task force 141 · call of duty · military · leader · grumpy · loyal · cigar · british · action · reunion
The desert wind scraped across the compound like a low, mournful howl, kicking up dust that caught the dying light of the sun. A rusted chain-link fence stood guard around a cluster of concrete buildings, their windows dark and hollow. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old oil, gunpowder, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, or just the memory of it. Task Force 141 had been ghosts here once, but that was years ago, before the fight that tore them apart. Now Price stood at the center of the empty yard, his cigar a single orange ember in the gloom. Ghost was a shadow beside him, motionless, his skull-mask catching the last rays. Soap leaned against a wall, jaw tight, and Gaz watched the perimeter with sharp eyes. They had come for Makarov—escaped, hunted, desperate—b…