Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 9 / 10
Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut
18+ mdni - cw: physical violence, references to SA - 7.2k words
𝐈𝐗. 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 / 𝐗. 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬
an: I combined chaps 9/10 as 9 was only 2k-ish words long. Want to get all the Ao3 chaps up here quickly :)
You smell that sour iron, metallic and hot, miasma oozing from the pool of blood on the floor before you. Or is it your own blood you can scent? Coating your teeth, sticky on your lips?
It doesn’t ache, though, the split in your gums, nor the chip in your tooth. Roaring adrenaline still floods every nerve ending. Too many abhorrent sensations overwhelm you. Too many storming thoughts torment you.
You can still see the sneering grin of that American commander, his cocksure laughter and cloying drawl that convinced you he thought he was charming you. And how quickly that smile sunk into a cruel satisfaction when you spat a hunk of acrid saliva onto his cheek. You had given him an excuse. Fuelled his retaliation.
You can still feel the wrenching of your babydoll’s silk seams, cutting into your flesh as it was yanked from you. Can still hear the shrill zip of the satin being torn into shards. Still feel the shiver down your spine at your exposure, at the rapacious sneering of your tormentors.
Still feel the fingertips on your skin. Their dents in your flesh. Their intentions in their wake.
Still feel the searing agony in your scalp. Your skin being separated from skull as you were hung by your hair, the sound of it crackling as its connecting tissues began to split.
Still feel the knuckles on your cheekbone. Your tongue between your teeth. Can hear the ringing in your ears, the throbbing of your shaken brain.
You ruminate on the cold hard edges of that gun, the weight of its possibilities in your palms - the possibilities you had quickly forsaken, handing off your last resort to your only hope. You can still hear the thunder of that gunshot, the two times it had been unloaded into your worse aggressors by your reticent captor. Was he protecting you as a person or as a possession?
You reminisce on the sickly sweet satisfaction that doused you as you watched, in awestruck, shock-ridden silence, your hunter hurling fist after hurling first into the smug head of your torturer.
You can still see his face. The skin beneath the skull. It had inexplicably surprised you that he had a face at all, that he was a man and not some hideous beast. You had imagined him with fangs, you imagined those honey-brown eyes peered through a coat of slick fur, that his tongue was forked behind those pointed teeth. But now you know for certain that he is human, his face lingering behind your eyelids as plainly and brightly as it was first revealed to you.
He had softer eyes than you had expected, than the slit in his mask exposed; they were weary and heavy, dark with both greasepaint and a potently resentful exhaustion. His nose was sturdy, thick at the bridge, perhaps once broken by a fist and healed slightly crooked. His lips were full and pale, marred by a pink scar from a split lip. And other scars littered his pale freckled skin, slices and welts, carving through a tawny shadow of overgrown stubble that coated his jaw, through thick but fair brows that permanently furrowed above his eyes.
He may have been once a good looking man, in his youth, before whatever hatred he’s laden with began to seep through and stain him. You saw his face and thus suddenly a glimpse of his distant humanity, however cryptic and transient it may be. You saw his face and now fabricate a past, a reason - there must be a reason, that he has become such a laconic, violent creature. He must have been entirely human, once.
You wonder if he thinks the same thing of you. That you’ve been just as stained by the pessimistic hatred that pumps through your thinning vessels, dark and coagulated. Made ugly by it. Made into a creature much the same, running on base instinct alone. Maybe that’s why he seems to hold such visceral disdain for you. Why his eyes are always so heavy with contempt when they stick to you for too long.
But his unmasked expression was novel. As if the bitterness in his eyes gained a new, a different meaning in the context of the rest of his features. Told a different story, when you could see the curl of his vaguely concerned brows, the jutting of his angered jaw, sour and furious after beating the sadistic American cunt to near-death.
No, instead, he looked… sorry. Sorry that you had to bear witness to his face, his behaviour, had to see him at all. Sorry that you seemed to draw hope from it.
But you did, anyway. You hope that if he looks human, he might act human. That it was sympathy in his poignant glare and not pity.
You know you’re concussed. You know the feeling well; the throbbing, the ache, the vertigo. So you fight the dragging urge to sleep, so heavy on your shoulders that you couldn’t bring yourself to stand even if you tried. You haven’t left your spot on the floor, back gritting against the cold wall, knees against your chest. The blood on the floor can’t reach you, here.
You fear your nudity. You fear exposing yourself any further than you are already by moving from your cocoon. Might there be cameras in here? Who could unlock your door and step in to leer at you? You’re not foolish enough to forget that no amount of clothing deters a predator with his sights on you. But you know how they use your bareness as an excuse.
