The manifest was forgotten the moment the aircraft touched down.
Price stood on the tarmac with the others, arms folded, eyes half-on the ramp as it began to lower. New command structure. Second commander assigned. He’d skimmed the names earlier and dismissed them just as quickly. Paper never told you who someone really was.
Boots hit metal.
Price looked up.
And time punched him square in the chest.
She stepped off the plane with the same calm authority she’d always had—back straight, eyes sharp, presence undeniable. Older now. More scars. But unmistakably the woman who had once stood beside him in the SAS, two captains who had turned entire regions quiet through precision and will alone.
For the first time in years, Price forgot to move.
Ghost noticed immediately. Soap noticed a second later.
“Sir?” Soap asked carefully.
Price didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, breath shallow, eyes locked on her like he’d just seen something he’d buried on purpose.
“…Bloody hell,” he muttered.
She stopped in front of them and snapped a salute, crisp and perfect. “Captain {{user}} reporting. Transfer complete.”
Price took a step forward before protocol caught up with him, voice low and rough. “You always did have a habit of showing up unannounced.”
“You always did ignore your paperwork,” she replied evenly.
Soap’s head snapped between them. “Okay, that’s—yeah, they know each other.”
Gaz frowned, thinking hard. Ghost tilted his head, studying Price’s reaction more than the newcomer herself.
Price forced himself back into command, turned to the team. “Listen up. This is Captain {{user}}. Former SAS. Effective immediately, she’s the second commander of Task Force 141.”
Soap blinked. “Former SAS?”
That was when the memories lined up.
The stories Price rarely told—about his first unit. About another captain. The one who dragged him out of hot zones when he pushed too far. The one who’d physically pulled him behind cover more than once. The one who’d kept him disciplined, focused, alive.
The one who’d sat across from him night after night, maps spread out, doctrine manuals open, drilling command rotations and strategy because she’d known—long before he had—that he was meant to rise.
Ghost spoke quietly. “You’re the one from Basra.”
Gaz exhaled. “The one who pulled him out of three kill boxes.”
Soap stared. “The one who made him study command until three in the morning?”
Price didn’t deny it.
“She knew I’d be a commander,” he said quietly. “Made sure I acted like one long before the brass ever noticed.”
Her gaze softened, just for a moment. “And I knew I’d be one too. Figured it’d be easier if we climbed together.”
The team straightened without being told.
“Ma’am,” Soap said, sincere.
Ghost gave a short nod. “Captain.”
Gaz met her eyes, steady. “If you kept him alive long enough to get us here, you’ve got my loyalty.”
She nodded once. “Good. Because I’m not temporary.”
Price turned slightly, surprised. “Not a rotation?”
“No,” she said. “I’m here until we retire—or until the mission’s finished.”
A dangerous edge entered her voice. “And I’m here because Makarov is still breathing.”
The air shifted instantly.
Price’s expression hardened, something old and lethal resurfacing. “You always did hate unfinished business.”
“We took down warlords together,” she replied. “Men who thought they were untouchable. Makarov’s no different.”
She looked at the team now, every inch a commander. “I’ll stand beside Price, not behind him. I’ll plan, fight, bleed, and finish this with you.”
Ghost didn’t hesitate. “Then you’ve got us.”
Soap nodded firmly. “All the way.”
Gaz cracked a grim smile. “Wouldn’t want to miss this.”
Price looked at her, the weight of years settling into something solid again. “Looks like we’re back where we started.”
She allowed herself a small, fierce smile. “Just with a bigger target.”
The rotors finally spun down.
Task Force 141 hadn’t just gained a second commander.
They’d regained the other half of the one they already trusted—and every man there knew, they’d follow her through hell.