three or four floors, leaving the bottom ten or so completely empty. Or so they thought.

"First charge planted," Soap reported, hiding the two-pound brick of C4 in an empty filing cabinet. He didn't want any of them to be discovered before detonation.

"Good, keep at it. Everything looks clear from here." The Captain replied.

Pulling another brick of explosive out of his bag, Soap carefully moved to the next room, Ghost on his tail.

The Scotsman enjoyed the feeling of safety that washed over him as Ghost covered his movements. He enjoyed it when the stronger man stood over him, the barrel of his rifle pointed at the door.

"Six planted," he reported to Price after a short time. "Six more for this floor before we move to the next."

"Copy."

"You doing alright, Simon?" Soap asked.

"Yeah," the Brit responded, peeking around the corner. "Clear. Let's get moving."

"Yes, sir."

"Soap, Ghost, I've got several pairs of boots headed your way." Price reported hurriedly.

"How do they know we're here?" John hissed, pulling his rifle from his back.

"I don't know, stay quiet. Maybe they don't." Ghost muttered as he shifted position.

Moments later, rushed steps and yelling could be heard.

"Follow me. We'll avoid them, head up a few floors."

"Why not down?"

"They're already below us."

John pointed to the ceiling. "They're above us too!"

"They won't expect it."

"Fuck, fine."

The men slowly worked their way toward the stairwell, avoiding open areas.

Ghost held his fist in the air, signalling for Soap to stop as they reached the end of a hallway. Looking around the corner, the Brit counted at least ten men. Cursing under his breath, he turned around.

"Don't move." A pistol was pressed to John's temple from behind. The man gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the floor. The Scotsman was on his knees, his hands raised in surrender. "Gun on the ground."

Fear coursed through Simon, his hands shaking. Johnny... his Johnny had a gun to his head.

His mind raced, picturing John's brain splattered across the wall to his left, his body laying limply on the floor. Ghost pictured John's beautiful blue eyes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling.

No, no, no, no...

"Okay, okay," Simon complied, breathing shakily. Slowly setting his weapon on the floor, he raised his trembling hands. "Take it easy."

"The others." The man muttered, referencing the numerous knives strapped to Simon's chest.

Ghost obeyed, watching as Soap took advantage of the man's divided attention. The Scotsman carefully slid the hidden knife from his sleeve into his hand, quickly stabbing the man's thigh, a strained scream coming from him.

Shit.

"Move, Simon!" John shouted, pulling the knife from the man's flesh, and thrusting it into his skull. Retrieving his weapons, Simon fired into the group of men that rushed toward them from the opposite direction.

"The stairs! Go, Johnny!"

Scrambling to his feet, the younger man sprinted in the direction of the stairwell, Ghost close behind him. They burst through the door, quickly making their way up, clearing whatever men were unlucky enough to be heading towards them.

"Here!" John called, kicking open the stairwell door once the reached floor seven. They immediately faced more men, taking cover around a corner.

They all exchanged bullets, Simon throwing his knives as well, creating chaos among the enemy.

John flashed back to Iran. He shot one man, and two more would take his place. Surrounded by enemies. Nowhere to run. He could hear the screams of his teammates as they fell. His hip throbbed, nearly making him collapse.

"I'm running low!" John called, pulling the shotgun off his back, and using it to keep the seemingly endless enemies back. Ghost tossed him a magazine.

"Contact Price!" The Brit yelled, pausing to reload.

Obeying, Soap crouched behind a wall. "Price! We've been compromised, taking effective fire!"

"Do you have a way out?"

"No, We're cornered!"

"Are either of you injured?" Price asked calmly.

"No, we're fine!"

"Secure yourselves while we come up with a plan." Exhaling, the Captain went radio silent.

"Copy!" Soap called, returning to the fight. He calmly allowed himself to focus, merely aiming and tapping on heads.

The number of enemies began to dwindle, bodies piling on the floor. The smell of fresh blood filled the air.

With only a few men remaining, John was forced to pull away and reload. Ghost had no trouble taking out two of the three.

But the last hostile made his final shot count.