Author's Note: I don't own Call of Duty or Modern Warfare. Purely fan fiction.

Modern Warfare: Revolution

Prologue

Day 6 – 16:03:35

The U.S Army's most high-ranking officers for America's top-secret black ops chose the men of Shadow Company, a mix of handpicked soldiers and mercenaries. Their original objectives were to kill Russian terrorist leader Vladimir Makarov and his men, but soon after arrival in the boneyard their commanding officer; General Shepherd, had informed them that Task Force 141 had become traitors to the United States and that they too were to be terminated. These men knew General Shepherd well. They knew he was lying. But fiercely loyal to the end, Shadow Company would still kill whoever they were told to kill, and would do so with extreme prejudice.

The leader of the black-clad squad of three currently stalking an area of the boneyard was Captain Samuel Ashton. A former Army Ranger, Shepherd had chosen Ashton himself, after seeing his excellent leadership skills in Afghanistan. And much like the General, Ashton would always take those extra steps to do what was absolutely necessary, even if that meant killing people he knew were truly his allies. Following Ashton on his dishonorable path were Sgt. Clyde, a mysterious man, even for a shadow company solider, and Pvt. Darien, who spoke with a very strange southern accent.

"Boys, I've just got word that Price and MacTavish have acquired transport!" Bellowed Ashton. "We've gotta cut them off before they can escape! I know where we can get a vehicle! Let's move!"

The three men ran, using the carcasses of various airplanes, including a C-130, for cover along the way. There seemed to be very little resistance around this area, save for a few stragglers who were dispatched with relative ease. Visible at the top of the hill was a huge black up-armored GMC SUV, weaponized with a swiveling minigun turret.

"That's our ride!" Shouted Ashton. "Almost there, go, go, go!"

As the men charged up the hill, an American Task Force 141 operative came running out of one of the planes waving his arms in the air. He had obviously thought rescue had arrived. He was tragically mistaken. Ashton aimed his M4A1 SIR and tapped the trigger of the rifle twice, both shots striking the soldier's forehead, sending a cloud of blood, skull particles and brain matter flying out the other side, and he crumpled to the floor.

"Target down." Muttered the Captain, grimly smug with himself.

As he reached the vehicle, Ashton pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the SUV. "Right, Sergeant Clyde, man the minigun of this baby, we've got some traitors to kill."

"I don't think so Captain." replied the monotonous sergeant.

"What did you just say, solider?"

The Captain looked around, and his eyes, the only part of his face visible under his balaclava, goggles and helmet, widened when he saw the two men now had their Assault rifles aimed right at him.

"Boys, now is not the time for an attack of conscience!" ordered Ashton; hand in the air in an attempt to calm down his men. "You know why we're here!"

"You." quipped the previously silent Darien. "Give me the keys. Now!"

"Now you listen to me, Private!" Snarled Ashton. "You will obey your commanding officer! Secure the Sargent, otherwise you..."

Ashton didn't finish his sentence. Clyde tapped the trigger of his FN SCAR rifle, hitting the officer in the throat. A small stream of blood poured out of the large hole made in his balaclava as the Captain made an attempt to breath, achieving only a horrible gargling sound. Darien finished him off, shooting him twice in the head, and Ashton fell where he stood.

Clyde and Darien removed their headgear, and it was obvious that they were not who Captain Ashton thought they were. The remains of the real Sergeant Clyde and Private Darien were currently burning in a ditch on the edge of the disposal yard. Poetic justice perhaps, for the men who took part in Operation Sabotage, the traitorous killing of their Task Force allies in Russia.

"Nice shooting, Anatoly" remarked the soldier thought to be Sgt. Clyde. But he was really the extremist simply known as Viktor, Vladamir Makrov's right hand man. A few days earlier, Viktor had taken part in the terrorist attack on Moscow's Zakhaev International Airport. Even compared to Makarov, Viktor was a psychopath, running over to balconies to gun down as many innocent people as he possibly could. Viktor's Slavic looks were chiseled, his hair short and dark, and his eyes grey, and completely soulless. The back of his neck was swarmed with tattoos, a small glimpse of the mural of ink that covered his body, permanent reminders of the many years he had spent in various Russian jails.

"Thank you, Victor" came the reply from the younger, Anatoly. "Kiril and Lev would be most proud."

Anatoly was Makarov's getaway driver. The shorter, stockier, brown haired man held a reputation for his humanity amongst the inhumane, but he had joined Makarov as a true believer in the Ultranationalist ideal. Sacrifices would need to be made for the Russia he believed in to be reborn, and he was just as willing to make them as any.

He picked up the keys to the SUV from Captain Ashton's lifeless hand, and walked to the car. "Nice wheels" the Russian remarked as he opened the driver's door.

"I'm just glad your driving is better than your American accent." Murmured Viktor. He was joking, but his monotonous voice didn't show it.

Still, Anatoly chuckled. "Bad as it may be, it was no worse than Joseph Allen's Russian"

This earned a smile from Victor. "Indeed, Anatoly, indeed. Hit the gas, we've got to get Makarov out of here."