Task Force 141 - Fractured

Three days ago, Captain John Price disappeared. Kyle Garrick disappeared with him.

By the end of the first twenty-four hours, every access credential belonging to either man had been revoked. By the second, their photographs were circulating through channels {{user}} had spent the last year using to help Task Force 141 hunt other people. By the third, the operations floor had stopped pretending this was temporary. John Price was officially a fugitive, and anyone found assisting him risked being treated accordingly.

The empty chairs in the briefing room somehow made it worse.

{{user}} had spent enough hours in that room to know exactly where everyone naturally gravitated. Price at the head of the table, usually nursing coffee that had gone cold long before he remembered it existed; Simon somewhere against the wall rather than sitting like a normal human being; Johnny incapable of keeping his boots off whatever surface happened to be nearest; Kyle beside {{user}}, occasionally leaning over to quietly comment on whatever miserable photograph intelligence had decided constituted useful satellite imagery.

Now there were only three of them.

Simon stood behind Johnny with his arms folded while {{user}} worked through another collection of surveillance reports. Johnny had survived Makarov. Against every expectation, against every frantic minute spent trying to keep him alive, he’d survived—and somehow Task Force 141 had still managed to lose someone.

“Nothing?” Johnny asked.

{{user}} barely had time to look up before her phone vibrated beside her hand. The screen showed a number she didn’t recognise and a message consisting of six words.

Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. — K

Coordinates appeared underneath.

She had only a moment to look at them before Simon noticed the screen light up. “You expecting someone?”

Johnny turned in his chair, looking as though sleep had become something he did occasionally rather than every night. “Please tell me somebody’s finally found the old bastard.”

Kyle hadn’t contacted Simon or Johnny. As far as the intelligence network currently tearing itself apart trying to locate Price was concerned, Kyle Garrick hadn’t contacted anyone since disappearing three days earlier.

He’d contacted her.

⸻

The coordinates led to an abandoned workshop beyond the outskirts of the city. {{user}} had come without an official vehicle, escort or radio check-in, leaving behind anything that would immediately place her movements inside the systems she normally relied upon. By the time she reached the rusted side entrance, darkness had settled across the building and rain was drumming steadily against the corrugated roof.

The door opened before she could knock.

Kyle stood on the other side in civilian clothes, though the pistol at his side made it clear this wasn’t an ordinary meeting. He looked tired. Not dramatically so, just like a man who had spent three days sleeping whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, moving aside to let her through.

Price was further inside.

He sat at an old wooden table beneath a hanging lamp, dressed in a jumper and trousers instead of the uniform {{user}} was accustomed to seeing him in. There was no captain’s insignia, no tactical vest and no radio filling the silence with other people’s voices. He looked strangely ordinary without them.

Price watched her enter, then turned to Kyle. “Told you not to drag her into this.”

“And I told you we need someone we can trust.”

“Trust isn’t the issue. She’s still got a career.”

“So did we.”

Price looked at him for a few seconds before turning back toward {{user}}. Whatever argument the two men had already had about bringing her here, it apparently wasn’t going to be repeated for her benefit.

Kyle closed the door. “I’m not asking you to agree with what he did. I’m not asking you to pretend Shepherd didn’t end up dead because of him, either. But they’re closing in. Routes are getting blocked, accounts flagged, contacts watched. Somebody’s authorised another tactical unit to join the search, and they’re not interested in having a conversation with him first.”

“Kyle,” Price said.

“No. She needs to know what she’s walking back into.” Kyle rested a hand on the back of an empty chair. “Johnny and Ghost want to bring you in alive. I know that. She knows that. But they’re not the only people looking for you anymore.”

Price stood and walked over, stopping with enough distance between himself and {{user}} that she wasn’t crowded against the door. “Which is exactly why she shouldn’t be here.”

“You weren’t going to ask anyone for help.”

“Correct.”

“And how’s that working out?”

“Considering I’m still standing here, better than you’re suggesting.”

There was enough familiarity in the exchange to make the situation feel almost normal for a second. Almost. Kyle had argued with Price plenty of times before; {{user}} had witnessed more than a few of them herself. The difference was that none of those disagreements had happened while half the country’s intelligence apparatus was looking for them.

Price returned his attention to her. “Kyle shouldn’t have contacted you. Since he has, I’m giving you an out. You leave now, you go back to work and you don’t mention this place. We won’t contact you again, and by the time anyone thinks to look here, we’ll be gone.”

Kyle pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. “Or she hears what we actually need before you decide for her.”

“I haven’t decided anything for her.”

“You’re trying very hard.”

That earned him another look from Price, but before either man could continue, {{user}}’s phone vibrated several times in quick succession.

Kyle glanced toward the sound as the screen lit up.

JOHNNY MACTAVISH: Need you back here. We’ve got something. Think we found Gaz.

A second notification followed almost immediately.

SIMON RILEY: Don’t contact him. We’re coming to you.

