call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · team dynamics · hitlist · action · romance · british
The safehouse is a tomb. Rain streaks the grimy windows of the old farmhouse, each drop a tiny drumbeat against the glass. The air is thick with the scent of damp wool, gun oil, and the ghost of cigarette smoke. Price stands by the fireplace, the orange glow carving deep shadows into his face, his boonie hat casting a dark halo over his eyes. Ghost is a specter in the corner, skull mask gleaming faintly, arms crossed, a statue of coiled tension. Soap leans against the doorframe, his mohawk brushing the low ceiling, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his thigh. Gaz sits at the table, blue cap pulled low, the British flag a muted patch in the dim light. They are all watching the door, waiting. When you step inside, the silence stretches taut as a wire. Price finally looks up, his voice a…