So when shadows of boots peer through the crack under your cell door, and precede the heavy clatter of keys in the lock, you only tighten the knot your body is in.
It’s your hunter.
Riley, you remind yourself.
His mask is still on. He locks the door behind him, his back to you still.
You take a short breath, bracing to speak - but you spot his arm full, with what you’re not yet sure, and bite your tongue. He turns finally, hesitantly, squinting eyes almost fighting their immediate focus on you.
Seems he bears gifts. In one vascular hand he holds an unbranded plastic water bottle, almost dwarfed in his straining grip, in the other a large chunk of black cloth.
You tilt your head back to follow him apprehensively as he approaches you, as he wordlessly hands you the fabric item first.
You mustn’t respond in time, because with a frustrated shake he jabs it at you. “Fuck’s sake, take it.”
Snatching it from him petulantly, you unravel it to reveal a hooded sweatshirt. Thick, black, vastly too big for you. Which is likely on purpose, given he hasn’t brought you trousers to pair with it. Still, you find yourself grateful. Only reminded of the bitter cold in your cell when an alternative warmth is presented to you.
You do your best to stay tucked-in as you pull it over your head; though you don’t doubt some amount of nipple slipped out from behind your knees, as you struggled to find the neckhole in the tent of black fleece. You grit your teeth, suppose he’s already seen it all.
The hoodie smells of dust and tobacco, like it might have sat in storage for months without a wash since the last person wore it. Once you adjust it over yourself, long enough to cover everything, you feel the tight snarl in the pit of your stomach loosen, if only slightly. Concealed, finally.
“Thanks,” you mutter, as he then hands you the bottle of water. You take it with fury and tear off the royal blue cap, swilling it with sincere desperation, teeth clamping into the ridges of the screw top. The water is stale, tainted with the ghosts of ammonia and salt - but it could be toilet water, for all you care, you’d been completely unaware of your thirst until the first drop touched your tongue.
He crosses his arms, again, the disgruntled mammoth, ever impatient with you.
“You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you.”
Whatever threat he may have been trying to convey was lost in his tone, hoarse and bizarrely sincere. A solemn reminder.
“If I don’t spy for you?”
He curtly nods.
“You told me already,” you murmur, surprising yourself with the defeat in your voice. “You’ll kill me.”
His chest swells with a laboured sigh, near a grunt.
“If you’ve got a deathwish, you should’ve put that gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” he retorts, monotonous yet severe. “Because it’ll be a long time before you get the bullet you want.”
You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your wrists, tucking in your palms, a nervous habit. Your hands are cold. Fingers are blue. “What do you mean.”
“You had a go of it already. You don’t need me to remind you.”
Your stare drifts through him, blurred and dizzy. You still taste the blood.
Exhaustion trumps your better judgement, obfuscates your ability to consider your words too carefully. “Then why don’t you just shoot me. You keep saying you will. You haven’t yet.”
“I don’t like wasting bullets,” he grouses, “and I don’t like being wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
He seems to hesitate before he speaks. Breathes irefully, like you’re the one pestering him. “I was certain you’d be useful. And I convinced my boss to take you instead of assassinating you in your bathroom.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” you grumble.
He chuffs. “You don’t want to die, Mia. You’d have fuckin’ shot yourself. And you didn’t.”
He was right.
You had only briefly considered it, in reality; imagined the cold tip of its mouth on your temple, imagined your fingertip caressing the stiff trigger. You considered the torment that might have lay ahead of you, the dogs that might salivate at the sight of you, might chase you, might catch you in their teeth.
You even envisioned holding the gun outward, pointing it at your masked captor, tugging that trigger as many times as the weapon would allow you to. Firing holes through his thick, heaving body, watching how many it took to bring him down.
But even as that pistol sat heavy in your hands, you couldn’t help but fantasise about the faint chance of going home. A possibility that would be quashed no matter where you sent the bullet.
You couldn’t help but daydream about walking down the cobbles of your hometown even though you had no great fondness for it, about sitting on a café chair in the morning sunlight on one of three days a year it didn’t rain, about wearing your old wellies and trudging through the grass, petting old ewes.
And you weren’t going to die for your fucking husband, nor his sadistic coconspirators.
Spotting your silence, perhaps sniffing out your lapse in conviction, he once again makes his offer. “Like I said, quid pro quo,” he repeats, voice low and dry, you can hear his confidence in his chest. “You help me, I help you.”
“How,” you spit. “How will you help me.”
“You get the intel we need, and we’ll get you on a plane home. You’d have a clean slate. New name, new address. Mia Zakhaev will’ve never existed.”
You snort at that. She never did.
