Searing hot rays of sunlight beat down on the dust choked road. Cries of surprise and horror rang out, only to be almost immediately drowned out by the sharp clatter of gunfire. The air warped and danced in the heat of the South American Sun, twisting around with the pale dust.

It was the same heat that Angela swore was about to slowly burn the life right out of her, starting with her lungs.

The whole mission had gone south. The whole damn mission had gone south. Her handler, for lack of a better term, was dead. It had been mercifully quick, but no less horrifying. Angela had tried to drag him out of the ambush, away from the deafening gunfire, only to feel the stinging hot bite of bits of metal and the rocky road as they struck her face, propelled forward by the hail of bullets.

Now she was running, her feet pounding the gravel, the weight of her body armor feeling heavier and heavier with each step. Her lungs were burning and her eyes watered fiercely. Angela wasn't sure if it was from the dusty heat, or the tears shed over her fallen handler.

Tightly held underneath her left arm was a ruggedized laptop, and there was a deep gouge in the casing, but otherwise the laptop was safe. While her survival instinct screamed at her to drop the laptop, throw it off into an alley somewhere, and to lose the excess weight, Angela knew better. Her job, her duty, was to get this laptop back to Delta Team Steel. Once she got the laptop to them, she could go home. She could go back to air conditioning, her asphalt-black coffee, and her annoying, Italian neighbor with the obnoxiously loud Chihuahua.

()

Across town, it sounded like all Hell had broken loose. The distant chatter of gunfire caused Captain John "Soap" MacTavish to grip the foregrip of the M4A1 a little tighter. Behind him, Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson looked forward, towards the sound of the gunfire.

"Sounds like somebody beat us to the party," he muttered.

()

They were closing in, slowly but surely. Angela could hear them behind her, yelling in a language she didn't understand. Every now and then, though, she could hear them throw in some threats in English...mostly about cutting her tongue out.

She was armed, but nowhere near as strongly as she would have liked to have been. Her sole weapon was a Smith & Wesson 9mm, complete with an extra clip. Given the fact that it looked like her pursuers were carrying at least AK-47s if not worse, Angela strongly doubted that she stood a chance. Besides, what was she supposed to do when she ran out of bullets? Throw the laptop at them?

As the device began to feel heavier and heavier, Angela thought to herself that hurling the laptop at the closest attacker might actually be a viable option.

Glancing down at her watch, she hissed a vile curse between her panting. She had missed her extraction time by a good thirty minutes by now. At this point, all she could do was hope that they would organize some sort of squad to get her out of this hellhole. It was a very rare day when she missed an extraction time, and Angela had prided herself on being punctual.

Somebody was going to bleed for this.

()

The gunfire was growing closer, and now Soap could hear the angry shouts of the local gang members. They were after something. And they were chasing that something with fierce persistence.

As far as Soap knew, he and Roach had managed to slip into the town unnoticed. They were here to keep weapons that had no business being in this town in the first place from going to their destination.

Roach was quiet, but dared a glance outside, the sunlight glinting off of his sweat-streaked face. His face looked calm, but his eyes kept searching the rooftops for any gang member that might be taking aim at either of them. They were on the second floor of a dilapidated housing complex, and while the elevation kept them relatively safe from enemies on the ground, anybody on the roofs could have spotted them.

And the gunfire drew even closer.

Now the voices were easily audible, and threats in English could be heard through the shouting and ruckus.

Crouching down, Soap motioned for Roach to follow. The gang members were almost right below them, and Soap had no intention of drawing any unnecessary attention. So long as the gunmen kept going after whatever they were chasing, and that something wasn't Soap and Roach, things would progress smoothly.

()

She had to keep running. It didn't quite matter where by this point, so long as she could keep running away from her pursuers. Angela darted down alleys and sprinted down the small, broken streets, the laptop hammering against her side. By this point, her boots felt like bricks nailed to her feet, sharp jabs of pain shooting up through her arches.

