Price | Next Door

The damp autumn chill of a small Surrey town was a far cry from the freezing winds and concrete dust of Russia, but John hadn’t quite figured out how to slow his breathing yet.

He stood in the narrow gravel driveway of a faded, red-brick semi-detached house, the keys cold and heavy against his calloused palm. Behind him sat a modest rental truck, its back loaded with the bare minimum of a life stripped down to its essentials: a few wooden crates, a rolled-up mattress, a kettle, and several duffel bags stuffed with worn flannel shirts, dark heavy boots, and old tactical gear he couldn't bring himself to burn.

His jaw tightened as he reached back to grab a heavy canvas duffel. As soon as he hauled it toward his chest, a sharp, white-hot pull ripped across his lower left abdomen. John caught his breath through grinding teeth, freezing in place until the agonizing spasm ebbed into a deep, familiar throbbing ache.

Damn it.

He set the bag back down on the truck bed, resting his palms against the cold metal edge as he waited for his pulse to settle. The wound was six months old, but the jagged, puckered star of scar tissue beneath his shirt served as a constant reminder of the day everything almost ended.

It had been the final, brutal confrontation with Makarov deep inside a collapsing Russian complex. A chaotic, bloody nightmare where a single wrong second almost cost him everything. He could still hear the deafening crack of gunfire echoing off frozen steel, the terror that seized his chest when Soap took a round straight to the head, and the sight of Gaz taking a heavy shot to the chest, collapsing into the debris. When a structural blast tore through the upper floors, John was speared through the abdomen by a massive spike of wooden rubble, pinned to the floor while the world burned around them. It was Ghost who had breached through the smoke, pulling the jagged wood from John’s gut, hauling his bleeding commander off the line, and helping drag Soap and Gaz to safety under a storm of lead. They had put Makarov in the ground, and they had survived. Barely.

When the dust settled, Kate Laswell had sat by his hospital bed in Hereford, looking just as aged and worn down as he felt. She’s the one who brought up retirement first, sliding her own papers onto the bedside table. “We’ve given them enough of our blood, John,” she’d said softly. “It’s time to stop paying for their wars.”

He had signed the papers three weeks later. Leaving Task Force 141 and the SAS wasn't a choice made out of anger; it was sheer emotional exhaustion. Decades of carrying the weight of lost men, impossible decisions, and the endless meat-grinder of special operations had finally caught up. The silence left behind was deafening. Loneliness had settled into his bones before he even packed his first box, thick and heavy, leaving him feeling like a ghost haunting a world that moved too fast.

John blew out a slow, steady breath, the crisp northern air clouding in front of his mustache. He straightened his posture, pulling his dark coat tighter around his broad shoulders, his blue-grey eyes instinctively scanning the quiet street out of habit.

Neat pebble-dash driveways, carefully trimmed hedges, a forgotten bicycle leaning against a fence. It was peaceful. Uncomfortably so.

A soft breeze rustled the orange leaves lingering on the oak tree overhead. The physical limitations were infuriating for a man who had spent forty-seven years relying on raw physical strength reduced to wincing at a heavy suitcase, but the quiet town offered a shield against the noise in his own head.

Unlocking the front door of the cottage, the scent of old wood, faint plaster, and fresh paint drifted out. He carried a smaller, lighter box inside first, setting it down on the bare wooden floorboards of the living room.

Stepping back out into the cool air, he pulled a silver cigar case from his coat pocket, popping the lid with a practiced flick of his thumb. Lighting it, he took a slow, deep drag, letting the rich smoke curl into the afternoon air. He leaned back against the frame of his rental truck, resting his sore side, and let the quiet wash over him.

He didn't know what a life after warfare looked like. He didn't know how to exist without a radio chatter in his ear or a mission briefing waiting on a desk. But as he looked at the modest roof overhead and the faint smoke drifting from his cigar, Captain John Price took his first real breath in months, stepping quietly into whatever came next.

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