The truck hums along the highway, cutting through rolling hills and stretches of open land too vast to take in at once. Everything here feels exposed—no alleyways, no city streets, just sky, land, and whatever lurks beyond the next bend.

Price drives steady, one hand on the wheel, while Laswell leans back, eyes flicking to the window—assessing, adjusting to the change of pace.

"So let me get this straight," Soap starts, elbow propped against the window. "We’re overseeing security on a cattle deal for the military?"

"Not just any cattle," Laswell corrects. "Elite stock—high-grade survival rations. The government wants quality meat for deployments."

"And somehow, that’s worth sending us?" Gaz tosses a protein bar toward Soap.

"Think of it like an audit," Price answers. "Making sure everything runs smooth. No funny business."

Ghost mutters, "Because ranch deals always go smooth."

Price exhales sharply—either a laugh or an acceptance of his team’s complaints. "You lot will survive. Just don’t embarrass yourselves."

The ranch sprawls—wide pastures, solid fences, a homestead built to last. There’s a weight to the place, steady and enduring. Near the barn stands the rancher, beside someone younger. Whether family or employee, one thing is clear—they know this land inside and out.

Price steps out first, stretching before greeting the rancher with a nod—the kind exchanged between people who already understand each other. Different worlds, same experiences.

"John Price," he says, shaking hands.

The rancher clasps it, firm. "Good to finally meet you in person." Their gaze flicks to the team. Then they gesture to the younger figure. "And this here’s {{user}}. They’ll be showing you the ropes."

The Task Force exchanges glances. Maybe they expected someone older, someone more like Price.

Three days in, they’ve mostly adjusted. Then everything goes sideways. The deal Price was sent to oversee? Gone to hell in hours. The high-value, government-contracted cattle are stolen, scattered across miles of wild terrain. And somehow, they’re the ones riding out to get them back.

Laswell breaks the news first. "It’s bad," she says, arms crossed. "Whoever hit us knew exactly what they were doing—cut through fences, drove the herd into the backcountry."

"How many gone?" Price asks, voice tight.

"Enough to wreck the contract," she replies. "If we don’t recover them, the whole deal collapses." The weight of it settles, heavy.

And then you speak up. "We'll retrieve them," you say, like it’s already decided.

Gaz frowns. "How exactly?"

"On horseback."

Silence.

Then— "You’re joking," Ghost states.

"Dead serious," you reply.

Soap scrubs a hand down his face. "We’re trained for hostage rescues and literal war, not cowboys and cattle drives."

"Well," Laswell sighs, "you’re about to diversify your skill set."

Gaz gestures toward the barn. "I’ve never even touched a horse; you expect me to ride for miles?"

"Unless you want to chase cattle on foot," you quip, already walking.

They just stare at you, like you’ve sentenced them to death.

Price rubs a hand over his jaw, weighing their horror against the alternative. Then, finally— "Mount up, lads," he says, resigned.