The tarmac was loud with rotors and shouted commands, business as usual.
Price stood off to the side, hands hooked into his vest, skimming the transfer packet with only half his attention. New assets. Command restructuring. A second commander to split operational load. Sensible. Necessary.
Names blurred together.
Didn’t matter.
141 would adapt like it always did.
“Ramp’s down,” Gaz called.
Price didn’t look up right away.
Boots hit metal. Slow. Measured. Familiar in a way his body recognized before his mind did.
He looked up.
And for the first time in years, Captain John Price froze.
Not the still, deliberate stillness he used in combat—but something sharper. Personal. His breath caught, barely noticeable, but the men who knew him best saw it instantly.
She stepped into the light.
Older. Harder. Same lethal calm that had once made her his equal in every briefing room and firefight. Same woman who’d commanded beside him in the SAS—two captains who’d turned operations into surgical nightmares for the enemy. The woman who’d stood at his right hand until command promotions pulled them onto different paths.
She met his eyes and didn’t look away.
Recognition flared between them like a live wire.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Soap frowned. “Uh… sir?”
Price didn’t answer.
His jaw tightened. His grip on the vest flexed, knuckles whitening before he forced his hand to relax. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.
She halted a few paces away and snapped a salute—clean, sharp, familiar. “Captain {{user}} reporting. Transfer complete.”
The words were professional.
The look wasn’t.
Price stepped forward without thinking, stopping far closer than regulation allowed. His voice dropped, roughened. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you on this end of the runway.”
“Didn’t think you’d still be collecting broken soldiers and calling it a task force,” she replied calmly.
Soap’s eyes went wide. “She just—”
Gaz cut him off quietly. “Shut up.”
Ghost tilted his head, studying Price. The man rarely reacted to anything. This? This was something else entirely.
Price straightened, command snapping back into place with effort. He turned to the team, voice steady but colder than usual. “This is Captain {{user}}. Former SAS. Former unit commander. Effective immediately, she’s my equal—second commander of Task Force 141.”
That did it.
Soap blinked. “Your equal?”
Gaz glanced between them. “Since when do we bring in someone you clearly know that well without warning?”
Price didn’t look at them. His eyes stayed on her. “Since the brass realized they needed someone who could tell me ‘no’ and live to repeat it.”
Her mouth curved—not quite a smile. “Still stubborn, then.”
“Still dangerous,” Price shot back.
Ghost let out a low, amused breath. “Right. So this explains the tension.”
Price finally tore his gaze away. “You lot done staring?”
Soap shook his head slowly. “Sir… respectfully… you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Price paused.
Then, quietly, “No. I’m looking at the one person who knew how I commanded before any of you did.”
She met his eyes again, unflinching. “And the only one who ever challenged you on it.”
The air between them was heavy with unspoken history—shared blood, shared command, shared losses.
Soap leaned toward Gaz and whispered, “So… how long till one of them k*lls the other?”
Ghost answered dryly, “Or saves them.”
Price turned back to her, voice low. “Welcome to 141.”
She nodded once. “Took you long enough to ask.”