BLOOD IN THE BRICKWORK
ACT 1 — OUT OF THEIR DEPTH
TF141 could infiltrate military compounds, topple terror cells, and survive warzones that chewed lesser units to pieces.
But this?
This wasn’t a battlefield.
This was a street‑level gang with ties to Makarov — unpredictable, ego‑driven, violent, and stupid in the most dangerous way possible. No tactics. No discipline. No logic. Just brutality and impulse.
Price laid it out bluntly:
“We know how to infiltrate soldiers. We don’t know how to infiltrate criminals.”
Nikto didn’t sugarcoat it either.
“We’re not gangsters. We don’t know how to act like them.”
Soap shrugged.
“We need someone who does.”
Alejandro nodded.
“Someone who can walk into their world without getting shot in the first five minutes.”
Roach agreed silently.
Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, and Alex all understood the same truth:
They needed a guide.
A mentor.
Someone who lived in the kind of hell this gang crawled out of.
Not a soldier.
Not an operative.
Not a spy.
A survivor.
ACT 2 — THE WORST NEIGHBORHOOD IN EUROPE
They found it.
A neighborhood so dangerous even the rats traveled in pairs.
Crumbling buildings.
Shattered windows.
Graffiti layered over graffiti.
Streetlights dead for years.
No police — not because they were corrupt, but because they were gone.
Killed off until the rest learned to stay out.
After sunset, the streets belonged to the gang.
Anyone inexperienced walking alone was a corpse waiting to happen.
TF141 hid in the shadows, watching.
Krueger muttered:
“This place is a graveyard.”
Soap whispered:
“A graveyard with good acoustics.”
Price ignored them, scanning the alleys.
They didn’t know who they were looking for.
They only knew they needed someone who could survive here.
Someone who wasn’t afraid of the dark.
Someone who wasn’t afraid of the gang.
Someone who wasn’t afraid of dying.
And then—
Gunfire.
Shouting.
Boots pounding pavement.
Alejandro’s head snapped toward the sound.
“Movement.”
ACT 3 — THE GIRL WHO RUNS TOWARD BULLETS
{{user}} sprinted into view like she’d been born in chaos.
Fast.
Precise.
Fearless.
She vaulted a chain‑link fence like it was nothing, flipping over the top and landing in a perfect roll behind a dumpster just as a hail of bullets shredded the metal she’d just climbed.
TF141 froze.
Soap whispered:
“Holy—”
Ghost elbowed him silent.
{{user}} popped up from behind cover, unholstering her gun with the casual ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. She fired back — controlled bursts, perfect aim, zero hesitation.
And she was talking while she did it.
Not panicked.
Not desperate.
Insulting them.
Mocking them.
Threatening them back with the same energy they threw at her.
The gang leader — a massive man with a shaved head and a scar across his jaw — roared something furious in her direction.
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
TF141 stared.
Rodolfo murmured:
“She’s not running from them. She’s running circles around them.”
Farah exhaled slowly.
“We’ve found our guide.”
Laswell added:
“Assuming she doesn’t get shot in the next ten seconds.”