Friendly Fire

To my new readers: Welcome! Please note that this is a sequel. If you’d like to follow the story from the start I suggest starting from “Forged in Ruin”.

To my old readers: Welcome back! I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

Trigger Warning: suicide attempts, self-harm, excess alcohol consumption

The laptop screen shone an eerie glow as his eyes were flicking from one screen to the next. He rubbed them, dry and aching, like sand had settled behind his lids. The screen was divided into numerous smaller sections all showing camera captures from multiple areas. Scratching his shaved head, he huffed after staring at the tiny screen for what seemed like an infinite amount of time.

Blindly, he went for the mug and took a sip, spitting it back instantly. The ice-cold coffee hit his tongue like a shock and the bitterness seeped into the taste buds like acid. He raised from the chair and went to make a fresh pot when an alarming noise caught his attention causing his movements to falter.

Beep, beep, beep.

“Derʹmo.”

(Shit.)

He snapped his gaze towards the screen once more. Nothing. No movement whatsoever.

Yet one of the sensors went off. He grumbled dropping the mug with a loud clink on the kitchen counter. Hurriedly, he snatched his AK-105 and rushed outside, praying it was simply an animal like it usually was.

With the rifle butt seated securely in his shoulder, he swept the perimeter, his mind razor sharp. His boots sunk slightly in the soft earth covered by the dense vegetation brushing against his shin.

His crystal blue eyes swept the treeline, branches swaying with the wind, and leaves rustling in a scattered rhythm. The ambience was peaceful and silent. A combatant’s worst enemy.

The sensor that went off was the one covering the eastern sector. Thus, he moved towards the northeast hoping to catch the supposed intruder by flanking him and taking him by surprise.

He kneeled behind a tree, carefully analysing the environment in front of him. It took him approximately three minutes to arrive at his current location. The interloper could have moved anywhere by then.

Or he could have shifted exactly at his one o’clock.

In disbelief, his mouth gaped slightly open. The threat was unfortunately very much real. He could see the person donning woodland camo, a tan balaclava with a matching tac-vest and boots, blending perfectly within the surrounding environment. He was kneeling, weapon relaxed in his grip scanning the house below the ridge.

He aimed down his sights, the hostile seated perfectly within his red dot. His trigger finger itching to depress the curved metal underneath it.

Regrettably, his orders were clear. Bring in any hostile alive and breathing. With great contempt, he lowered his rifle slightly and approached the target with silence and utmost precision. He chose to step on the soft soil to avoid any unwanted sounds which provided an auspicious start to his approach.

He managed to maintain the element of surprise for quite some distance until a misstep caused the leaves to rustle beneath his boots. The noise betrayed him immediately. The hostile snapped around and gasped, spinning his rifle around.

He kicked the rifle from his grip and jammed his barrel in the hostile’s forehead.

“Dyornesh’sya umryosh. Ponyal?”

(Move and you’re dead. Understood?)

It was evident that something got lost in translation as the hostile knocked the weapon aside with a sharp strike to his forearm. There were a certain precision and sharpness in his movements which concerned him even more. He landed a punch in his stomach and a clean left upper cut to his jaw.

Enraged at the audacity of the enemy attacking him and managing to even touch him, he used all his force to ram his fist aimed at the hostile’s head. The intruder fell with a groan to the ground, arms sprawled and not moving an inch.

Da yob tvoyu mat…

(Fuck me…)

If the dickhead’s dead, he was going to be really pissed. He was still earning his comrades’ trust; he did not need a black mark on his reputation this early in the collaboration.

With great uncertainty and apprehension, he approached the hostile placing two fingers on his neck. Squinting his eyes, he tried to detect some hint of life coming from this fucker.

Thump, thump, thump.

There it was.

Phew, that was close.

Grabbing the intruder from his tac-vest, he hauled him over his shoulder. At least, there would be no physical exertion considering the perpetrator weighed extremely lightly. He needed to carb load and would suggest adding some protein to his diet.

