Part 2 : Makarov x reader
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Part 1
A request shall be granted by your author,as always.
You buckle the boys in, hands trembling just a little, hiding it with mother-practice. The hum of engines make your ears press hot and cold.
You looked from the side-you had the oldest two infront of you while the very youngt sat next to you...and....was struggling around.
''(о/н)…следи за своим братом - не мешай людям впереди тебя''(o/n)...watch for your brother-dont bother the people infront of you'' You said,trying to hid your paronia.
''Да, мама'' Yes mama''
The oldest look behind you
Папа знает, что мы едем в Нидерланды?''Does papa know we are going to the Netherlands?''
''Да… знает…''''Yes……he does…''
The boys were watching the movies they offerd ont he plane while you kept looking around...as if in fear you are being watched.
The flight to the Netherlands is the mid-hold. Once there, they’ll transfer to the long flight to America.
The boys think it’s a vacation.
You’re not sure if you’ll ever sleep again.
you try to nap but you can’t. eventually you gently wake each boy one by one so they can stretch. everything feels normal again for a second.
A flight attendant walks by, smiling kindly… but she lingers a second too long.
Hours later—touchdown.
Amsterdam Internation Airport Schiphol.
You took the baggage out,waiting for the moment the plane was almost empty. You kept warnng the boys to watch their steps ont he escalators. The baggage holder weighing more because the yougnest 2 sat on it while you rided.
The moment you get signal again, your phone vibrates and you answer immediately.
''He....hello?''
''...Y/n this is Laswell-you talked to captian Price?''
''O-oh..yes....yes i did''
Her voice is calm, low, controlled.
“Alright, listen to me. You’re safe for now, but once you get on the second plane—protocol changes. I’ll have a team waiting in Chicago to pick you up directly from the gate. No walking around, no shops. When you land in America you are not an anonymous woman anymore—you’re evidence.”
You swallow hard, nodding even though she can’t see.
“And Y/n—” Laswell adds. “He will realize this is defection. He will escalate.”
The boys tug your arm.
“Mama! Mama look! Pancakes!”
You force a smile.
“…I understand.”
''Good.....i will see you in some hours''
''...Laswell......will....will he find us?''
''......You are under US protection.....we will be ahead of him if he tries something''
''.........''
''.......Safe flight,Yn''
You nodded as you hung up. You walked through Border securty easily. You both the boys some food as they gazed at the many planes from the large windows.
10 minutes before boarding call
You guide the boys to the restroom.
“Подожди меня снаружи, хорошо? Не двигайся.''Wait for me outside, okay? Don’t move.”
They nod, excited and half-giggling.
You enter the stall, lock the door, breathe.
The bathroom light is bright, too bright, too sterile. The airport PA system echoes outside the door. You wash your hands with trembling fingers, trying not to look as nervous as you feel, even though your reflection already gives you away.
You dry your hands, take a breath and whisper to yourself:
Stay strong. Don’t make them see you scared. If the boys see fear in your eyes—they’ll panic. And they need you calm.
You step toward the door—
—and then you freeze.
The boys’ voices are right outside.
Sweet, innocent, excited.
But they’re not talking to each other.
They’re talking to a man.
A man with a voice like velvet and knives.
''Куда мы идём, отец?''Where are we going, father?
Ты купил мне синий?!''You bought me the blue one?!
Your heart physically stops. Your hand automatically goes to cover your mouth.
The faucet behind you keeps dripping—drip… drip… drip…—each drop loud as gunshots.
His cologne is in the air. That deep cedar and expensive musk.
There is no smell on Earth like him.
your lungs burn.
This airport is huge. Thousands of people. Hundreds of gates. Dozens of floors.
And yet—he found you.
Of course he did.
He always does.
He is always five steps ahead.
You back into the corner of the bathroom stall, eyes wide.
A deep chuckle rolls through the air outside—quiet, rich, amused.
It shakes your ribcage even though he’s not touching you.
His voice lowers—so soft you almost think you imagined it.
«Папа всегда знает, где найти своих маленьких пилотов…''Daddy always knows where to find his little pilots…''
He pauses. A beat of silence so heavy you feel it physically.
You can hear your oldest giggle, unaware of the storm.
“Папа, смотри! Самолет огромный!”Papa, look! The airplane is huge!
You squeeze your eyes shut.
This—THIS—is your nightmare.
Your phone buzzed
Your risked 1 sec to check on your phone
Now Calling: Captain Price
You risk one look at the door crack.
You see his shadow.
Just the outline of his shoes under the door.
And it’s enough to make your pulse crash.
He is one door away.
One thin layer of wood between you and the man you love the man that will tear the world apart to keep you and your sons.
10 hours ago
He heard Price’s voice the moment the line tapped in.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move.
Only one thought punches through his skull:
they’re planning to move her.
Price spoke of lies and of a woman who believed those lies. He told Makarov that Y/n had been given choices — choices Price believed would break her, or save her, and that Price had reached her first. The name Laswell. The word defect. The gunmetal rasp of logic that came down like a verdict.