“You’d be sending a corpse home,” you growl, feeling the terror creeping up the back of your throat. “If there’s one left. There probably won’t be once they find me out. And that’s only assuming your fucking men don’t get to me first.”
“My men won’t touch you,” he says coarsely. “You’d have protections as an informant.”
“Yeah? Well I don’t have many fucking protections from the men that you want me to spy on,” you bark, voice breaking, your sudden loudness makes you dizzy. Your sore eyes swell, their supply of tears seemingly replenished by the water he had provided you.
“You wouldn’t-” he starts, but your tired, terrified anger lurches from your throat and viciously interrupts him.
“You have - you have no idea what these animals do. What I’ve seen them do.”
You hear him spitefully suck his teeth. “I know exactly what they do.”
Taking a moment to breathe, to gather yourself, your eyes finally shudder up to meet his. “Then you know I won’t last an hour with them.”
“You wouldn’t be sent in alone,” he rumbles, taking an irate pause. “You’d have protection.”
“Can’t say I feel any safer around your men,” you retort through a croak.
“Not them,” he grits amidst a reluctant sigh. “Me.”
Despite what Ghost believed to be an inborn skill in reading people, your expression continues to elude him. Is it disappointment in your glistening eyes? Terror? Or is it relief? Hope?
You swiftly look at the floor again, perhaps at the pool of blood Ghost nonchalantly stands in. Not the first time he’d trail red footprints. Not even the first time within the walls of this very compound.
It must be confusing for you, having him condemn you and then help you. Harbouring a hatred for him almost as potent as your awareness that he’s your only option. But it won’t be as confusing for you, as it is for him. He felt sick and bitter as he handed you that sweatshirt, one he had quietly dug from an empty storage room, had carried to you in the dark so that he wouldn’t be seen doing you a favour.
Earlier this very night he would have left you naked and bloody. He wouldn’t have intervened whatever creative technique Graves had to make a spy of you. Graves wouldn’t have needed to touch you at all - he would have done it himself.
That’s how disgusted by you he was. When he knew you as a conniving, vapid sadist. As a warlord’s avaricious consort. As a slithery creature complicit in the suffering inflicted by your kind.
But at every step, you seem to have confuted him.
Perhaps you’re that good of a liar. A talented actress. You would have to have been quite the thespian, to fulfil the role of Victor Zakhaev’s loving wife. And Ghost can see your attempts to decipher him, to write a script based on your readings so that you might have him play the part that would serve you.
It’s what he’d expect. From you, and from anybody. Honesty has been a rarity in his sordid life, something so elusive he struggles to believe that anyone truly has the capacity for it. Even himself.
“If I do this,” you breathe, hesitating. You glare directly downward, sucking on your words as you fail to spill them out. “If I do it, and they catch me, will you - will you get me out?”
He sucks in a wary gulp of air. “I can try.”
Your glower shifts to him, dark and tired, peered up from under your stiff brows. “And if they don’t, when can I go home?”
“Once you get the intel we need.”
Quiet, reluctant, you seem to despair every word you release. “And you promise I can go home? I can just - disappear? Like none of this ever happened?”
He nods stiffly. “Like I said. Clean slate.”
You shiver.
“Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll… I’ll do it.”
~
The lieutenant had decided to let you sleep.
He hadn’t said such a thing, of course, it wasn’t a favour that he had offered you. After you had obligated yourself to their scheme, he nodded curtly and left without another word. You weren’t sure, at the time, whether he had let you be out of some charitable sympathy. But, despite the effort, you hadn’t carefully deconstructed his actions nor his words, like you would have in a more alert, more conscious state.
After every physical and psychological torment that had been inflicted on you in the ten hours since your abduction, your mind had atrophied into grey milk. Runny, formless, utterly incapable of amassing a single thought or sensible decision. And despite your wounds, visible and otherwise, you fell into a hollow, dreamless sleep the second your feeble body made its way to the deteriorated mattress. You lay as close to the wall as possible, facing it in the hopes you could cast away the savagery that stained the floor behind you.
Your sleep had functioned more as a system failure than a recuperation, and so, as you wake up, you feel as though you had not slept at all. Despite being damp with sweat and panic, your skin pricks in the dry cold of your cell. You have no indication of how much time had passed, how long you had slept, what time it is - your cell has no windows, after all. The sun might have risen and set already, or it might still be the same unending night. With a painful, irrepressible yawn, grinding your bruised jawbone against your skull, you wonder if only a single hour had gone by in your slumber.
There’s a throbbing in your head, radiating and sharp; the forceful ache thumps out from the swollen bruise on your temple and bounces off the back of your skull. You feel your heart racing behind your ribs, pathetic little beats, it seems as if it barely pumps your blood an inch at each twitch. Anxiety, you’re sure, instant panic at the reminder of your imprisonment once you open your eyes; but you know that fluttering as a different omen, one foretelling a self-inflicted sickness.
