Prologue: The Celebration Before the Storm
The restaurant hummed with soft conversation, the clink of glasses, and the warmth of flickering candlelight.
John Price sat at the head of the table, his hands resting casually on the surface as he watched his daughter—his girl—laugh, a bright, bell-like sound that felt like home.
She was a daddy’s girl through and through, utterly devoted to him in the way only young daughters could be. His two sons, both sharp and resilient, were locked in a quiet debate over the last few fries on their shared plate.
It was simple. Ordinary. Perfect.
Later, as the family stepped through their front door, the remnants of the evening still clinging to the air, Price carried his daughter to her room, settling her down with the gentleness only a father could offer.
"Happy birthday, love," he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
She beamed up at him, sleepy but content. "Love you, Daddy."
His heart ached in the best way. "Love you more."
The Drug Kicks In
Hours passed. The house settled into the kind of quiet found only in the deepest stretch of night.
Price lay in bed, arms behind his head, body sinking into the mattress—when something wrong crept into his veins.
At first, it was just a sluggish feeling.
Then the weight hit, heavy, suffocating, pressing against his limbs like they had turned to lead.
His chest tightened. His mind fogged.
What the hell—?
The realization cracked through him like a gunshot.
Drugged.
Then—movement.
The unmistakable sound of a struggle.
His daughter's room.
The haze threatened to drown him, but Price forced himself up, legs nearly buckling as he stumbled toward the door. His hand fumbled for his phone, shaking as he pressed the call.
Ghost answered immediately. "Price?"
His voice—too sluggish. Too wrong. "My daughter. They're trying to take my daughter."
Silence. Then, Ghost’s voice turned razor-sharp. "On our way."
Price didn’t wait.
He forced himself toward his daughter’s room, body burning with resistance.
And then—he saw her.
A Father's Fury
His girl—tiny, fierce—was fighting with everything she had.
Her arms flailed, fists striking against the man who dared to grab her. She bit down, sinking her teeth into his arm with the viciousness only a child who refused to be taken could muster.
"LET ME GO!" she screamed, thrashing in his grip.
The masked man sneered, dragging her back.
Outside—the roar of engines.
Then—the door exploded open.
TF141 stormed in.
Ghost led first, eyes black with fury. Soap, Gaz, Roach—all locked onto the target.
Alejandro and Rodolfo moved with silent precision, weapons raised.
Kamarov, Krueger, Nikto—predators ready to strike.
Farah’s stance was lethal. Laswell’s voice was sharp in comms.
Alex and Nikolai covered the back, cutting off escape.
And Price—drugged, sluggish, but still standing.