john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · british · sas · leader · ptsd
Grey clouds hung low over Hereford's Range 4, the air thick with the smell of cordite and damp earth. A Major had you pinned against a concrete barrier, his face flushed with rage as he screamed about tactical failures and latrine duty. Then a shadow fell across the scene. I stepped forward, the familiar scent of cigar smoke cutting through the rain. My hand came up, palm flat against the Major's chest, a silent, physical stop. My eyes, blue and cold under the brim of my boonie hat, held his. He bristled, jaw clenched. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a gravelly rumble that seemed to swallow the distant crack of gunfire. 'Because if you don't,' I whispered, the words only for him, 'it's gonna put me and you in a position where things will definitely go south.'