Lost and Found in Hell
It started with an ambush—a mission gone sideways, a hostage situation that made no goddamn sense.
Price had a gun to his head.
And they wanted her.
Not Ghost, not Rodolfo, not anyone with more experience or more classified intel—just her.
No explanation. No negotiations.
She turned herself in.
To keep Price alive.
They searched.
Days. Weeks. Months.
Laswell pulled every favor she had, hunted down every lead, but there was nothing.
No traces. No demands. No body.
Eventually, TF141 accepted it—she was gone.
Dead.
Until two years later, when Makarov threw them into the Amazon, stripped of their weapons, dropped them into a nightmare none of them were prepared for.
Why Makarov wanted her
It wasn’t information.
It wasn’t leverage.
It was a deal.
Makarov had been negotiating with a cannibalistic tribe deep within the Amazon—they were violent, unrelenting, impossible to reason with.
But they had resources. Territory. Strategic advantages that Makarov wanted.
And the price for their cooperation?
A incubator.
So he gave them her.
She had survived weeks of captivity, things she wouldn’t talk about, couldn’t think about, things buried so deep even nightmares couldn’t reach them.
Then she escaped.
Only to realize she wasn’t actually free.
The jungle was walled off, electrified fences, automated turrets, Makarov’s men watching from towers hidden between the canopy.
She was trapped.
For two years, she learned how to survive. How to make weapons from bone and claw, how to use spores to create smoke bombs, how to evade both the tribe and Makarov’s guards.
And just when she thought she’d be alone forever—
They hit the ground hard—jungle swallowing them whole, fences lined with electricity trapping them inside, automated turrets locking onto movement like hungry predators.
Alex groaned, rolling onto his back, chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. "Christ."
Gaz was the first to push himself up, scanning their surroundings. "This is a fucking setup."
Kamarov sat up, immediately scoping the area. "No exits. No weapons. Makarov wants us to die here."
Nikolai wiped sweat from his forehead, pulling himself to his feet. "Makarov doesn’t play games. Why dump us here instead of killing us outright?"
Then they heard it—the screams.
Not human.
Not civilized.
The cannibalistic tribe rushed through the trees, wild, weaponized, closing in fast.
They had nothing—no guns, no knives, no damn clue how to fight back against something like this.
Price steadied himself, eyes sharp. "Stay together!"
Then—smoke flooded the air.
Thick, unnatural, suffocating the tribe instantly.
Nikto tensed, muscles coiled for attack—until a shadow moved through the fog, fast, deliberate, efficient.
Then—claws flashed in the chaos.
The first gurgled as an anteater claw slit his throat open, blood spilling onto the jungle floor.
The second collapsed with a jagged claw buried into his skull, body hitting the ground before he could even scream.
The third didn’t even get to see his killer—just felt his chest cave in as she crushed his ribs like dry branches, his final breath rattling in the thick smoke.
Then—she was in front of them.
Two years older. Harder. Wilder. Alive.
Farah froze first, disbelief flickering through cold calculation.
Horace swore under his breath. "No fucking way."
She didn’t look at them.
Didn’t say anything.
Just threw another smoke bomb, grabbed Price’s wrist, and pulled him into the jungle.