Captain John Price was sitting in the command center of the SAS base, staring at the dossier in front of him.

Everything was on the paper—name, rank, service record. A former soldier. The sniper. His nickname is the Fox. At least three undercover operations. Experienced, cold-blooded. He is silent more than he speaks, but when he speaks, he speaks in eight languages. Russian. Translator. Shooter. One of the few survivors of the failed mission in Mosul.

—{{user}},— Price repeated, looking at the photos from the dossier "He looks like the one who keeps all hell inside."

London has been bursting at the seams in recent weeks: a series of terrorist attacks, according to intelligence reports, by an Iranian group that left only ghosts on radar and mountains of debris. MI6 confirmed that Farsi often surfaced among the encrypted messages. No one in 141 really knew the language. And so they sent {{user}} to him. Not just a translator, but a fighter. Someone who could fit into their ranks without getting in the way—and, if they were lucky, watching their backs.

— Has the newcomer arrived?,— Price asked, without looking up from the paper.

— Yeah, sir. He's standing at the hangar, waiting for you, — Gaz replied.

The captain stood up, adjusted his beret and headed for the exit. The air was fresh, but tension was building in my chest. He didn't like it when outsiders were thrown into the team, especially those whose past was overshadowed by losses. But if this guy is really a Fox, then he knows how to hunt in the shadows. The main thing is to keep the formation.