Slamming against the door, Angela crashed into a small, recently abandoned house. She shut the door behind her as fast and best she could, trying to conceal her tracks. Staggering up the stairs, she crawled up the last three steps, still tightly clinging to the ruggedized laptop. Racing through a tiny kitchen, heading for an open door, another barrier she could put between herself and the gunmen, Angela heard a sound so quiet that the gunfire, shouting, and the pounding in her ears almost drowned it out.

But the sound was unmistakable and it stopped her dead in her tracks.

It was the metallic clink of a rifle being set to fire.

Her heart leapt into her chest, and Angela darted to the wall, lightly pressing her back to the peeling wallpaper and splintered wood. Her right hand had already freed her pistol from its holster, and the laptop was gripped tightly in her left hand. Some unfound strength was keeping both of her arms steady, and Angela fought to ignore the beads of sweat that trickled down her face.

She could hear somebody on the other side of the wall, but it was just one person. Angela could handle one person. Lord knew she had handled much worse…

Whispering something under her breath, Angela judged where the other person was, then swung around the threshold, pistol drawn. She swung the laptop upward, a small sliver of satisfaction coming from the thudding sound as the laptop's casing made contact. It was then, with dawning horror, Angela realized there were two of them. Two gunmen. The other was a few feet behind the first.

Angela had always been fast, but right now, she couldn't be fast enough. She snapped the pistol up, aiming it at the second gunmen. He already had his weapon trained on her…and he was shouting at her in English. Clear, precise English.

"Drop it!" he barked. There was a distinct British accent in his voice.

Her chest was heaving by this point, but she kept her pistol trained on the blonde-haired soldier.

"Who are you?" she demanded angrily.

"I said drop it!" the man shouted again, taking a step forward.

It was then that Angela realized the man she had initially hit was slowly getting up. She realized it too late.

He lunged forward, grabbing Angela's arm and twisting it fiercely, her hand uncontrollably releasing her pistol, the gun and laptop clattering to the floor. Muffling a yelp, Angela shoved against the man, trying to throw him off balance and free her arm. She stomped on his foot viciously, struggling against his tightening grip.

"You got her?" the blonde haired soldier asked.

"Aye, I got her."

The second man had an unmistakable Scottish accent laced in his voice, but the idea that Angela was caught only made her angrier. Yes, she was currently trapped, but she'd be damned if she didn't go down without a fight.

She struggled again, and this time, her attacker jerked her back against him, pinning her with his forearm pressed across her throat. He was trying to get her to black out. Using her last bit of strength, Angela clawed at the man's arm, getting her head free enough to bite him. Hard.

The man cursed angrily, but didn't completely relinquish his grip. Instead, he whirled Angela around and slammed her against the wall. The impact made the wall shudder, and the back of Angela's head cracked against the wood. Red and white spots flashed in front of her eyes.

And then the mercilessly cold barrel of a pistol was pressed underneath her chin.

Angela glared upward at her attacker, finally able to see him completely. His skin was streaked with dirt and sweat, his reddish brown hair cut into a short Mohawk. A five o' clock shadow completed the look, and he glared down at her with piercingly blue eyes.

Blood trickled down from the bridge of his nose, and his bottom lip was split slightly, blood welling up in the injury.

"Who are you?" he hissed.

"You all right, Soap?" the blonde haired soldier asked, keeping his rifle trained on Angela.

"Bloody bitch bit me!" he retorted angrily.

Angela glanced to the man's shoulder, her eyes narrowing at the sight of a British flag sewn onto the sleeve.

"You're British?" Angela finally wheezed, having to keep her head cocked at an awkward angle with the barrel of the pistol pushing against her chin.

Turning his scowl back to the woman, Soap studied her for a few minutes. She was subdued, for now. His bottom lip was already feeling hot, the coppery taste of blood running across his tongue. To top it all off, he could feel the bridge of his nose pulsing with pain, a trickle of blood running down his nose.

Soap had been hit by a myriad of weapons, but he couldn't remember the last time that he'd been assaulted with a laptop.