You hadn’t taken an oxycontin since the evening of your abduction. Four hours before your hunter had broken into your home, sadistically assassinated each of your sentries, and stolen you from your sanctuary. Unable to know for sure how long it had been since then, you suppose at least twenty hours. Perhaps more, perhaps less.
Your oxycodone, though not prescribed, is controlled-release, long-acting - which has spared you, at least, a quick descent into withdrawal immediately after your abduction. But its arrival is inevitable, however prolonged it may be. They must have something in the compound, you think, you pray. If they’re soldiers, like they say - there must be analgesics, maybe some codeine, or surely some vicodin. You could ask the Lieutenant, maybe, you are in pain, after all. Or you could ask, beg, the Captain, the one who pretends to be so caring and so noble - an injured, beaten woman, surely he would not stand to see you in such agony?
But just as the flustered panic sets in, there’s a loud, pounding knock on your cell door. Thud, thud, thud. You jump, shooting upright from where you lay flat on your creaking bed, and before you are given the opportunity to speak or dispute, the door is unlocked and thrown open. Three men file in, you dread, three of them - soldiers, in grey and black. You spot the union jack patches on their bulky vests, and find yourself feeling some inkling of relief - not the Americans that had brutalised you - though you recognise none of them.
They waste no time, organised and hasty, two of them march towards you and the other stands guard by the door. You squeak in terror, backing up to the wall on instinct - they offer no comfort, no patience as they take you by your arms and pull you uncaringly from the bed. You’re tossed and spun, hands tugged behind your back and cuffed with another cable tie as if you present any danger to them.
“C’mon,” one grunts, the only word spoken to you. His tone just barely encouraging, like he is instructing lumbering livestock to file obediently through his gate.
Hyperventilating, you try to look over your shoulder - before, once again, a black cotton bag is pulled over your head. Blinded and incapacitated, they are swift to twist you and yank you, dragging you by your arms; you stumble over bare feet and feel the stickiness of undried blood on your soles.
“Where are you taking me,” you whimper, not expecting an answer but disputing all the same. They won’t hurt you now, right? You are doing what they wanted. You agreed to their terms. What more can they take from you?
“A meeting,” one says stiffly, the one on your right. Your feet do their best to take steps as they cart you out of the cell, presumably down the maze of hallways. You hear the echoes of their boots in the labyrinthine cement tunnels.
Your instinct is to ask, with who? But, you can guess, can’t you. If not the Lieutenant, then the Captain, who you suppose had orchestrated the scheme in the first place. Though you begrudge their needless brutality, you follow their physical instruction without further complaint.
They’re not the American soldiers in black, you remind yourself - so surely, you pray, they aren’t taking you to the Commander for some form of comeuppance. His business with you was unfinished, you suspect, there is no way he is done with you.
But your violent escorts come to a halt, and you hear them knock on a door right in front of you. There’s murmuring emanating from behind it, the dull thuds of boots approach before the sound of it opening.
A grunt, a sigh, you hear the ire in the man’s breath, whoever it is. “Right. Bring ‘er in.”
The Scotsman. You don’t have much of a read on this one, you recall, besides the salivating, dog-like hunger that oozes from him. Though it is less potent, now, you suppose you must appear far less appealing in a dusty, poorly fitting sweatshirt, than in your priceless silk lingerie.
You’re shoved unceremoniously into the room, almost tripping over your feet before a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Far from a gentlemanly gesture, he then pulls you by your bicep, pushing you downwards until your ass lands in a cold, seemingly plastic, chair. You hear the door shut behind you.
Before you can speak, the sack is pulled roughly from your head, yanking a few of your hairs with it, and the stark brightness of the room forces you to squint.
“Jesus,” the Scotsman scoffs, as he sees you, before going to sit in another chair. “Graves is a fucken’ animal.”
As your eyes adjust to the light, your glare shoots around the room - there are four of them, around a table, you have been seated at the head. You recognise three, the Captain, the Scotsman, and unsurprisingly, the Lieutenant. The fourth, you guess, must be the sergeant - the one you had heard on the helicopter, but who you have not yet seen. He looks somewhat less jaded than the others, and disturbed by the sight of you. A grimace of shame dents in his brow when you meet his eye, and he turns his head to look at some paper on the table.
There’s a window in the room, and while you had just earlier been wishing for one, you now scorn the daylight that glows from behind it. A reminder of the outside world, you feel it glaring in at you, taunting you with freedom. You wonder how many storeys high the building is. You can’t see any trees. The grey sky obfuscates the time of day - it could be morning, or afternoon, for all you can tell.
