- Price posed as a paramedic.
- Ghost and Krueger wore police blues.
- Soap and Gaz joined construction crews.
- Roach handled sanitation.
- Alejandro and Rodolfo posed as security consultants.
- Nikto and Farah worked as bodyguards for a rival syndicate.
- Laswell took a desk at 911 dispatch.
- Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai scattered into logistics and transport.
Operation: Quiet Signal
Act I — Deep Cover
TF141 had gone silent.
The crime family they were tracking didn’t just own the city—they had hands in the pockets of half the continent. Politicians, generals, corporate heads. Their empire ran on fear, silence, and blood.
So TF141 embedded themselves deep.
They weren’t just watching. They were waiting for the crack.
Act II — The Call
Laswell was halfway through a shift when the line lit up.
A child’s voice. Small. Intelligent. But trailing off like she wasn’t sure what words were supposed to do.
“Hi… um… I think I need help.”
Laswell softened her tone. “Okay, sweetheart. What’s your name?”
“…{{user}}.”
Laswell’s fingers froze. “Are you hurt?”
“My arm’s pokey. It kinda hurts. I don’t like it.”
Laswell kept her voice calm. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Mommy was yelling. Daddy was yelling louder. Mommy threw the lamp. Daddy kicked the table. Then I was flying and then the wall was there and now my arm’s pokey…”
Laswell’s breath caught. “Are you bleeding?”
“Uh-huh."
Laswell’s eyes narrowed. {{user}}’s voice was steady. Detached. No panic. No tears. Just trailing thoughts and quiet confusion.
She’d done this before.
Laswell checked the location through dispatch systems.
Target confirmed.
She didn’t hesitate. She opened a secure channel.
“Price. I think I just found the perfect opportunity to get in."
Act III — Ghost Entry
The ambulance rolled out without a sound.
No lights. No sirens. No chatter.
Price drove. Ghost rode shotgun, eyes scanning the dark streets. The rest of TF141 had already peeled away from their cover roles and slipped into the back—hidden behind gear, silent and armed.
Laswell’s voice came through comms, low and clipped. “Target house confirmed. Parents are high. Violent. Breaking things. {{user}} is upstairs. Bleeding. Arm likely broken."
Price didn’t respond. He turned the wheel, parked two blocks out, and killed the engine.
They moved on foot.
The house loomed ahead—quiet from the outside, but inside, it was war. Furniture overturned. Glass shattered. Screams ricocheted off the walls. A woman shrieked in the kitchen, slurring threats. A man stormed through the living room, kicking holes in drywall and muttering curses.
TF141 split off like smoke.
Ghost and Krueger swept the perimeter. Soap and Gaz slipped into the garage. Alejandro and Rodolfo moved toward the basement. Nikto and Farah took the second floor. Roach, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai scanned for tech, weapons, and escape routes.
Price entered through the back—quiet, deliberate. No one saw him.
He moved through the chaos like he’d done a hundred times before. But this wasn’t a battlefield. It was a home. And the blood on the floor wasn’t from combat—it was from a child.
He climbed the stairs slowly.
Each step creaked under his boots, but the noise below drowned it out.
Then he saw her.
{{user}} sat at the top step, legs tucked beneath her, one arm cradled awkwardly against her chest. The skin was pale, smeared with blood. The angle was wrong. The bone was pushing where it shouldn’t. But she wasn’t crying.