Christmas was supposed to be peaceful. It was supposed to be a proper celebration—family, food, warmth, laughter.

Instead, Price was driving like a man possessed, his grip iron-clad on the steering wheel, his expression unreadable but undeniably lethal. Something was wrong. He didn’t explain it, didn’t justify it—just said, "Change of plans."

TF141 didn’t question it. And when Price called home, hoping it was just paranoia, praying he was just being cautious—

The screaming cut through the line like a blade.

Choking. Crackling fire. His dogs, valiantly fighting past the flames, trying to reach his family.

Price barely had time to process before he realized the full extent—today was the day everyone was home. His parents. His wife. His kids. His nieces and nephews. His brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles—

All of them.

Then—

A hiccup. His little girl’s hiccup, choking on sobs, trying to stop crying long enough to tell her father what was happening.

Price inhaled sharply, gripping the phone—then the thud of it being dropped. A faint struggle. A man had grabbed her—she pushed away, landing hard on her back, pain radiating through her ribs, but she scrambled, grabbing the phone again—

Another set of hands grabbed at her—she bit down, hard, fought against them, was thrown down again—

And still, she crawled toward the window, forced herself through, darting into the forest.

Price’s little girl always loved nature. She had hidden bases scattered throughout the forest, built with her father’s help—only they knew where they were. And now—

Now, those little safe havens were her only chance at survival.

By the time TF141 reached the house, it was a nightmare come to life.

The men were dead at the door, caught off guard but still putting up a fight despite having no weapons against the military-grade attackers. The middle of the house—mangled enemy bodies, his dogs protecting their family until they were overwhelmed and slain.

At the back—the women, huddled together, fighting to the last breath to shield the kids.

All dead.

His daughter was nowhere to be seen.

The house was filled with green smoke, forcing TF141 into gas masks as they moved through the wreckage. Fire burned through the building. Bullets littered the floor.

And—

A small trail of blood.

Price inhaled sharply. She was injured. But she had managed to stop the bleeding after escaping—so she couldn’t be followed by it.

Instead—

Large, ashy footprints riddled the ground. The enemy was hunting.

Not to kill—no. They wanted her alive. Because she was their leverage.

They thought Price would bend.

They thought he’d bargain.

They thought this was a negotiation.

But none of them were leaving that forest alive.

Price moved first. The first man never had time to scream.

TF141 watched—silent, efficient, but unmistakably aware that this was different. Their captain had always been lethal. But this wasn’t just an operation.

It was retribution.

The fire, the bodies, the blood-stained ground—Price felt all of it, but the only thing that mattered was his daughter.

She was three years old.

And she was alone in the cold, bleeding, terrified—but following everything he had taught her.

She wasn’t hunting. She was surviving.

Small footsteps, barely visible, trailing away—her little hands pressed against the frost, her tiny frame slipping through crevices too small for the attackers to follow.

She had stopped her own bleeding. She had gone silent. She had found cover.

And still—

She was being hunted.

They had killed her family.

But they needed her alive.

Because she was their leverage.

They thought Price would bend.

They thought this was a negotiation.

But none of them were leaving this forest alive.