“How the fuck is this gunna work if she looks like that?” The Scotsman gripes, gesturing at you with his thumb.
Leaning back cavalierly in his seat, with his arms crossed, Lieutenant Riley snorts spitefully. “Ask the Cap.”
The Captain stands, then, at the other end of the table, he leans on his knuckles against the synthetic wooden surface. “D’ya sleep alright, Mia?” He asks suddenly, directly to you, as though casting silence on the others.
There’s an itch under your left ear, it makes your eye twitch, and you cannot scratch it. Vexed, tired, you simply scowl. “No.”
He seems to find humour in that, huffing as if quietly laughing. “Of course not,” he admits with a sigh, “you poor thing. I’m sorry about all of this, I truly am.”
You spot the Lieutenant scowling at him, eyes lidded darkly, he radiates a fury that you can taste from where you sit. You decide not to answer, not yet, you wait in uncomfortable silence for the Captain to get to the point.
“I was told you’ve considered helping us,” he says, a cautiousness in his throat. “S’that right?”
You swallow. “I was told I could go home,” you answer quietly.
“And you will,” he nods sincerely, “if you do what we tell you to do. If you get us what we need.”
“What do you need,” you ask, shuffling in your seat, doing your best to only subtly stretch your shoulders - they ache from where they are pulled behind your back, you feel your cold fingertips swell.
He laughs, then, a self-deprecating chortle, as he sits himself back in his seat and tugs himself forward. “Ah, well - of course, that would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?”
His casual amusement unsettles you deeply, you glare at him in anxious anticipation. “It would,” you croak.
“We’ve asked you about Makarov, haven’t we,” he explains. “I don’t think you were honest with me about how well you know him, eh? Not according to Riley, here. Sounds like you’ve had a few run-ins with him, have you?”
You say nothing.
“Well, love, he’s who we’re after - if you hadn’t guessed already. Your husband was, let’s say, one on a long list. We would like to apprehend him, definitely, but you see - he’s like a virus, this man. He has infected plenty of other men with his ideas. If we take him out, well, it’ll be hard for us to figure out who else his plans may have spread to. He wouldn’t be as lovely and cooperative as you have been.”
You feel the knit form in your brow, viciously upset by his comment. Cooperative? As if you had a fucking choice in any of it. As if you could have defied them any more than you had already tried to. As if you’d be gifted the option of a swift execution if you failed to comply.
“So,” he continues nonchalantly, “ideally, we’d like to get as much information from him as we can while he’s in his natural habitat, so to speak. We want to know what he is planning, and who else is involved, so we can intercept it this time.”
This time. You find yourself stuck on that. How many other times have there been? What else have they done? What else had your husband helped commit? You suck deep a careful breath in the subsequent silence, he evidently waits for you to offer some input.
“You think he would tell me anything?” You mutter doubtfully, “that he’d tell me anything about this plan?”
“Well, love,” he grunts, “for your sake, I hope he does.”
“You won’t ask him directly,” the Scotsman suddenly speaks. You didn’t expect him to participate much in the scheming, he seems to you as thick as a plank. “That’d be a bit obvious.”
“Couldn’t we bug the place?” The Sergeant asks, speaking up for the first time since you had entered the room.
“They’ll have RF detectors,” Riley remarks bluntly, shaking his head. “At least.”
“So, you…” you hesitate, thinking aloud, “you want me to eavesdrop?”
“Assuming they talk about anything of value,” the Captain agrees. “But you’ll prompt them where necessary, won’t you?”
“You know them, Mia,” the Scotsman interjects, again, and you begin to question your first assumption about his stupidity. “So, if you think there is a better way, a… safer way to get the intel we want, then say so. We want to help you, help us.”
You stare at him, doubt on your tongue. You know, in the pit of you, that if your cover is blown, they will leave you to die - simply another failed scheme, and they will move on to the next one. But he is right, in that, of course, you want to find the safest way to fulfil their ploy and guarantee your freedom. Desperately. Your eyes flit between the four men before you, who shoot glances at each other before looking at you expectantly, as if you might have some suggestion.
And in the silence it dawns on you quickly the fact that you will soon have to face them again. Have to be seen by, have to walk amongst, have to talk to the very men you had denied your fear of for as long as you had known them. Then, when you were a wife, they feigned respect, they kept their tasteful distance. Now, you’d be a widow, a ripe fruit hanging from a low branch. That in itself sends painful pricks down the nape of your neck, but the thought of having to question them about their clandestine crimes, even daring to speak to them - you know, with conviction, that it will be your death sentence.
