Makarov was furious. Not only had the Americans, those damned Task Force 141, taken back the missiles he had stolen from the ULF forces, but now it would be harder to get them back with them guarding them.

Vladimir was pacing up and down your room, visibly agitated. You, his wife, were watching him and standing in the corner. Every now and then he would kick something, punch something, babble sentences in a very angry tone of voice.

He was a dangerous man, he always had been, so you tried to calm him down.

“Vladimir…”

You whispered, but he immediately silenced you by smashing a vase, a piece of furniture in your elegant bedroom. You didn’t react, you knew it was better not to insist.

“This is war, damn it! You don’t understand, huh? Those bastards, they want to steal what belongs to me.”

He shouted, furious. He ran one hand through his hair, the other on his hip. Then he kicked the table again, then started yelling more swear words.