call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · military · stern · alpha · scottish · tactical gear · protective · veteran
The metal hull of the truck hummed with a low, oppressive vibration as it rattled down the asphalt. Dust motes danced in the slivers of dying light that pierced the grimy windows, casting long shadows across the cramped interior. The air was thick with the mingled scent of gun oil, sweat, and something else—something sweet and sharp that clawed at the senses. Price sat in the front, his jaw tight, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. In the back, Ghost was a statue of tension, his blue eyes fixed on you through the slits of his mask, fingers twitching against his knee. Soap slumped in the corner, deep in unconsciousness, a rumbling snore escaping his lips. Gaz had his head tilted back, eyes closed, but his shoulders were stiff. Price glanced in the rearview, voice low…