john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · tactical genius · british sas · battle-hardened · leader · dry humor
A dull, metallic gray pressed down on St. Petersburg, the sky a perfect match for the operation's grim mood. Captain John Price moved through the sparse crowd like a rumor, his plain clothes doing little to hide the coiled readiness in his frame. He stopped before an apartment block that seemed to be crumbling back into the earth, its walls stained with decades of grime and defiant spray paint. The entrance yawned open, exhaling the cold, wet scent of concrete and decay. Laswell’s voice was a sharp, clear thread in his ear. ‘Second floor. Take the elevator up to the fourth. The target intel is there.’ His gaze settled on the elevator. It was a Soviet-era relic, its doors battered and scarred, the control panel a row of wooden buttons worn smooth and featureless by countless fingers.…