Wait For Me || John "Soap" MacTavish x OC (Call Of Duty)

36. Cold blood

John Price nervously twisted the half-smoked, stubbed-out cigar between his dusty fingers. 

He would have smoked it, Christ, if he'd wanted to, but letting the sweet, acrid tang of burning tobacco fill his lungs was for those moments when he felt content, like a cat by a fire. 

Instead, he simply wasn't. 

It wasn't so much what he had seen that made him restless, rather, it was what he hadn't seen. The charred corpse of that bastard Vladimir Makarov. 

He examined the intricate veins of the brown leaf almost as if he could find an answer to the questions swirling around in his skull. 

Beneath the tight, sand-coloured glove, he could feel his sweaty skin chafing against the seams. Normally it wouldn't have bothered him, but now it was driving him mad. 

The low, constant vibration of the helicopter's fuselage accentuated the dull ache of the bruises spreading across his body, saturated his nerves, and strained his tired joints. Instinctively, Price straightened his hunched back and his vertebrae cracked. 

He took a measured breath, the air thick with the smell of grease and gunpowder that cut sharply between his teeth, and control returned in waves, climbing from his chest to his nerves. 

Even through the dull throb of the blades in his headphones, he could feel Gaz's worried gaze cutting through the intermittent gloom, studying his reactions so he could adapt his own. 

The helicopter lurched, rattling the entire fuselage. The pilot corrected their course for the sudden turbulence, a harsh, but common wind for this unforgiving, rugged land that was Urzikstan. 

The Captain instinctively checked to make sure the impact hadn't thrown Farah from the seat a few metres away. He shouldn't have, he knew, but he was an old-fashioned man after all. 

With a sharp exhale, he returned his focus to the window, to the landscape that gradually gave way to the softer, more welcoming green of Kastovia. 

He felt the brittle cigar crack slightly under the dry grip of his fingertips, paused for a moment before crumbling it. It was going to be a bloodbath, he knew, but he wouldn't back down, even if it meant coming home in a metal box. 

They returned to base an hour later, just as dusk fell, the unforgiving sun of the Urzikstan plains now a rosy memory barely visible behind the mountain peaks. John wrinkled his nose as the damp, foggy air forced its way between the hinges of the hatch. 

He flung it open with a sharp snap before the helicopter had even touched down, and a gust of icy wind nearly tore his boonie from his head. He jumped out and his tactical boots hit the asphalt with a splash, muddying his trousers.

His mind raced as the rest of the squad splashed through the sodden field, their nervous footfalls a dry, staccato rhythm. John headed for the main hangar without looking back and, once the ragged shadow of the corrugated roof swallowed his steps, he snatched the laptop from the briefing table.

As if she'd anticipated his move with pinpoint accuracy, Kate Laswell was waiting calmly at the other end of the encrypted line. 

"John," she began, her gaze flickering across the blue LED screen, steady, but her lips were drawn tight.

The fact that, due to her experience, Kate was often one step ahead of him sometimes uncomfortably pricked his dormant pride. The captain sat at the table with a jerky motion, his fingers awkwardly gripping the computer's casing as he dragged it towards him. 

"I don't care if Congress buys General Shepard's fairy tale about successfully killing the dangerous terrorist before pissing off. Makarov's not dead, Kate. Not for me," he growled, as the words jumbled behind clenched teeth.