She was surprisingly strong, for somebody who looked so scrawny. Her short, blonde hair was matted and plastered against her head, and there were thin bloody scratches on her pale face. Her dark blue eyes stared at Soap expectantly.

Soap continued to look her over. There was blood all over her fatigues, and a small United States flag was sewn neatly on the chest of her vest. But she wasn't military. The lack of any sort of indication of rank, not to mention the rather sloppy, albeit fierce, way she fought, was a testament to that.

But she had stopped her struggling, for now, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Soap eyed the dark blood stains again, then stared the woman in the eyes.

"You injured?" he muttered.

"Huh?"

Soap motioned to the blood stains. A look of pain flashed across the woman's face, but not that of physical pain. Soap understood what had happened before she even spoke.

"No. It's not my blood."

Soap fought back the almost automated response of apologizing. He bitterly reminded himself that protocol had to override basic human compassion.

"All right," Soap said slowly, giving the woman a steely glare. "I'm going to take the gun away. Don't even think about trying to run."

Looking over at the other soldier, his rifle still trained on her, Angela nodded her head awkwardly. Slowly, Soap withdrew the gun.

"What's your name?" he asked, keeping his voice low. The gunfire was slowly moving off to the other side of town, along with the yelling, but Soap wasn't keen on taking any chances.

"Angela. I need to get in touch with Captain Sinclair." Her voice was raspy, but steady.

"What were you doing here?" interjected the blonde-haired soldier.

Soap and Angela looked in the direction of the other soldier, slowly he was letting his rifle point downwards.

"Keep your eye on her, Roach," Soap said, reaching into his pocket.

Angela instinctively tensed. Her gun was still on the floor, and there was no way she was going to be able to grab it in time.

"If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already," Soap muttered. He produced a black zip tie, and Angela smiled faintly.

"No risks, huh?" she asked quietly, slowly holding out her wrists.

"Can't risk you running off," Soap grumbled. He paused slightly when he grabbed Angela's wrists. There was an odd scarring pattern ringing both of her wrists, the pale marks barely visible. Ignoring them for now, Soap tied the zip tie around Angela's wrists, binding them tightly, but taking care not to cut off circulation. So far, she was cooperating. Soap just hoped she didn't have rabies.

"What happened?" Soap asked, patting her down carefully.

"There's a knife on my waist, right side," Angela said slowly, keeping her eyes forward. "And another strapped to my left ankle. I was here with my partner. He got shot by the gang members you no doubt heard. I have to get myself and that laptop back to Captain Sinclair. I've missed my extraction point and time by a good hour by this point."

Sure enough, Soap found the two knives. Her left leg was bruised up fiercely, and there was bruising on her right hip, but other than that, she didn't appear to be injured. Aside from the knives and the pistol, she wasn't armed. She had been relying on her partner to bring the firepower…

"Well, we've got a job to do, and I've no intention of letting it go unfinished. Like it or not, you're coming along for the ride," Soap replied, standing up. He picked up the laptop, glaring at it, then un-shouldered the small backpack he carried. Angela started to say something, but Soap held up a hand, stopping her.

"If you turn out to be who you say you are, you'll get this back," he said, putting the backpack back on. He looked at Angela directly. "You have my word."

Angela sighed inwardly, but said nothing. She was in no place to argue. Soap deftly picked up her pistol and holstered it against the vest he was wearing.

"Let's go. Break's over."

Soap moved forward, and Angela followed obediently, staying crouched down, and Roach fell into step behind them. For a brief moment of insanity, Angela considered lunging for Soap's backpack and fighting for the laptop, but the aching pains that were slowly eating their way up through her body told her she would do no such thing.

"Well, the good news is that you created enough of a bloody ruckus that there should be little resistance," Soap said sardonically.

Roach chuckled quietly in response, but Angela stayed silent. She was mentally berating herself for being so stupid as to blindly attack an unseen assailant. Sure, she could blame it on an adrenaline rush, but she was damn lucky to have run into men that appeared to be from a country that was friendly to the United States. If had been members of the favela gang…

"Hold up."

