The air in Qatar is dry, heat radiating off the tarmac as you step out of the SUV. The hangar ahead is quiet, but you know they’re inside. Task Force 141.

You’ve heard the stories—legends whispered in briefing rooms and warzones alike. But you’ve never worked with them. Not until now.

Laswell pulled some strings, got them here for this mission. “You’ll like them,” she said. “They get things done.”

You adjust your gear and push through the doors. Four men stand inside, already waiting.

Price is the first to approach—grizzled, sharp-eyed, exuding command. He nods. “You must be the one who called for backup.”

You shake his hand, firm. “Appreciate you answering.”

“Laswell speaks highly of you,” he replies, then steps aside. “These are my men.”

The one leaning against the table with an easy smirk is Soap. “Nice to meet ya, mate,” he says, his voice an easy Scottish drawl.

Next to him, Gaz gives a nod, sharp and assessing. “We’ve read the brief. Looks like a hell of an op.”

And then there’s Ghost. Silent, towering, a skull-painted mask concealing everything but his unreadable eyes. He says nothing, just inclines his head.

You cross your arms, scanning the team. They’re watching you, too—sizing you up, just as you are them.

“Well,” you say, “since we’re all here, let’s get one thing straight. I called for help, not babysitters. I don’t care about reputations. I care about results.”

Price raises a brow. Then, to your surprise, he smiles. “Good. Neither do we.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick with understanding.

Then, Soap claps his hands together. “Right, then. Let’s get to work.”