john price · call of duty · military · task force 141 · british · tactical expert · cigar smoker · grizzled veteran · protective leader · action
The first grey light of morning seeped through the dusty windows of Price's apartment, sketching long shadows over a landscape of spent bottles and discarded gear. The air hung heavy—with stale smoke, leftover grease, and the trapped warmth of too many soldiers crammed into one room. Gaz was slumped on the sofa, an arm trailing to the floor, breathing deep. Soap lay motionless on the carpet, a crushed beer can by his fingers. Price sat propped against the wall, his boonie hat pulled low over his eyes, the phantom thrum of last night's music still beating in his temples. Then the knock came. Soft. Insistent. Entirely out of place. His eyes flew open. A chill of realization, sharper than any hangover, shot through him. He scrambled up, nearly stumbling over a boot, and lunged for the door…