Angela stopped, her breathing finally having returned to normal. The heat was still stifling, but at least now she wasn't running for her life. And at least now, there were two other people to keep the enemy occupied, as grim as that outlook seemed.

They were stopped outside a fairly inconspicuous, single-story building, bullet holes riddling the walls. Soap glanced over his shoulder. He hadn't planned on the possibility of picking up extra baggage on this mission, and while Roach looked fine, albeit a little sunburned, Angela was looking dangerously pale. She must have severely over-exerted herself in the past couple of hours, and now she was feeling the after effects of it.

Soap stared at the door, then motioned for both Angela and Roach to stay put. He didn't want to have Angela running off, or worse. Roach seemed surprised and mildly upset by the order, but kept quiet, not wanting to give away any element of surprise they may have.

Soap went through the door quietly, and for a few moments, there was nothing but silence. Then, the faint sound of music being filtered through earbuds hummed into the air. Crouching down, hiding behind a wooden crate, the paint stating what was in the box so faded it was almost completely gone, Soap waited, listening as the noise got louder. From the other room, another gunman strolled into view. He was obviously far too intent on listening to his music, and while it made him a piss-poor guard, it almost made him an exceptionally easy target.

Slowly drawing the knife from its sheath strapped to his leg, Soap watched the guard as he bounced slightly back and forth in tune to the music. The creaking of the wood provided a little bit of noise to mask the sound of the metallic grating as the blade slipped free from the sheath. The guard was still oblivious, staring out a window across the sun bleached buildings.

Soap moved forward, and moved forward fast. He grabbed the guard by the forehead, pulling his head back fiercely, ramming the blade through the back of the man's neck. The sound of bone cracking and the guard's choking on his own blood drowning out the music through the earbuds. The guard struggled violently for a few minutes, clawing at the blade that was jutting from his throat, but Soap held the man steady. After a few minutes, the man fell limp, collapsing to the floor. Soap struggled to keep the man from making a loud thud as he fell, letting the body quietly crumple.

Freeing the blade from the guard's throat, Soap looked around, his eyes narrowing. This was the building, no doubt about it, but there was a decided lack of weapons. There were a few boxes tucked away against the walls, maybe ten at the most, but each one was pried open, straw and packing materials dangling out of the opened boxes.

"Roach, it's clear," Soap said lowly. "Bring the laptop lunatic, too."

Angela and Roach walked into the building, Angela first, with Roach keeping a close eye on her. Soap glanced over at them, then looked around the floor. Roach seemed confused, looking around slowly.

"Uh, sir," he said. "Where are the guns?"

"Gone," Soap grumbled, rubbing the toe of one of his boots against the dusty outline of a now missing box. "Looks like we were too late. Dammit."

"Those aren't it?" Angela asked, looking at Soap cautiously. She motioned to one of the other boxes.

"Doubt it, girlie," Soap replied. "Looks like each one's been gutted."

"There's not even anything left save for the bloody packaging," Roach hissed, kicking one of the boxes. "We should get the hell out of here before our little favela friends come back."

"Aye," Soap started for the door, then stopped, looking over at Angela. She was still looking particularly pale, red tinges of a sunburn creeping up around her cheeks and nose. Angela looked up at Soap, dirt caked around her sapphire eyes and chapped lips. "You all right, girlie?"

Angela stared at Soap for a few minutes, then nodded, wiping the dirt off of her face. Roach looked at Soap, then peered out the door.

"Sir, if we're going to go, we'd best go now."

Soap moved forward, Angela falling in step, with Roach following closely behind. They made their way down an alleyway, Soap cursing their intel every step of the way. They had been at least twenty-four hours late, if not more. The gang members had managed to cart out the weaponry, and ammunition, if there had been any. And all Soap had to show for it was a busted lip, bloodied nose, and an angry, blonde-haired American.