Chapter Text
The teahouse was quiet, tucked between brick alleys and narrow streets, washed in the hum of a city that never truly slept. Rain painted the windows in streaks of silver, and the low hiss of a kettle filled the silence between two field veterans who’d seen too much to enjoy peace for long.
Kate Laswell sat alone at the corner table, sleeves rolled up, pen tapping against a classified folder. She hadn’t noticed he had come in until he placed a fresh cup of tea at her elbow.
“Tea?” Laswell asked, sounding mildly impressed.
Captain John Price set his own cup down and sat opposite Laswell, posture loose but eyes sharp. He smirked. “Yeah, well… I’m a long way from a proper pint.”
Laswell exhaled, taking a sip. “Russia disowned Barkov.”
Price hummed. “Didn’t have much choice, did they? He’s dead.”
“You took a big bite out of the problem, John.”
“For now,” he took a sip of his tea, the faintest flicker in his eyes. “But left unchecked…”
Laswell finished for him. “They won’t be.”
Then, she reached for the folder beside her and placed it on the table with a dull thud. “General Shepherd pulled the files you asked for.”
Price reached forward, but she didn’t let go. Her gaze stayed level, sharp as glass.
“What exactly is this about?” she asked.
“A task force,” he replied.
Laswell’s brow furrowed. “We already have loose ends.”
“And I’ll tie them.”
“I can fund assets, not outlaws.”
Price nodded once, calm but final. “Enjoy the tea then.” He started to rise from his seat, hand brushing the edge of the folder he hadn’t yet taken.
“Zakhaev wants Barkov’s throne,” Laswell quickly said.
He stopped halfway, one hand still on the chair. Slowly, he sat back down. “I almost buried him in Pripyat… with MacMillan.”
“That was the father. This is the son. Victor.”
Price leaned back, lips curling. “Lovely family.”
“They’re big fans of Hadir’s.”
“Well, that would explain why he’s still alive.”
“They’re going to get him out.”
There’s a flicker of tension with the faintest shift in Price’s expression. His voice came out steady and commanding as he spoke, “Then give me what I need.”
Laswell studied him for a long moment, then finally slid the file pocket across the table. The soft scrape of paper against wood filled the quiet. Price pulled it toward him, flipped it open, and fanned out a bundle of files, each stamped classified in red with photos, dossiers, and names. He scanned them with that soldier’s focus.
“Who’s your crew?’ Laswell asked, watching him.
“Sergeant Garrick…” Price nodded slightly.
“Kyle?”
He smirked faintly. “They call him ‘Gaz’. He never said anything.”
He slid the file over to her as she glanced through it with service records, commendations, and photos of field operations, then set it aside. Price picked up another folder, the tab marked with a thick black line.
“John MacTavish. SAS. Sniper – demolitions. Goes by ‘Soap’.”
Laswell raised a brow. “Why?”
“That’s classified,” he said, tone flat.
A small flicker of amusement passed between them. Then, he reached for the next older, worn file, with a crease along the top. He opened it, scanning the contents before a quiet chuckle escaped him.
“There he is…” Price chuckled under his breath. “Simon Riley.”
He laid the file flat for her to see. She leaned forward, brows drawing together. “There’s no picture.”
“Never.”
For a moment, the two sit in silence except for the rain, the hum of the teahouse, leaving the weight of what’s about to begin. Price gathered the files neatly, stacking them under one hand.
“Now the rest… that’s need-to-know,” he glanced up. “Unless we’ve got a deal.”
Laswell studied him for a beat, eyes sharp, calculating, but not unkind. “What are you calling this task force?"
Price paused, the corner of his mouth lifting into the faintest grin. "One-Four-One.”
The files lay stacked beside his arm, a neat little pile of chaos contained only by cardboard and staples. He took a slow sip of his tea, eyes on the condensation gathering at the rim of his cup. Then, without a word, Laswell reached for her briefcase again, drawing out another file, thinner than the rest, unmarked except for the faint handwritten scrawl across the front. She slid it toward him.