Makarov’s hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles shone white. He listened to the rest without comment: the warning, the plea for her to leave, the careful way Price painted the world as either a battlefield or a lifeboat. At the end, Price promised one thing: that he would try, softly, to pull her out.
The call ended with a click. In the silent glass of the room, Makarov turned the phone face down and watched his wife walk around the house and block the camera's he instaltn in the house.
He stood up and smirked-the gears in his mind already moving
First— the contacts. He reactivated an old line in airport security, a man who loved too much money and too little reputation. A former KGB officer with a crooked conscience and an easy grin. For a few thousand euros and a promise of future favors, the man would scan the lists and let whispers float by: a woman seen on a bus, two suitcases; a family with three boys, a woman who never looked anyone in the eye. Makarov bought a web of gossip and transactions and watchful men.
Second — the passports, the buses, the patterns. He dispatched assets to track every habitual route she would take: the morning supermarket, the post office, the bus hub that led to the smaller stations. He shadowed the predictable with a patience that made the unpredictable predictable. If she fled, she would run where she had run before — toward the life he had provided her, toward the places she preferred because she believed they were safe.
Third- Reaching for the book he took out a metal box-a Locater...for a special tracker...well....tracker.
He stands, quietly. Walks back into the office.
The room is wrong.
The air is wrong.
The window is cracked on the far right corner—glass dust on the floor. The locked drawer? Empty. Your passport drawer? Empty. He opens the wall safe—zero cash, zero bonds, zero emergency gold.
Everything you would need to vanish—
gone.
He walks outside. Drops to one knee and slides under the car.
The tracking device under the chassis is rotated 3cm.
Deliberately.
He closes his eyes and exhales once through his nose.
“…you learned from me.”
He stands, turns toward the road. Bus stop 40 meters away. His phone buzzed.
When the ping came from his contact — the feed that mattered more than any text, the one that told him she was moving — he did not move like a man who panics.
16 minutes later
CCTV—bus stop feed.
One woman in hoodie, sunglasses, three boys, all in caps.
The second oldest keeps losing his shoe lace and you crouch to tie it—he zooms in.
That small gesture — he would recognize your hands anywhere.
He taps a key.
Trace bus route.
Train station.
Airport terminal.
He cross‑logs into airport CCTV before the train even arrives.
One camera after another after another until he spotted them entering the aiport.
He told himself stories about why she left. He did not imagine it as betrayal; he imagined it as a test of loyalty she could not help but fail. He cataloged every detail that made him love her and every detail that made him want to stop her.
Boarding sign: Amsterdam → Chicago.
But not direct.
A holdover in the Netherlands.
Twelve hours.
He shuts the laptop. He does not slam it. He closes it like a coffin lid.
He calls his people.
“Prep my team. We leave in ten.”
present time — Schiphol Airport, Netherlands
He is walking through the terminal like he owns it.
Konni men spread out like ghosts — no insignia, no jackets, no noise.
He moved like a predator that had been asleep, finally stretching.
How can you think you can outplay your husbands who was dedicated his live of serving his ego and Russia?
He doesn’t need to search blind when he holds the locater. Locating what you may ask? Well... the implants behind your children’s ears — emergency geo‑locators.
Three small red dots on his screen.
He watched the feed of the airport, his eyes skimming the grainy frames where her small body walked with three boys—one on each side, one trailing. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with a proprietorial ache. He wanted to step into that image and pluck her from the scene, hold her like something fragile and complainant.
He arrived before the plane emptied, before the sea of passengers could swallow her into anonymity. He stood intentionally where he would be found: near the restroom doors, where a mother would take her boys for ritual smallness—water, hands, pockets emptied. He stood like a man who knew all the answers, wearing the casual finery of a man who would never queue.
The sound of her voice on the feed had been transcribed in his mind: low, patient, the practiced cadence of someone who had learned to soothe. He waited to hear the sound of small voices — then, when the boys’ laughter threaded into the audio, it was like a bell.
He made no move to reach for them. He wanted her to see him stand there; he wanted the terror to sink into her like cold water. He wanted the myth of his inevitability to be true in her bones.
Gate G — near restrooms.
He turns the corner.
The boys see him first.
“Папа!”Dad!
Three voices. Pure joy.
They run toward him and he crouches instantly, arms open.
He hugs them — real. Warm. Close.
He kisses each temple. Ruffles their hair.
They chatter excitedly.
He listens.
But his eyes…
never leave that women’s restroom door.
Not for a single second.
''Куда мы идём, отец?''Where are we going, father?
Ты купил мне синий?!''You bought me the blue one?!
He looked down and placed a head on the top f the oldest ''отпуск, твоя мама его запланировала…с кем-то, кто не нравится папе''...holiday,your mom planned it...with someone daddy doesnt like''
''Как ты нас нашел, папа?''How did you find us,dad?'' The middle asked
«Папа всегда знает, где найти своих маленьких пилотов…''Daddy always knows where to find his little pilots…''
He pauses. A beat of silence so heavy you feel it physically.
You can hear your oldest giggle, unaware of the storm.
“Папа, смотри! Самолет огромный!”Papa, look! The airplane is huge!
and he smiles, head tilted just slightly before going to the restroom door. Your perfume lignering inside as he slightly opens the door...
