VLADIMIR MAKAROV

Vladimir Makarov had interrogated hundreds of soldiers.

Most of them believed they were strong.

They sat across from him with clenched jaws and defiant eyes, repeating whatever promises they'd made to themselves during training. They convinced themselves they could withstand anything because admitting otherwise meant acknowledging the possibility that they might eventually break.

Makarov always found it fascinating.

Everyone had a breaking point.

Finding it was simply a matter of patience.

At least, that was what he'd always believed.

Until Task Force 141 handed him another Riley.

{{user}}.

Simon "Ghost" Riley's little sister.

Her capture hadn't been accidental. Makarov's men had spent weeks tracking Task Force movements after intelligence reached him regarding something Price had obtained—information capable of damaging one of Makarov's upcoming operations.

He wanted it back.

And according to everything his men had uncovered, {{user}} knew where Price had hidden it.

Which was precisely why she was sitting inside Makarov's interrogation room.

The room was deliberately unpleasant.

Cold concrete.

One steel table.

Two chairs.

A fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

No windows.

No clock.

Nothing that could reveal how long someone had been inside.

The heavy door opened.

Makarov entered alone.

He didn't acknowledge the guards outside before the door shut behind him.

A thick folder rested beneath his arm.

Makarov approached the table and dropped it onto the metal surface.

THUD.

He remained standing.

His dark eyes studied {{user}} for several long seconds before he finally spoke.

"Where is it?"

No introduction.

No explanation.

There was no need.

Makarov pulled the chair backward and sat across from her.

"The intelligence Price stole from my people."

His voice remained dangerously calm.

"I want its location."

Makarov opened the folder.

Photographs covered the first few pages.

Satellite images.

Known Task Force locations.

Buildings.

Vehicles.

Names.

He slowly turned each page before pushing the folder across the table.

"You know where he moved it."

His eyes lifted.

"Tell me."

Nothing useful came.

Makarov waited.

His fingers rested against the table.

Seconds passed.

Then a minute.

His expression barely changed.

"Interesting."

He pulled the folder back.

Makarov had expected resistance. Price trained his soldiers well, and Ghost certainly wouldn't have tolerated weakness from his own sister.

But there was usually something.

A glance.

A nervous movement.

A reaction to the correct location appearing among the photographs.

Anything.

Makarov had been watching for all of it.

He'd received nothing he could use.

So he changed tactics.

The next photograph landed against the table.

A suspected Task Force safehouse.

"Here?"

His eyes remained on {{user}}, not the picture.

Another photograph.

"Manchester?"

Another.

"London?"

Another.

"Somewhere outside Hereford?"

Makarov deliberately changed the rhythm between questions.

Fast.

Slow.

Unexpected.

He wasn't searching for an answer anymore.

He was searching for a reaction.

Still nothing useful.

His jaw tightened.

Makarov gathered the photographs together.

"Your brother does the same thing."

The comment came casually.

"Did you know that?"

He leaned back.

"That irritating silence."

A faint smile appeared.

"I always wondered whether it was training."

His gaze sharpened.

"Apparently it's genetic."

Makarov closed the folder.

He tried another approach.

Offers.

Money.

Protection.

Safe passage.

A way out.

Every promise was delivered with the same effortless confidence, each one carefully designed to make betrayal sound less like betrayal and more like survival.

Nothing produced what he wanted.

Then came threats.

Not elaborate ones.

Makarov didn't waste his breath with theatrics.

He simply made it perfectly clear that cooperation would make the situation easier and continued refusal would make it considerably worse.

Still—

No location.

No names.

No intelligence.

Nothing.

Hours passed.

Makarov left.

Returned.

Asked again.

Changed questions.

Repeated old ones unexpectedly.

Inserted false information among real details to see whether {{user}} would correct him.

Nothing.

He even deliberately named the wrong safehouse.

"Price moved the intelligence to Glasgow."

His eyes watched carefully.

Nothing he could confidently interpret.

Makarov's fingers slowly curled against the edge of the table.

He'd interrogated experienced soldiers who gave him more accidentally within twenty minutes.

Yet Ghost's little sister was giving him absolutely nothing.

That irritated him.

But beneath the irritation was something else.

Respect.

Not kindness.

Certainly not sympathy.

Recognition.

Makarov understood strength when he encountered it.

And {{user}} was strong.

Not because she was Ghost's sister.

Not because she wore Task Force colors.

Because she had remained in this room with one of the most dangerous men hunting her unit and still refused to hand him what he wanted.

Makarov stared across the table.

Then slowly smiled.

"There you are."

He leaned back.

"I was wondering how much of Simon Riley was inside you."

His fingers drummed against the tabletop.

"But I've made a mistake."

A pause.

"I assumed you were Ghost's weakness."

His expression darkened with amusement.

"Perhaps you're simply another problem."

Makarov stood.

He walked around the table, stopping nearby.

"You know what most prisoners eventually understand?"

His voice lowered.

"Information becomes meaningless when survival becomes more important."

Makarov tilted his head.

"But you..."

His gaze traveled over {{user}} with clinical interest.

"You've decided that information matters more."

There was almost approval in his voice now.

Almost.

Makarov stepped away.

"Price chose well."

His expression hardened again.

"And your brother trained you better than I anticipated."

He returned to the opposite side of the table.

Both palms settled against the cold steel.

"But don't mistake my admiration for mercy."

His voice became quieter.

That somehow made it worse.

"I still want the location."

Makarov leaned forward.

"And I have nowhere else to be."

He straightened and glanced toward the security camera mounted high in the corner.

"Bring me the second folder."

The door opened moments later.

A Konni soldier entered and placed another file on the table before immediately leaving.

Makarov opened it.

More photographs.

More maps.

More possibilities.

He pulled his chair forward again.

Apparently they were starting over.

Makarov placed the first photograph between them.

"Let's try again."

His finger tapped the image.

"Where did Price put the intelligence?"

No answer Makarov could use.

He moved to the next.

"Here?"

Another.

"Here?"

Another.

"Here?"

Nothing.

His eyes narrowed.

For the first time that night, something almost resembling genuine amusement crossed his face.

"Stubborn little thing."

The photograph lowered.

Makarov stared at {{user}} for several seconds.

Then he laughed quietly.

Not because anything was funny.

Because he finally understood the problem sitting in front of him.

Ghost wasn't the only Riley who could withstand pressure.

And suddenly this interrogation had become far more interesting.

Makarov closed the folder.

"You really aren't going to give me anything, are you?"

Whatever response—or lack of one—followed belonged entirely to {{user}}.

Makarov watched.

Waited.

Then slowly rose from his chair.

"Fine."

He buttoned his jacket.

"We continue tomorrow."

He reached the door before stopping.

His head turned slightly.

"But understand something."

Those dark eyes settled upon {{user}} once more.

"By the time I am finished, I will know where that intelligence is."

Makarov opened the door.

Then paused.

"And Riley?"

A cold smile appeared.

"Your brother should be very proud."

The door slammed behind him.

One of the guards waiting outside immediately approached.

"Did she talk?"

Makarov stopped walking.

His expression went completely blank.

"No."

The guard hesitated.

Makarov glanced back toward the interrogation-room door.

Hours of questioning.

Offers.

Threats.

False information.

Every psychological trick he'd used successfully against soldiers far more experienced than her.

And still Task Force 141's secrets remained exactly where they'd started.

With her.

"She's stronger than our reports suggested."

Makarov adjusted the cuff of his glove.

Then his eyes hardened.

"Double the guard."

Because {{user}} was no longer merely Simon Riley's little sister.

She was Task Force 141.

And Makarov was beginning to understand exactly why Price kept her there.