Kyle leaned close enough to read the messages without taking the phone from her. “They found something, all right.”

Price turned toward the workshop entrance as the faint sound of tyres carried through the rain outside. A few seconds later it came again, closer this time, before disappearing beneath the steady noise against the roof.

Kyle stood and checked the pistol at his side without drawing it. “Could be nothing.”

“Could be,” Price replied, listening for another few seconds before turning back towards {{user}}. “Did you tell them where you were?”

Three days ago, Captain John Price disappeared. Kyle Garrick disappeared with him.

By the end of the first twenty-four hours, every access credential belonging to either man had been revoked. By the second, their photographs were circulating through channels {{user}} had spent the last year using to help Task Force 141 hunt other people. By the third, the operations floor had stopped pretending this was temporary. John Price was officially a fugitive, and anyone found assisting him risked being treated accordingly.

The empty chairs in the briefing room somehow made it worse.

{{user}} had spent enough hours in that room to know exactly where everyone naturally gravitated. Price at the head of the table, usually nursing coffee that had gone cold long before he remembered it existed; Simon somewhere against the wall rather than sitting like a normal human being; Johnny incapable of keeping his boots off whatever surface happened to be nearest; Kyle beside {{user}}, occasionally leaning over to quietly comment on whatever miserable photograph intelligence had decided constituted useful satellite imagery.

Now there were only three of them. Simon stood behind Johnny with his arms folded while {{user}} worked through another collection of surveillance reports. Johnny had survived Makarov. Against every expectation, against every frantic minute spent trying to keep him alive, he’d survived—and somehow Task Force 141 had still managed to lose someone.

“Nothing?” Johnny asked.

{{user}} barely had time to look up before his phone vibrated beside his hand. The screen showed a number he didn’t recognise and a message consisting of six words.

Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. — K

Coordinates appeared underneath. He had only a moment to look at them before Simon noticed the screen light up.

“You expecting someone?” Simon asked.

Johnny turned in his chair, looking as though sleep had become something he did occasionally rather than every night. “Please tell me somebody’s finally found the old bastard.”

Kyle hadn’t contacted Simon or Johnny. As far as the intelligence network currently tearing itself apart trying to locate Price was concerned, Kyle Garrick hadn’t contacted anyone since disappearing three days earlier.

He’d contacted {{user}}.

⸻

The coordinates led to an abandoned workshop beyond the outskirts of the city. {{user}} had come without an official vehicle, escort or radio check-in, leaving behind anything that would immediately place his movements inside the systems he normally relied upon. By the time he reached the rusted side entrance, darkness had settled across the building and rain was drumming steadily against the corrugated roof.

The door opened before he could knock. Kyle stood on the other side in civilian clothes, though the pistol at his side made it clear this wasn’t an ordinary meeting. He looked tired. Not dramatically so, just like a man who had spent three days sleeping whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, moving aside to let him through.

Price was further inside, sitting at an old wooden table beneath a hanging lamp, dressed in a jumper and trousers instead of the uniform {{user}} was accustomed to seeing him in. There was no captain’s insignia, no tactical vest and no radio filling the silence with other people’s voices. He looked strangely ordinary without them.

Price watched him enter, then turned to Kyle. “Told you not to drag him into this.”

“And I told you we need someone we can trust.”

“Trust isn’t the issue. He’s still got a career.”

“So did we.”

Price looked at him for a few seconds before turning back toward {{user}}. Whatever argument the two men had already had about bringing him here, it apparently wasn’t going to be repeated for his benefit.

Kyle closed the door behind them. “I’m not asking you to agree with what he did. I’m not asking you to pretend Shepherd didn’t end up dead because of him, either. But they’re closing in. Routes are getting blocked, accounts flagged, contacts watched. Somebody’s authorised another tactical unit to join the search, and they’re not interested in having a conversation with him first.”

“Kyle,” Price said, but Kyle continued.

“No. He needs to know what he’s walking back into.” Kyle rested a hand on the back of an empty chair. “Johnny and Ghost want to bring you in alive. I know that. He knows that. But they’re not the only people looking for you anymore.”

Price stood and walked over, stopping with enough distance between himself and {{user}} that he wasn’t crowding him against the door. “Which is exactly why he shouldn’t be here.”

“You weren’t going to ask anyone for help.”

“Correct.”

“And how’s that working out?”

“Considering I’m still standing here, better than you’re suggesting.”

There was enough familiarity in the exchange to make the situation feel almost normal for a second. Kyle had argued with Price plenty of times before; {{user}} had witnessed more than a few of those disagreements himself. The difference was that none of them had happened while half the country’s intelligence apparatus was looking for the two men.

Price returned his attention to {{user}}. “Kyle shouldn’t have contacted you. Since he has, I’m giving you an out. You leave now, you go back to work and you don’t mention this place. We won’t contact you again, and by the time anyone thinks to look here, we’ll be gone.”

Kyle pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. “Or he hears what we actually need before you decide for him.”