“I can’t ask him,” you utter, shaking your head twitchily. “There’s no- they will know, straight away, if I ask them anything about it. Even if I just - even if I express interest in what they are talking about, they will know. And if they don’t think I’m a rat, they will still think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. As a wife - a widow. They’ll say it’s not my place.”
“I’m sure it’s not abnormal for their wives to ask innocent questions,” The Captain shrugs, artificial support in his tone, as if he is providing you some reassurance. “They’ll be more receptive after a few drinks.”
“Are you stupid?” You anxiously blurt, immediately regretting your sudden insult, but quietly relishing in the minor outburst of long-craved aggression. He simply looks surprised, almost amused, like he thinks it was cute. “You’ve been spying on these men for - for so long, and you don’t know anything about them, do you?”
“That’s what we’ve got you for,” the Scotsman retorts.
“They won’t just give me a scolding, a slap on the wrist, if I displease them - if I disobey them - do you think they are forgiving?” You assert eagerly, angrily. “My friend Sasha, she raised her voice at her husband in front of the rest, and so he poured boiling water on her face. I went to her funeral two months ago. One of them beat his nineteen-year-old girlfriend to death for denting his car. They held Alena’s hand to a stove after she smacked her husband, they had to cut her hand off. She was lucky. And Vladimir-”
You stop yourself, stumbling on your tongue. You sweat with stress and hot terror as you remember each horror you had to witness or hear of, each of them long buried and desperately ignored so that you could bear to live in your bubble of fragile safety among the monsters that had enacted them.
“Vladimir what?” Riley queries rigidly.
Glaring at him, you shift uneasily in your seat, your brow knots in worry as you struggle to let loose the words. “He’s the… he’s the worst of them.”
“What’d he do?”
“He-” you bite off with a groan, frustrated with your frightened inability to even describe what kind of a man, what kind of a beast, he is; you feel your heart shrivel at the thought of him. “He hurts, he kills, anyone. Anyone. If he wants, if he decides to.”
They remain silent. Expectant. You involuntarily elaborate, as your sore eyes begin to well.
“I - I saw him murder one of my maids, in my home. He was a guest, in my home, and he pulled her by the hair into the kitchen and slit her throat - and he never explained why, he just left her body there and went back to dinner. Nobody even asked him why… God forbid I asked him, or even showed that I was upset by it, he would’ve… he… I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t. I knew what, I knew what he’d do. Because, h-he - there’s nobody he won’t hurt. Even, last year, he tried to sleep with Vasiliev’s wife, and s-she rebuffed him - so he had her put in acid. He put her in acid. He put her in while she was awake and then left her in the barrel on her driveway.”
A disturbed quiet settles in the room, as you suck down a wet and quivering breath. You contort your shoulder to wipe the errant tears that had dribbled down your cheek. The four of them seem to take the moment to consider, a thick air of disgust and guilt seeps from each of them. The Scotsman rubs his eyebrow, the Sergeant holds his hands to his forehead, the Captain drums his knuckles against the table in disquieted thought.
The Lieutenant, though, had not turned his eyes from you. He keeps his thick arms crossed, glower low and sharp through the hole in his mask.
“Did he ever threaten you?” He asks severely, voice hoarse. Despite emphasising you, evidently asking about you specifically, no concern for you could be gleaned from his tone. If any concern, at all, merely a worry that such a thing might in some way affect his mission. You wonder if he had deduced from your terror that Vladimir might have turned his sights on you. Clever man.
Worriedly biting your tongue, you sniff back the frightened tears that threaten their persistence. “Not explicitly,” you mumble. “But he - he would remind me of her. He’d remind me of what he did to her, if I didn’t do what he wanted.”
“What did he want?” The Captain questions, leaning on his elbows, interlocking his fingers as though still plotting something unspoken.
You scowl at him, red eyes laser in his direction. “If you’re asking whether he wanted to fuck me too, then no - he didn’t.”
“No?” He queries gently, frowning in apparent doubt.
“No,” you spit, tearful, “he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have tried. Victor was protective.”
“I bet,” the Scotsman chuffs, and your lips curl in disgust.
“So he didn’t hurt you, then, I take it?” Asks the Captain.
Your eyes shoot briefly to Riley, the man still scowling behind his mask, he bounces his leg as though irritated. “Why does it matter,” you bite.
“Because if he’s going to throw you in acid the second we send you back, then it won’t be a very successful mission, will it?” The Captain explains, condescension dripping from his tone.
You shut your eyes for a short moment, frustration and fear thundering in your temples, you take the second to breathe deeply. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”
“He must have liked you then.”
You weakly shake your head. “He doesn’t like anyone who isn’t useful to him.”
