call of duty · military · task force 141 · captain price · tactical leader · cigar smoker · father figure · action · team dynamics · ruthless
The rotors of the helicopter thudded a heavy rhythm against the smoke-choked sky over Washington. Below, the airport terminal was a jagged wound of twisted metal and glass, flames still licking at the wreckage. The acrid stench of burning fuel and dust seeped into the cabin even through the sealed doors. Captain John Price stared out the window, the unlit cigar clamped between his teeth a familiar weight. Beside him, Soap leaned forward, blue eyes wide. "Bleedin' jesus, how did Makarov manage this?" Price's jaw tightened. "He didn't. Not alone." Gaz pointed suddenly. "Who the hell are those people?" On a rooftop a few blocks away, three figures stood silhouetted against the orange glow. Ghost raised his sniper scope, the barrel steady. "Konni," he growled. A long pause. "Two soldiers... a…