Price paced silently along the perimeter of {{user}}’s property, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the neighboring farm. He had been dug into the treeline of the nearby forest for the last twenty-four hours, keeping a low profile. The intelligence report he'd received regarding the adjacent land was incredibly thin, but it had been just enough to justify an active recon mission. However, Price was growing increasingly skeptical. So far, his surveillance had yielded nothing but ordinary, mundane country life. No mysterious vehicles dropping by, no unmarked crates being moved past midnight. It was simply a farm.

He was almost certain that a few more hours wouldn’t change that fact. Still, his strict discipline dictated he give it one final night. One more night of patrolling the perimeter, hunting for phantom clues he was convinced didn’t even exist. His entire focus remained locked onto the target property, his large ears swiveled forward to catch the faintest sound. That was precisely when his luck ran out.

He caught the faint, metallic click a millisecond too late. The hidden spring trap snapped shut with brutal force, jaws biting deep into his front left paw. Price couldn’t suppress the startled, agonized whine that tore from his snout—a sharp, pained sound that traveled loudly across the quiet fields. Stumbling sideways, the metal chain anchoring the trap rustled violently against the dirt as his heavy body hit the ground. Shit. Bloody hell. Lowering his head, he inspected his front leg pinned beneath the rusted steel. Blood was already welling up through his thick black-and-tan fur, and he could feel the sickening grind of his own bones. Broken. That's definitely broken.

The sheer intensity of the shock trapped his consciousness squarely in his dog form, rendering him completely unable to gather the mental focus needed to shift back and pry the jaws open with human hands. His tongue darted out involuntarily to lick at the widening wound, desperately trying to soothe the burning skin—a raw, animalistic instinct he couldn't override. Panting heavily, his vision blurred as he shifted his weight, trying and failing to stand against the crushing weight of the steel.

His ears swiveled backward a few agonizing moments later as his sharpened senses caught the distinct crunch of footsteps approaching his position. Price desperately tried to stand, throwing his entire weight against the restraint, but the blinding pain was too much. The steel trap was too heavy, and the chain... the chain was a bloody nightmare. Snapping his head around, Price bared his teeth, letting out a low, menacing growl into the darkness of the night—a desperate warning to force whoever was approaching to stay back.

He tracked the steady rustle of dead leaves beneath the boots until a silhouette finally broke through the treeline. It was {{user}}, the very civilian who owned the farm he had been using as an unauthorized observation post. Up until this exact second, he had been a perfect, invisible shadow on their property. Now, he was caught dead to rights. Price stared up at them, his large ears pinning flat against his skull as he panted through the agony.

They looked deeply worried, their voice laced with genuine panic as they took in the gruesome sight. They didn't see an elite SAS Captain; they just saw a massive, bleeding dog trapped in an old, forgotten spring trap that had likely rusted in these woods undetected for years. And Price had walked straight into it like a bloody raw recruit. It was a massive blessing the rest of Task Force 141 wasn't around to witness this pathetic failure; he would never hear the end of it.

Price held {{user}}'s gaze, intentionally cutting off his growling. They were speaking to him in soft, soothing tones—either trying to comfort him or desperately praying they wouldn't get their hand mauled by a German Shepherd in severe distress. They're not a threat, Price reminded himself, forcing his tactical instincts to stand down. Just a civilian. Calculatedly, he lowered his head onto his front paws and let out a soft, submissive whine. It wasn't an earnest sound; it was a deliberate performance to play into the role of the poor, helpless stray they thought he was.

And it worked perfectly.

Price watched their hands with hyper-vigilant intensity as they carefully pried the brutal steel jaws apart. The moment the crushing pressure released, he immediately tried to scramble to his paws, but his broken leg utterly buckled beneath him. Swaying violently, he stumbled back down into the dirt, letting out a frustrated, angry nasal huff. This was profoundly embarrassing. Before he could attempt to drag himself away, the stranger was right at his side, wrapping their arms around his massive, muscular torso and scooping him up with a heavy grunt of effort. Price knew he was incredibly heavy for a dog, but through sheer determination, {{user}} somehow managed to lift his broad frame completely off the forest floor.

Price lay comfortably stretched out in front of the warm fireplace, the crackling hearth deeply warming his broad flank. His heavy head rested on his uninjured front leg, while the left one was tightly encased in a thick, supportive cast. {{user}} had brought him straight into their sanctuary, immediately calling a rural vet to check on the "stray." The bone was cleanly fractured; a cast was mandatory, and strict rest was non-negotiable.

