Task Force 141

The file lands on the table with a heavy thud.

Kate Laswell circled the table, stopping at the head to let her gaze fall over each man seated in the adjacent chairs. It's not often she comes to the base in person, she's got better things to do other than waste her time flying to the UK when video calls exist for a reason.

"What's this about, Kate?" Price leans forward in his seat, hands clasping together in front of him. He doesn't reach for the folder yet, letting it sit in the center of the table.

"Makarov." She says, planting her hands flat against the table. "He's moving, John, planning something, and I'd bet money that it's something big. We need to know where, and when." He's been lying low for nearly a year now. Eleven and a half months of hiding successfully, eleven and a half months since the encounter in the tunnels that nearly killed John "Soap" MacTavish.

Soap shifts uncomfortably in his chair, jaw clenching at the memory. His hand drifts to his skull, fingers brushing over the scar tissue of the bullet that went through his right frontal lobe. He'd survived; the bullet had lodged in the right frontal bone, avoiding the midline and the deep brain structures.

It was pure luck. Anywhere else, any deeper, and he wouldn't be sitting here today.

Price's gaze followed the motion before moving back to Laswell. "Right." He leans back again with a slow exhale, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket to roll between forefinger and thumb. He doesn't light it. "What's in the folder, then? That's too thick for Makarov."

"The...the brass has made a decision. One you're not going to like." She leans forward, dragging the folder closer to herself to flip it open.

The first file isn't about the movement or anything to do with Makarov. It's of a person.

"{{User}}. They're being held in a high-security prison, the key long thrown away. These are their files, every charge, every move they've ever made." She spins it to face them, sliding it back towards them. "They're considered highly dangerous, but they're skilled, useful."

Ghost shifts, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze flicks to the files, lingering on the photo of them clipped to the corner. "They're joining us." It's not a question; it's a statement.

"What?" Gaz's head snaps up from inspecting the front page, brows furrowing. "You're telling me that a highly dangerous criminal is joining us? Do they not think we can take him out on our own?"

Laswell's jaw works, her head dipping for a moment before she nods. "Yes."

Price finally takes the file, flipping through the pages with furrowed brows. He knew the Brass hasn't been looking at them with high regard lately, but he didn't think they'd do something like this. The risks that come with this are never-ending, and leaving Task Force 141 in charge of someone like {{User}} doesn't sit well with him. If something happens, if they escape, it's on their heads.

"How will they arrive?" He asks, passing the folder towards Gaz for him to go through.

"Transportation is already underway; they'll arrive tomorrow by noon in a heavily armed vehicle." A pause, she meets each of the men's eyes. "Be careful."

The base is bustling with nervous energy, soldiers moving between buildings with urgency, the private wing for Task Force 141 crawling with guards that arrived hours ago to prepare a room for their soon-to-arrive guest.

The team is waiting by the gates, ready.

"Cannae believe we're stuck babysitting a psychotic prisoner." Soap huffs, shifting in place for the hundredth time since they came out, his eyes scanning the road ahead for any sign of the vehicle they're expecting any moment now. "As if we cannae handle Makarov on our own."

"We lost him last time." Ghost's voice cuts through the restless energy following the Scot, his gaze landing on the sergeant through the eyeholes of his mask. "Brass doesn't care what we think. Cares about what they know."

They didn't chase after him, haven't had any success in finding him since. It looks like failure, and they can't have failure when they want the man dead. Every moment he's out there breathing is another minute that goes by where he's plotting. They don't think they're competent enough, so they're bringing in 'the big guns.' An unpredictable person, a wild card.

A low rumble catches their attention, eyes moving back to the gravel road where dust is kicking up and multiple armored vehicles are approaching. The center one, flanked by the rest, is the largest; the rest pull into the yard and circle it, armed men jumping out and setting their sights on the heavy latched doors.

The passenger door opens, a man jumping out to circle around back. He doesn't move to the door; he moves towards Price.

"Captain Price," He doesn't hold out a hand for him to shake, just stops in front of him, angling his body towards the center vehicle as the guards move in to get it opened up. "Silas Marsh, I spoke with Laswell over the phone. {{User}}'s been sedated; they won't give you any trouble for now, but it'll wear off in a few hours."

The door opens, weapons aimed inside as a few men peel off to climb in.

"Sedated," Price repeats, his gaze staying locked onto the dark cabin. "That really necessary?"

"It's a precaution," Silas grunts.

The sound of chains dragging against metal is heard before they're seen, then {{User}}'s hauled out. Two guards are holding them up by their biceps, their grips firm but not unnecessarily cruel as they get them unloaded. Their arms are chained behind their back, ankles too. They're conscious, but there's a sway in their gait that points to the sedative doing its work.

"Welcome to your new home, {{User}}." Silas steps forward, nodding his head towards the chains. "Unlock 'em." His hand reaches out, pinching their chin and tilting their head back. "Be good to them, because if you make one wrong move...you're dead, got it?"

Soap curses under his breath, fingers curling and uncurling into fists by his side. "Steamin' Jesus..."

Silas pats his hand against their cheek, a cruel smile painting his lips. "Aye, you understand."

The chains get thrown back into the truck, discarded, the guards already packing up now that they've done what was needed. Unpack the prisoner, leave.

"They're all yours, Captain Price! Don't hesitate to sedate them if they act out...or shoot them."

The vehicles slowly peel away, leaving {{User}} swaying in their spot where they were left, the team standing across from them with their own weapons at the ready but not aimed.

"...now what?" Soap asks, eyes flicking between {{User}} and the captain.

.