Before leaving, he grabbed the enemy’s weapon so he could inspect it later.

As he started shuffling to make his way towards the house, he caught something in his peripheral vision. Blending perfectly in the surroundings, there was a tan military backpack snuck in some vegetation. Assuming that it was the perpetrator’s, he grabbed it by its sling and brought it with him.

Re-entering the house, he did not waste time to dash towards the box room at the far end of the corridor. He dropped the hostile as ungently as possible on the chair and started binding him with ropes.

Since he was the one on shift, the other two soldiers were resting in their respective rooms. They both worked long hours, but this needed their immediate attention.

He knocked on the door and peeked his head in.

“What is it, Yuri?”

“An intruder has been captured. He’s being held in the box room.”

“Bloody hell… Go get Soap.”

Yuri held the door to the cramped space where the hostile was being held, still donning his balaclava.

“Any idea who he is?” asked Soap.

Yuri shook his head. “Won’t know until we remove face covering. He had assault rifle; looks like HK416 and backpack. I have not inspected anything yet.”

He turned to the other men who had worry lines etched in their expressions. Who could blame them? Maintaining anonymity was imperative in their situation. All of it went up in a puff of smoke thanks to the intruder bound in front of them.

“Price?” Yuri pressed on. “Your call.”

Price narrowed his eyes, observing the unconscious captive in front of him. He cursed internally as he thought they were safe enough to be away from any possible intrusions. It seemed he was in the wrong. And he despised being in the wrong.

“Go for it, Soap,” he ordered.

Soap came forward, grabbing the top of the balaclava with conviction. With one fluid movement, he lifted it off and gasped. Price and Soap looked in disbelief as Yuri was puzzled at their shocked reactions.

“Christ Almighty…”

Five days earlier…

The apartment was drowned in darkness with the exception for the light seeping through the uneven closing of the blinds. The gloom was the perfect accompaniment to the explosions and firefight happening just outside the building.

New York was under siege by the Ultranationalists. The war was in full swing with the Russians hitting the United States with a savage vengeance. Vladimir Makarov hit back with a newfound menace and he was not going to back down soon.

The woman who was lying on the floor snorted. They made her think she was making a difference. She thought her sacrifices were leaving an impact on the results of the war.

This mission will tip the scales in our favour, they had said.

What a bunch of bullshit.

The back of her head thumped dangerously, immense pressure building incessantly behind her eyes. Empty alcohol bottles were strewn near her legs. Vodka, Jack Daniels, and Gin. On the shelf opposite her stood an unopened bottled of whiskey gathering dust. The bottle stood by its lonesome untouched by her lips despite her hands itching to grab hold of it and down it in one sitting.

But she couldn’t.

Whiskey was one of his choices for alcohol. It reminded her too much of him. Of them. And she wasn’t ready to open Pandora’s box. She did not need any more misfortunes in her current state. So, she let it be.

The floorboards creaked under her while she shifted her ass trying to find a less numbing position. She forgot how long she stood sitting on the floor, her back leaning against the wall staring into the nothingness. Was it hours? Days? Maybe weeks? She had no clue.

The dust dancing in the light beams was the only semblance of life around the apartment. For the past two months, Christianne Reynolds spent her time either crying her eyes out, wailing, screaming till her throat hurt, or drowning her sorrows with alcohol. Her neighbours constantly banged on her door threatening to kill her if she wouldn’t shut up. If she wasn’t always exhausted out of her damn mind, she would have unlocked the door for them and let them in to carry out the deed.

She was secretly hoping that the Ultranationalists fighting in the streets would roam inside her apartment building and plant a bullet between her eyes.

She did try to accomplish it herself, but her finger on the trigger stood too rigid and the gun trembled excessively in her hand. She was too tensed to go through with it. Thus, she locked her Sig Sauer back in the safe and never attempted it again.

