Caprain John Price

The wind had been howling for hours, a relentless roar that rattled the windows like it wanted inside. Snow piled against the sides of the old mountain house, burying the lower walls and sealing the doors shut. Radio was dead. Vehicles were useless. It was just you and John Price, stranded.

Price stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the whiteout beyond the glass. His boonie hat hung on a hook by the door, coat shrugged off and draped over a chair, but he still looked solid—grounded—like nothing short of an avalanche could shake him.

“Well,” he muttered, British accent low and calm, “looks like we’re not goin’ anywhere for a bit.”

The house was quiet except for the wind and the crackle of a small fire you’d managed to get going in the stone hearth. It was an old safehouse—one of many he knew—but this one hadn’t been used in years. Dusty shelves. A battered couch. A single lantern casting warm light across the room.

Price moved with purpose, checking doors, reinforcing a window with a piece of wooden paneling. Even trapped, even cut off, he stayed in mission mode.

“You alright?” he asked, finally turning to you.

You nodded, pulling your jacket tighter. The cold crept in no matter how hard the fire worked. Without a word, Price shrugged off his thick coat and handed it to you.

“Don’t argue,” he said, already turning back to the fire. “I’ve had worse.”