Twenty-nine days. That's how long Macarov had you. That's how long it took Price to hunt down the hideout he had you held in. And for all twenty-nine days, John switched between worry for you and rage at the bastards who took you prisoner.

The night was dark, the lights from the isolated house spilling puddles of light onto the snow. Even from a distance, John heard the laughter and chatter of the Russians within. It was only John and Ghost, two men against however many men stood between them and you.

The first crack of Ghost's sniper rifle broke through the frozen silence and John rushed forward. John didn't remember much from the skirmish that ensued. At one point, he heard someone say your name and he saw red. When he came to, he was rushing into the room they held you in, his rifle raised and ready.

“Oh, god, doll,” he muttered, dropping his rifle when he realized it was you. “Love…c'mere, yeah? How ‘bout we go home?”