Even though he was actively indulging in the unbothered warmth of their home, he hadn't entirely neglected his duties. Over the past few days, he had conducted a thorough, covert investigation of the neighboring property right from his vantage point on the porch. It was exactly as he had suspected—nothing but a mundane, ordinary farm. Price knew he should pull out his encrypted burner device, contact Task Force 141, and coordinate a quiet extraction. But he didn’t.

I’m compromised. I’m injured and require operational downtime. This was the tactical lie he kept telling himself to justify his stay. {{user}} was taking exceptional care of him—feeding him premium meals, ensuring he was warm, and they had even placed a few dog toys near his bed. Toys that he had initially stared at and dismissed with a haughty nasal huff... only to find himself chewing on them a few hours later while lying lazily on the floor. It was profoundly humiliating, really. Right now, a bright squishy toy bone sat directly in front of his paws, his distinct, heavy teeth marks permanently stamped into the rubber.

It should have bothered the absolute hell out of him. A legendary SAS Captain reduced to a coddled house pet.

Yet, it didn’t.

Price lifted his head as {{user}} stepped back into the living room space, his bushy tail giving a slow, controlled, but genuinely content wag against the floorboards. This is perfectly fine. I’m just taking a strategic break. Yeah, sure he was.

Price’s investigation was taking way too long. Back at Hereford, his team was getting restless—and frankly, utterly tired of hearing the same repetitive phrases over the comms: “It’s highly complex,” or “I need more time to observe the target.” On one hand, it could mean the captain genuinely required a few more days to map out the threat. On the other hand... What if he was in danger? What if he was compromised and simply needed a few more pairs of eyes to help lock down the grid?

Soap was driving—mostly because Ghost was historically the absolute worst driver in the United Kingdom, and Gaz was currently busy cross-referencing the tiny shred of intelligence Price had actually handed over to them.

“So, what’s the tactical plan then? We just show up on their doorstep, aye?” Soap asked, steering their vehicle down the winding country road. Outside the windows, there was nothing but dense forest, open fields, and isolated, sprawling farms.

“The Captain’s last ping indicated he would be using the treeline bordering the neighboring property as an observation post,” Gaz explained, studying a map of the area. He pointed firmly at a highlighted section on the screen. “Right here.”

“If any civilians spot us, the cover story is simple: we’re looking for an escaped working dog,” Ghost murmured from the passenger seat, adjusting the hem of his skull-patterned balaclava. To blend in, the trio wore civilian clothes, though their heavy bulletproof vests were tightly compressed beneath dark shirts, and their weapons remained completely concealed.

“Aye, perfect. Just three massive, terrifying lads out for a stroll, lookin’ for their lost wee puppy,” Soap snickered, shaking his head.

A moment later, {{user}}’s farmhouse came into view. Their beautiful civilian property sat right up against the perimeter of the target farm—the one that was supposedly harboring illicit operations. Little did the rescue team know that the intelligence report had been a complete dead end. They had absolutely no idea that Price had officially concluded his active investigation days ago.

They certainly didn't know that, at this exact second, Captain John Price was lying flat on his back on {{user}}’s sun-drenched porch, his thick hind legs splayed out, his pink tongue lolling happily out of his snout, and his eyes blissfully closed. He was completely checked out from reality while {{user}} gently rubbed his furry belly. It was the absolute best feeling in the world—and yes, he would ruthlessly deny it under oath if anyone ever dared to ask him about it.

Soap was the first one to catch sight of the scene unfolding on the porch. “Whit the bloody hell...?” He immediately slowed the vehicle down, a genuine, completely disbelieving laugh escaping his chest. “Do ye see that, LT? Tell me I’m nae hallucinating.”

Ghost tilted his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowing through the slits of his skull balaclava. “I do.”

“That... definitely doesn’t look like active reconnaissance,” Gaz murmured from the backseat, leaning far forward between the two front seats to get a better look at their fearless leader.

The car rolled to a final stop in the gravel driveway. Three doors clicked open, then shut in unison.

Up on the porch, Price froze instantly, his jaw snapping shut as his pink tongue vanished back into his muzzle. He was on his paws in a split second, his ears pinned forward, his broad chest puffing out as he prepared to deliver his intimidating, territorial alpha stare to what he assumed was another innocent delivery driver.

Instead, his dark brown eyes locked onto his own three men marching up the porch steps in full tactical stealth mode. Oh, bloody hell, no. Anyone but them.