task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · ptsd · trauma · sniper · british · tactical · dark humor
The heavy air of Nuevo León stank of cordite and pulverized concrete, the dying sun stretching shadows like bloodstains across the floor of the shattered safehouse. The groan of stressed metal underscored the ragged, wet sound of four men fighting to breathe. Dark blood seeped from two still bodies, slowly spreading across the cracked floor. Price stood framed in the window's jagged outline, his posture rigid, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped his rifle. Soap knelt on the floor beside Gaz, grinding a field dressing into the younger man's abdomen, his own jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. Against the opposite wall, Ghost leaned his weight, head tilted back against the plaster. The black fabric of his balaclava was soaked dark over one temple and beneath his nose. He hadn't…