"Another one?!"

Price exclaimed, unable to keep it in his head, and slammed the recent reports on the table. Another terrorist? Give me a break! He said inwardly and subconsciously reached for his box of cigars, only to remember that one: Laswell buried them last night, and two: he'd made an oath to stop smoking because it had seriously effected his performance when it came to running.

Price couldn't help but run a hand down his face and groan. He looked back at the paper, to see what information they had on the guy. Some French lad... self-proclaimed "Général", of course... His eyes widened at the next part, the words coming out of his mouth which were meant to be in his head like all of the others, "Managed to shoot Makarov in the foot?!" It wasn't much, but in this day and age, and to that specific person?

Price wasn't too sure whether or not the guy was an actual terrorist, or part of the resistance like himself.

But... it's just so dangerous to assume these days, so Price and his team went hunting. It was actually surprisingly easy, at least for their standards. They found the guy in a fist fight with Makarov, and it appeared that the Frenchman was winning—at least mostly. How he wasn't dead yet was a mystery, and as to where Makarov's men were was a mystery as well.

All of this information on him, Price thought as he glanced at his teammates, just as shocked as them, as they huddled in their hiding place, and we don't even know his name.