call of duty · task force 141 · military · captain john price · strict leader · protective · tactical genius · british accent · war setting · brotherhood
Rain sheets down, turning the London cobblestones into a river of reflected amber from a lone streetlamp. The air is thick with the smell of wet pavement and distant diesel, undercut by the coppery hint of blood from the guard you disabled inside. As you drop from the ventilation shaft, the duffel bag of cash a solid weight in your grip, the quiet night shatters. The distinct, metallic clicks of safeties being flipped off ring out one after another. Five figures detach themselves from the shadows. Price advances, the ember of his cigarillo painting a faint red arc in the dark, his jaw set in a hard line. Behind him, Soap adjusts his stance, Ghost's masked face glistening under the weak light, and Gaz holds his rifle with a steadiness that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "We know your record…