“There’s one more. Off the record.”
He set his tea down, eyes narrowing as he looked at the folder. He opened it, and inside were only a few pages with a redacted dossier, several field reports, and a single grainy photo clipped to the corner – a silhouette caught mid-stride in the ruins of a burning compound.
Laswell spoke softly, as if the walls themselves might be listening. “There’s another player joining the board.”
Price glanced up, meeting her eyes.
“Y/F/N Y/L/N,” she said. “Codename: Fox.”
He blinked once, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Fox…” his tone carried both curiosity and disbelief.
Laswell nodded. “Used to run deep cover for the CIA before she retired,” she paused, watching his expression shift as he skimmed the file. “She’s the daughter of the greatest soldier of the twentieth century, and she took after him in more ways than one.”
Price’s gaze lingered on the name again, his thumb tapping slightly against the corner of the page. “Y/N…” he murmured. “That name rings a few bells.”
“It should,” Laswell said simply, her voice laced with quiet conviction. “If half the stories are true, she’s the kind of soldier who ends wars before they start.”
Price looked up, one eyebrow raised. “And the other half?”
Laswell exhaled through her nose, leaning back in her seat. “Let’s just say she’s not someone you want as an enemy.”
Price’s hand rested on the open file, eyes tracing the ink of your name one last time. “You trust her?”
Laswell’s gaze didn’t waver. “With my life.”
She gathered the folders with quiet precision with one hand flattening the edges, the other stacking them into a neat, orderly pile. The sound of paper against paper was almost soothing against the patter of rain still whispering outside. Only two remained on the table with Task Force 141 members and one thinner, less official, stamped only with a single word across the top in stark, black ink: FOX.
“You’ll cross paths soon enough,” Laswell said, voice even but laced with implication. “Try not to get in each other’s way.”
Price gave a small, humorless chuckle, though his eyes didn’t leave the files still lying on the table. She nodded once and turned for the door, the bell chiming above softly as she stepped out into the mist.
The Captain sat alone now with just him, the cooling tea, and the last few embers of sunlight filtering through rain-clouded glass. He reached for his cup, lifted it, and took a long, deliberate sip. The porcelain gave a soft clink as he set it back down.
“Fox, huh,” he murmured to himself, almost tasting the name as he said it.
Price leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly beneath him, and turned his attention to the file Laswell had left behind. The edges were frayed, the paper slightly warped as if it had been passed around one too many times – hidden, recovered, then hidden again.
He flipped it open, finally. Inside was a photo, clipped to the top with a rusted metal fastener. The image was slightly grainy, mid-operation. You were crouched in the middle of what looked like a war-torn street with rubble, smoke, and the faint orange glow of a burning vehicle behind you. A bandana was tied around your forehead, hair pulled back, streaked with dust and sweat. Your expression was sharp and focused, eyes locked on something just out of frame.
Price studied it for a while, his jaw set, fingers brushing over the paper like he could almost feel the grit of the battlefield bleeding through the print. The report beneath it was brief with field logs, unverified missions, and a few notes scrawled in Laswell’s handwriting.
He smirked faintly. “Hell of a resume,” he muttered under his breath.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a lighter and a cigar. The flame flared to life, flickering gold against the dim light of the teahouse. He brought it to the end of the cigar, the glow reflecting briefly in his sharp, blue eyes. He took a slow drag, exhaled through his nose, and let the smoke curl lazily upward, mixing with the steam of the forgotten tea.
Then, in that low gravelled voice of his, almost amused but edged with challenge, he said quietly to no one in particular, “Let’s see if the legend’s real.”
Price closed the folder gently, pressing his hand against the stamped name one last time. Outside, the rain had thinned to a drizzle. The world beyond the window blurred into streaks of gray and amber light.
Price stood, tucking the folders under his arm. One last look at the empty teacup, and then he turned for the door. The bell jingled softly as he stepped out, swallowing the faint echo by the street’s distant hum.