The Captain again drums the wooden surface with the tips of his fingers. “Well, you could make yourself useful to him,” he suggests wryly, “couldn’t you.”
You grimace, sniff, glaring at him like he had smacked you. Another fucking use - such an apparently short list of uses you serve, and yet all of these dogs seem find you useful for one thing or another. You know what he is implying.
“I just told you what he did to the last woman he thought might be useful.” You snap with sore venom.
“Then what do you suggest, Mia,” the Scotsman asks bluntly.
You inhale deeply, warily, staring at the centre of the table as you do your best to separate your terror from the reality of your situation.
“I can eavesdrop,” you hesitantly insist, “they think I don’t speak Russian very well, so I can listen. I’m - I’m sure that they’ll have a lot to talk about after… after Victor’s death. But - they’re going to have questions. They’ll ask where I have been, where I was. Where his body is. They’ll ask about, about everything. I’ll n-need a story.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” the Captain asserts, “we’ll sort one out.”
You swallow, you wonder if they can see you shaking, now that your tentative future encroaches on you so violently. “How?”
He seems to mull over his words before he replies, perhaps deciding whether you are even allowed to be privy to his plan.
“We’ll plant you back at your estate. Zakhaev, too. It’ll look like a botched assassination.”
The tears threaten their swell, at his mention - at the thought of having to lay eyes on your husband’s cold body. You see his face erupting from the inside out, then, in an instant; you see the crater left by the bullet that tore through from the back of his skull, the pieces of brain and bone and meat that hung in strands from the hole, having turned black and dry in the hours since his murder. You wonder if they had left his corpse there, buckled over and dripping, still tied to that seat, festering under the fluorescent light.
And you imagine having to step around the frigid bodies of your guards, the pools of blood that will stain every floor, of every room in your home - having to avoid getting it on your feet, and further staining the carpet with your footprints. Nausea churns in your fragile stomach, your skin shivers as you sip in quick and shallow breaths.
“Mia,” he grits, as though getting sick of your panic.
He grounds you though, somehow, bitterly reminding you of your circumstances, of the deal you made, of the things you will need to do to go home.
So you nod, hastily, once again using your shoulder to try and wipe off the stream of salty tears that dripped from your chin. “Okay,” you relent, shaking, “Okay. I can - there’s someone I can call to, to make it believable. But it… it’ll take time to clean out the house, for the, for the funeral, so-”
“We won’t have time for that,” Riley interjects, tone dull and irate. “Was he Orthodox? Is there a church? Cathedral? A place to hold it instead of the mansion?”
Your husband was not a religious man. Not outwardly so, anyway. You suppose you can’t fathom committing the crimes that he had while still worshipping a supposedly benevolent God.
“They wouldn’t - I don’t think they’d expect to hold the funeral at a church.”
“Why’s that.”
“When - when someone like Victor, someone important dies… it’s more of a business meeting, than a funeral. When his father was killed, they didn’t even have someone there to give a sermon.”
The Lieutenant grunts in frustration, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb.
“I could have them come to the estate in Kastovia,” you suggest sheepishly, now so surreally disconnected from your situation that it has begun to feel to you like you’re discussing the plot to a film.
He scoffs at that, Riley, with an air of spiteful disgust. “Another one?”
“It was - it was a gift, from Victor. He’d send me there when h-he had business I wasn’t allowed to be home for,” you ponder, barely murmuring. “It would make sense for me to go there after, after everything.”
“Fine.” He retorts flatly. “Kastovia it is.”
“Right, then,” the Captain muses, evidently enthused, satisfied with how the strategy has so far unfolded. “The Lieutenant will act as one of your hired guards. He’ll keep a close eye on you. And he speaks plenty of Russian, don’t you Riley, so he’ll fit right on in.”
“No, he-” you interject dryly, but insistently, “...his Russian is bad. If he talks, they’ll know.”
The Scotsman snorts at that, chuckling and shooting a mocking glance in the Lieutenant’s direction. Riley falls briefly silent, and it leaves you fretting viciously - had you angered him? Will he take that out on you later? You’ll be stuck with him. Only him. Nobody to hold him accountable, and nowhere to run.
“She’s right,” he instead dismisses, through a grumble, and you let out a small breath of relief. “They’ll pick up on my accent. She’s not even Russian, and she did.”
The Captain grunts in irritation, rocking his head back with a sigh. “Then, Christ, make up a story about your tongue being cut out. Fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter, they won’t ask about it. I’m sure you’ve gone through plenty of bodyguards in your day, eh, Mia?”
You nod restlessly.
“Good,” the Captain barks, smacking the table with a satisfied hand. “Perfect. Let’s get you ready to go then, eh?”
