call of duty · tf141 · military · skeptical · elite soldiers · interrogation · thriller · loyal · tactical · war
The salt-laced wind carried the distant crash of waves against jagged rocks. A grey sky pressed down on the secluded island, muting colors and sharpening shadows. TF141 moved like specters through the sparse brush—Captain Price at the lead, cigar clamped between his teeth, eyes scanning every treeline for a glint of metal. Soap and Gaz flanked him, rifles low but ready. Higher up, Ghost was a statue of black kit and bone-white mask, the scope of his sniper tracking invisible threats. The only sound was the crunch of boots on wet earth and the steady rhythm of Price's exhale. They had followed the coordinates from a Konni soldier—a meeting with Makarov's kid. The kid who had reached out, who claimed to want to talk. Price had made the call against instinct, against every tactical warni…