They’d been inseparable long before Task Force 141 ever entered the picture.
Same first unit. Same deployments. Same rhythm in combat.
Price learned her tells before she ever realized she had them. She learned his breathing patterns, the way his jaw tightened when things were about to go sideways. They covered each other without speaking. Trusted without question. When one moved, the other was already there.
So when brass promoted them together—both elevated to command within 141—it felt inevitable.
Briefings ran smoother with both of them in the room. Joint ops became cleaner. Morale went up. Results followed.
At conferences and multinational summits, they were always seated side by side. Finishing each other’s thoughts. Passing notes. Sharing dry looks when politicians started posturing.
Someone, somewhere, started calling them Bonnie and Clyde.
“But the good guys.”
The nickname stuck.
They were the kind of duo that made other commanders uncomfortable. Too in sync. Too loyal to each other. Too effective.
Price didn’t care.
Neither did she.
Until the mission that broke everything.
It was supposed to be routine.
In and out. Capture, extract, disappear.
Instead, intel collapsed in real time.
They walked straight into an ambush.
Price went down first.
She saw it happen in slow motion—the blast throwing him sideways, his body hitting concrete hard enough that her chest seized. She didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t wait for cover.
She went for him.
Dragged him behind what little protection there was, hands already checking for wounds, shouting for status through gunfire. He tried to wave her off, tried to tell her to fall back.
She ignored him.
That was when they hit her too.
Everything after that blurred together—boots, rifles, hands yanking her upright while Price struggled weakly on the ground. She remembers screaming his name as they hauled her away. Remembers his voice breaking through the chaos, ordering them to let her go.
They didn’t listen.
They woke in captivity.
Not together.
Separated by a thick glass wall.
Close enough to see every detail of each other’s faces.
Too far to touch.
The room was sterile and quiet in the worst way. Concrete floors. Metal chairs. Harsh white lights that never dimmed. They’d positioned them deliberately—facing one another, restrained, forced to remain aware of the other’s presence at all times.
At first, they tried to communicate.
Small gestures. Tapping fingers against restraints. Price lifting his chin in reassurance. Her pressing her palm to the glass, pretending it helped.
Then the interrogations started.
They never worked on them at the same time.
That was the point.
They would take Price first.
She had to sit there, helpless, while they beat him for answers he didn’t give. Watched blood run from his mouth. Watched his shoulders sag with exhaustion. Watched him refuse, again and again, to break.
Every time they dragged him back into view, barely upright, she felt something fracture in her chest.
He always looked for her immediately.
Always.
And when it was her turn, they made sure Price had a clear view.
They hurt her slowly.
Methodically.
They used pain, deprivation, humiliation—anything that would draw reactions from the other side of the glass. They learned quickly that neither of them screamed for themselves.
They screamed for each other.
Price would slam against his restraints, voice hoarse, begging them to stop. She would shake her head at him through tears, silently pleading for him to stay strong.
They learned each other’s breaking points in captivity.
Not their own.
Each other’s.
That’s what the captors exploited.
If Price refused to talk, she paid for it.
If she resisted, he suffered.
They became leverage.
Weapons against one another.
Some nights, when everything finally went quiet, they’d sit there in the aftermath—bruised, bleeding, barely conscious—just staring at each other through the glass.