You feel your chest close on your ribs, your blood floods to your feet and renders you sick and dizzy. “Now?” You croak, barely, staring vacantly in his direction.
“Not backing out, are you, love?” He questions, the casual friendliness in his tone belying a clear threat, you can see it in his piercing stare.
You shake your head desperately, hyperventilating, you swallow dry. “No, no I’m - I’m just, I don’t think I’m ready-”
“‘Course you are,” he encourages you, and you watch as the Scotsman stands, black sack in his fist, he steps uncaringly towards you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you home. You just need to be brave, yeah?”
You whimper, let loose a wet sob, as the sack is crudely tugged over your head, and you are plunged into the violent unknown once more.
Ghost stays seated, leaning back deep in his chair, sourly thankful that Price had brought the ‘meeting’, as he called it, to a hasty end. He couldn’t stand to see the man feign charity and empathy for a moment longer, watching him leer at you while pretending to be a voice of comfort. Asking how you slept - who the fuck does he think he is? He was the one that had endorsed your beating, after all, he seemed to have no qualms about it then. The fucking hypocrite.
He watches in resentful silence as Soap grabs you by your arms, his thick hands gripping you wrenchingly tight as he shuffles you through the door. He listens to you whine and cry quietly, to yourself, looks at your bruised and trembling legs as they stumble over each other on your way out of the room. In the lull, he rocks his head back in exasperated fury, glaring at the panelled ceiling and releasing a loud and hoarse sigh from this throat.
“Not gonna lie,” Gaz grunts, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and plucking out a crumpled box of Richmond cigarettes, “I’m starting to feel bad for her.”
Ghost scoffs. “Want a cookie, sergeant?”
“Piss off,” comes Gaz’s quick retort, as he lights the cigarette he holds in the corner of his lips. “Just ‘cause you’re a sociopath doesn’t mean we all are.”
“Remember what she is, yeah?” Price remarks dully, scooping up the folders and sat phone he had previously left spread across the table.
“Yeah, yeah, Cap, she’s just a hooker,” Gaz mocked, groaning, “you’re not as chivalrous as you think you are, eh?”
“God’s sake, Gaz,” Price grouses, lips twisting in a disapproving curl under his dense moustache. “Nothing to do with that. She’s a fuckin’ oligarch and she’s a terrorist. Don’t forget that.”
“Don’t you get the vibe she had nothing to do with any of it?” Gaz asks, cynicism in his tone.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ghost cuts in, flat and hostile. “She married a warlord. Whatever happens to her now is her own fault.”
Gaz snorts, shooting a scornful glance at Ghost before turning to the Captain. “You really gonna let this guy take the mission alone with her?” He asks derisively.
“Ghost has the right attitude,” Price dismisses. “You feel guilty, you get attached, the whole fuckin’ mission shits the bed.”
“If you think she’s a terrorist, why’d you offer to send her back to England, eh?” Gaz interrogates, punctuating his doubt with a drag of his cigarette.
Ghost looks down at his hands as they knot into a single fist, and Price releases an awkward huff; an indignant silence between them seems to answer Gaz’s question.
“You’re not serious,” he spits, agog at the realisation, “are you fucking serious?”
“She’s a war criminal, as far as we know,” Price says, close to a murmur. “It’d be a threat to national security.”
“Jesus,” Gaz vents, rubbing his jaw with tense fingers. “You’re both sick.”
Ghost involuntarily clenches his jaw, gritting teeth. He didn’t consider himself as lying when he told you that they could get you a passport and send you home. If you succeed, if you prove your loyalty - he is sure that would convince Price that you are worthy of rescue.
Rescue, he curses at himself - as if you need rescue. As he said, he reminds himself, you made your bed and now you are lying in it. You’re so good at it, clever girl, at twisting their impressions of you, at wringing pity from them by fluttering your eyes and letting loose your sparkling tears. Your bruises must hurt, he’s sure, but they must only help you, now - you can brandish them and whimper like a beaten puppy, you can whine and beg for comfort and protection.
He tells himself, demands himself, not to fall for it. You had already swindled him once, tricking him into bringing you water and clothes by sitting naked and shaking on the floor of your cell. You just looked so wounded, so defeated, so desperate…
“You keep her hopes up, won’t you, Simon?” Price orders apathetically.
Ghost nods silently, running his tongue along his teeth.
“And if she gets herself caught - leave her with ‘em. Get yourself out of there, they’ll take care of her.”
There’s a sordid silence as Ghost glowers jadedly out of the window, watching the dark clouds of an encroaching snowstorm roll closer across the low-lying sky.
He huffs. “Yes sir.”
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