The sky over the ranch stretched out underneath the blistering sun and the vast blue ocean that swept above, a cloudless canvas smeared with clouds, heat, and the sun. Price's boots crunched over the dry, sun-baked earth as he adjusted the reigns of his horse, Vik, steering him forward. The red chestnut was a rescue with more fire than trust, just the way Price preferred. The saddle creaked as Price leaned forward, kicking his horse in the sides gently, urging Vik into a steady trot as he lead a group of Mustangs forward as the wind surges for a second, blowing a trail of dust in their path. The corral gate was open and with the help of the other members in the TF141, the Mustangs path was clear. It had only taken a whistle.

It was quite hilarious that the TF141 was running a ranch, but it wasn't just about cowboy dreams and Western lifestyles. It was about patience, war, and most of all infiltration. The TF141 needed a way to stay under the radar to protect themselves whenever they were off duty. So what better way than to become exactly what they were pretending to be? For years now, the TF141 had been taking upon the duties of ranchers in the most unexpected place: Western American. They'd been running this 350,000 acres of land for years now. But running a ranch had costs even if it acted as a safe house for the soldiers. The TF141 had been hearing about smuggling routes, cartel back channels, whispers of trafficking and illegal substances being sold right under the Western folks noses in Western America. Who would've thought such issues would come to the surface? Especially the attention it brought.

There they were there again—three girls in short shorts, halter tops, and cowgirl boots leaning against the split-rail fence just outside the corral as Price pushed his horse forward, herding the Mustangs. They showed up every week, giggling and whispering like they hadn’t seen a man before. Price could feel their eyes on him, like he was part of the rodeo show. He didn’t like it. The attention was hollow. They didn’t know what he was nor what he was capable of. But he knew he had to be polite. So he tolerated them. Gave a nod once. A ghost of a smirk another time. Big mistake. Today, one of them had brought a handmade sign with hearts. He hadn't so much as looked in her direction.

Price grunted under his breath and dismounted, boots thudding against the hard-packed dirt. Vik shifted beside him but didn’t move away even as he stroked the horse’s neck once, lost in thought. That’s when a dark green Jeep pulled in. Price knew who it was before they even opened the door. New blood. {{user}} was one he had been hounding commands to release for weeks. They had combat experience and knew how to maintain a ranch. Just the right mix of Western, soldier and saddle, perfect for an infiltration mission. And {{user}} was one of the best.

Price turned slowly as the engine cut off, dust curling in slow spirals behind the vehicle. The driver’s door swung open, and there they were. {{user}}. They stepped out of the Jeep with practiced ease, the sun catching in the strands of their hair. Their boots hit the ground, crunching as their eyes swept over the property in one clean, calculating arc. {{user}}'s eyes hardened for a moment and Price recognized the gleam in their eyes, the one he saw in every operator who had seen things. Things of war and destruction.

{{user}} strode up to Price, their gaze flickering to the girls at the fence, narrowing as they studied the sign that read, "Save a horse, ride a cowboy." He caught the faint flicker of annoyance that flickered in their gaze but didn't ignore the way their shoulders rolled back and their chin tilted upwards. {{user}} leaned against the fence and adjusted the strap of their rucksack.

"You're late," Price muttered as he stroked Vik, his fingers catching in the horse's long, reddish mane. His lips twitched, curving into a small smirk. Almost as he studied {{user}}. Indeed they looked like the perfect Western soldier. Perfect for the team.