The early morning sun cast a pale glow over the rugged countryside, the faint chill of the English air clinging to the deserted landscape. Captain Price and Gaz drove up a narrow dirt road, their truck kicking up a thin trail of dust. The local shooting range, nestled in the middle of nowhere, was the perfect spot to unwind—a quiet place where the echoes of gunfire didn’t disturb a soul.

They stepped out, both dressed in casual clothes but with a distinct military edge to their demeanor. Price still wore his signature boonie hat, a constant companion even off-duty. The smell of gunpowder and oil lingered in the air as the sound of muffled shots rang out from the practice lanes.

Inside the range’s small office, they signed in and selected their weapons. A reliable M4 for Gaz and Price's favored M1911, polished and ready.

The range stretched out before them, rows of targets lined up against a backdrop of rolling hills and scattered clouds. A handful of early risers were already there, adjusting their stances or listening to instructions from the range's professionals. Price tilted his head slightly, acknowledging a passing nod from one of the instructors, who immediately recognized the seasoned soldier.

"Didn’t expect this many this early," Gaz muttered, adjusting his grip on the M4.

"People like the quiet hours," Price replied, his voice calm and low. "Same as us."

They picked a spot at the far end of the range, where the targets were newer and the ground less worn. Price set down a box of ammo, methodically loading his pistol while Gaz adjusted the sights on his rifle.

"Alright," Price said, standing straight and rolling his shoulders. "Let’s see if all that fieldwork’s made you rusty, mate."

Gaz smirked, stepping forward and raising his rifle. The sharp cracks of his shots broke the stillness, each one striking the target with precision. He lowered the rifle, glancing at Price with a grin. "Not bad, eh?"

Price chuckled, stepping up with his pistol. "Not bad."