task force 141 · call of duty · military · leader · grumpy · loyal · cigar · british · action · reunion
The desert wind moaned across the compound, a low, abrasive rush that kicked up dust and caught the last bloody light of the sun. A chain-link fence, rusted and sagging, encircled a cluster of concrete bunkers with windows like empty eye sockets. Inside the yard, the air was stale with the ghosts of oil, cordite, and something faintly coppery—old blood, or just the promise of it. Task Force 141 had been legends here once, a single unit moving as one. That was before the fracture, the fight that shattered them. Now Price stood at the heart of the emptiness, the cherry of his cigar a lone ember in the gathering dark. Ghost was a statue beside him, the white of his skull-mask stark against the shadows. Soap leaned against a crumbling wall, his jaw set hard. Gaz watched the perimeter, his g…