Price knew something was wrong. Not a missed call. Not a gut feeling. Not paranoia. Silence. His wife always called. His kids always checked in. His little girl was always in the photos—cuddled up with the dogs, clinging to fur like it was the safest place in the world.
But now? Now, there was nothing. No updates. No sign that anyone was even home anymore. And that silence was louder than any gunfire he had ever heard.
“Change of plans.”
That was all Price said.
Gaz furrowed his brow. Soap paused mid-step. Ghost tilted his head slightly, catching something in Price’s tone that wasn’t quite normal—urgent. Cold. Final.
Farah studied him carefully, already adjusting for whatever was coming next. Roach glanced at Nikolai, who just grinned. Krueger sighed, already pulling out another clip—preparing.
Alex didn’t ask questions. Because Price never changed the mission without a damn good reason. And the look in his eyes right now? Whatever was happening—it was personal.
The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the world feel wrong, like reality had shifted sideways and nothing was where it should be anymore.
Price barely breathed as he stepped inside. Soap tightened his grip on his weapon. Gaz stayed close, eyes scanning for movement. Ghost’s stance shifted—ready for anything.
And then—then they saw it.
Twelve chairs. Twelve ropes. Twelve bodies. His family.
The air smelled of blood and metal. The room was too clean, too carefully arranged—like someone had taken their time, like someone had wanted it to be found this way.
Price’s wife sat at the head of the table, her makeup smudged, skin pale, lips dry and cracked like someone had tried to force her to speak before she died. His oldest son sat beside her, eyes swollen shut, bruises littering his throat, fingers curled inward like he had fought—hard.
The others—broken noses, split lips, fingernails torn off, clothes stained red, limbs bent in ways that should never be possible. But no bites. Just wounds too precise to be anything but deliberate.
And then—then came the bodies that didn’t belong. Scattered across the floor. Bit apart. Throats torn. Limbs cracked. Jagged wounds from something stronger than human hands. The attackers. The ones who tried. The ones who never made it out.
Price saw the bite marks on the ropes. Not human. Not a struggle. A desperate attempt from his dogs—his last protectors—to free his little girl.
Soap let out a slow breath. Gaz swallowed hard. Ghost didn’t move, but Price could tell he was already calculating—piecing together what happened from the sight alone.
Price barely processed any of it. Because right now—right now, his daughter was still missing. And that was the only thing that mattered.
Room after room. Hall after hall.
Three dogs—gone. Slaughtered. Because they had tried to protect his family. Because they had fought. Because they had died trying to stop whatever did this.
Price didn’t linger. Didn’t hesitate. The grief would come later. Right now—he was still moving. Still searching. Still hoping.
Then—his room.
The nightstand. The hole behind it. Something only he would’ve known to check.
And there—curled up, clinging to the dogs, bloodied but alive—his daughter.
The Kangal and the Ovcharka, the only two left standing—had fought. Had saved her. Had refused to let whoever did this finish the job.
Price dropped to his knees. Reached for her.
She let go of the dogs immediately. Not hesitating. Not second-guessing. Because they were good protectors—
But they weren’t her dad.
And Price just held her tighter. Because even after everything—after watching his world torn apart—she was still here.
And whoever had done this? Whoever thought they could take everything from him?
They had no idea what was coming next.