Instead, she opted for another method. She had grabbed her tactical knife, the blade shining under the stark lighting in her bathroom. Sitting in her shower, she had dragged the blade down her wrist, releasing a rivulet of red down her flesh.

With great misfortune, Hernandez had found her just in time and stopped the bleeding instantly. As the peace started washing over her, she had been yanked back to the harsh realities of the world.

Cannot even perform suicide in peace in this goddamn place, she had thought, disgruntled.

As a last resort, she turned to the bottle. If the bullet wasn’t going to kill her and if the blade did not do the job, alcohol poisoning will. She spent all her waking moments with her throat tingling each time the spirit warmed her up as it went down the hatch. They say alcohol numbs the feelings. What does it actually accomplish when you’re already feeling nothing at all?

Because that’s how Reynolds felt. Her eyes stung with the threat of tears that never came. She was too depleted to cry. Black ink engulfed her mind, body, and soul. She never imagined that it was possible for someone to drown on dryland. Yet she was living proof of it.

The lock on the front door clicked and a squeaking sound echoed through the apartment. She expressed a sigh of relief, hoping someone was trying to burgle her and end her misery at the same time.

Footsteps shuffled near her; her eyes fell on two pairs of combat boots pointing towards her.

“Make it quick,” she murmured.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Royal Highness.”

Reynolds grumbled and rubbed her eyes trying to ease the dryness.

“Fuck off, Ward.”

“What the hell are you doing slumped on the floor hermana. Get the fuck up, Sergeant!”

She forced herself to lift her gaze. A pair of round green eyes were boring into hers as she swept strands of brown hair away from her face. Lieutenant Genesis Hernandez was glaring at her expecting losers to blast from it. If she kept that up, Reynolds was sure to burst into flames.

On her other side stood Sergeant Ava Ward with her unmistakable honey-coloured hair, heavy on the top and shaved on the sides. A burn mark covered her left side of the neck whilst a deep gash decorated her right side, courtesy of their ex-colleague who nearly killed her in his process of betraying them.

Reynolds huffed, “I’m not a sergeant anymore. I’m a civilian. Or have you forgot?”

“When was the last time you showered?” inquired Ward, her nose scrunching. “You stink.”

She looked down to her t-shirt and observed the mysterious stains spread haphazardly on the fabric which looked somewhat old. Was that spaghetti sauce? Wait, she ate spaghetti last week. Was it that long?

“Let’s go!” barked Hernandez.

They slipped their arms under her armpits and hauled her towards the bathroom. Protesting, Reynolds started behaving like an unruly brat. She kicked around and tried yanking herself free from the unyielding grip of both soldiers.

They opened the shower glass door and threw her in with her clothes on. She squealed as the frigid water hit her causing her muscles to spasm instantly. Her hair and clothes ended up soaked clinging to her like a second skin.

"What the actual fuck?!"

“You’ve been wallowing in this goddamn apartment for months on end. I’m fucking sick of it!” Hernandez roared at the top of her lungs.

The shower door snapped open and she felt hands clutching at her clothes. She looked down and found herself naked.

“Scrub yourself, or so help me God, I will come in and do it myself!”

“Fine, fine! Damn!”

The loofah felt uncomfortable scratchy in her hand as she doused it in her bergamot shower gel. Yet it felt unusually soothing while she started scrubbing it against her skin. It felt like she wasn’t only removing the layer of dead skin cells but also the black fog that stuck to her flesh stubborn and unforgiving. Next, she dipped her fingertips in her hair and started working the shampoo in a lather.

Glancing through the shower enclosure, she noticed Hernandez and Ward were still standing watch. The latter was fiddling with a cigarette she always kept rested on her ear.

“Thank fuck for the shower,” Ward quipped. “I can bloody breathe again.”

Reynolds thanked Ward the way she knew how; by flipping her the bird, eliciting a chuckle from her.

Hernandez threw her a towel and ordered her to get dressed.

“Why?”

“We’re going somewhere.”