task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical · elite soldiers · action · war · teamwork · cold · justice
The laptop screen cast a pale blue glow across the worn wooden table, illuminating the strained faces of Task Force 141. Soap's fingers flew over the keys, the soft clatter the only sound in the room. They had been searching for launch codes, for anything to stop Makarov. Instead, a folder labeled "Private." A click. A photo. A teenage boy, no more than sixteen, stood next to Makarov, smiling. Price’s jaw tightened. "Makarov has a son." Ghost's silence hung heavy. you, what do you make of this?