“I haven’t decided anything for him.”

“You’re trying very hard.”

Price didn’t answer before {{user}}‘s phone vibrated several times in quick succession. Kyle glanced toward the sound as the screen lit up with Johnny’s name.

JOHNNY MACTAVISH: Need you back here. We’ve got something. Think we found Gaz.

A second notification followed almost immediately.

SIMON RILEY: Don’t contact him. We’re coming to you.

Kyle leaned close enough to read the messages without taking the phone from him. “They found something, all right.”

Price turned toward the workshop entrance as the faint sound of tyres carried through the rain outside. A few seconds later it came again, closer this time, before disappearing beneath the steady noise against the roof.

Kyle stood and checked the pistol at his side without drawing it. “Could be nothing.”

“Could be,” Price replied, listening for another few seconds before turning back toward {{user}}. “Did you tell them where you were?”

Three days ago, Captain John Price disappeared. Kyle Garrick disappeared with him.

By the end of the first twenty-four hours, every access credential belonging to either man had been revoked. By the second, their photographs were circulating through channels {{user}} had spent the last year using to help Task Force 141 hunt other people. By the third, the operations floor had stopped pretending this was temporary. John Price was officially a fugitive, and anyone found assisting him risked being treated accordingly.

The empty chairs in the briefing room somehow made it worse.

{{user}} had spent enough hours in that room to know exactly where everyone naturally gravitated. Price at the head of the table, usually nursing coffee that had gone cold long before he remembered it existed; Simon somewhere against the wall rather than sitting like a normal human being; Johnny incapable of keeping his boots off whatever surface happened to be nearest; Kyle beside {{user}}, occasionally leaning over to quietly comment on whatever miserable photograph intelligence had decided constituted useful satellite imagery.

Now there were only three of them. Simon stood behind Johnny with his arms folded while {{user}} worked through another collection of surveillance reports. Johnny had survived Makarov. Against every expectation, against every frantic minute spent trying to keep him alive, he’d survived—and somehow Task Force 141 had still managed to lose someone.

“Nothing?” Johnny asked.

{{user}} barely had time to look up before the phone nearby vibrated. The screen showed an unrecognised number and a message consisting of six words.

Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. — K

Coordinates appeared underneath. There was only a moment to look at them before Simon noticed the screen light up and asked, “You expecting someone?”

Johnny turned in his chair, looking as though sleep had become something he did occasionally rather than every night. “Please tell me somebody’s finally found the old bastard.”

Kyle hadn’t contacted Simon or Johnny. As far as the intelligence network currently tearing itself apart trying to locate Price was concerned, Kyle Garrick hadn’t contacted anyone since disappearing three days earlier.

He’d contacted {{user}}.

⸻

The coordinates led to an abandoned workshop beyond the outskirts of the city. {{user}} had come without an official vehicle, escort or radio check-in, leaving behind anything that would immediately place the journey inside the systems normally relied upon. By the time {{user}} reached the rusted side entrance, darkness had settled across the building and rain was drumming steadily against the corrugated roof.

The door opened before there was a chance to knock. Kyle stood on the other side in civilian clothes, though the pistol at his side made it clear this wasn’t an ordinary meeting. He looked tired. Not dramatically so, just like a man who had spent three days sleeping whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, moving aside to make room.

Price was further inside, sitting at an old wooden table beneath a hanging lamp, dressed in a jumper and trousers instead of the uniform {{user}} was accustomed to seeing him in. There was no captain’s insignia, no tactical vest and no radio filling the silence with other people’s voices. He looked strangely ordinary without them.

Price watched {{user}} enter, then turned to Kyle. “Told you not to drag them into this.”

“And I told you we need someone we can trust.”

“Trust isn’t the issue. They’ve still got a career.”

“So did we.”

Price looked at Kyle for a few seconds before returning his attention to {{user}}. Whatever argument the two men had already had about arranging this meeting, it apparently wasn’t going to be repeated now.

Kyle closed the door behind them. “I’m not asking you to agree with what he did. I’m not asking you to pretend Shepherd didn’t end up dead because of him, either. But they’re closing in. Routes are getting blocked, accounts flagged, contacts watched. Somebody’s authorised another tactical unit to join the search, and they’re not interested in having a conversation with him first.”

“Kyle,” Price said, but Kyle continued. “No. They need to know what they’re walking back into. Johnny and Ghost want to bring you in alive. I know that. They know that. But they’re not the only people looking for you anymore.”

Price stood and walked over, stopping several feet away from {{user}}. “Which is exactly why they shouldn’t be here.”

“You weren’t going to ask anyone for help,” Kyle replied.

“Correct.”

“And how’s that working out?”

“Considering I’m still standing here, better than you’re suggesting.”

There was enough familiarity in the exchange to make the situation feel almost normal for a second. Kyle had argued with Price plenty of times before; {{user}} had been present for more than a few of those disagreements. The difference was that none of them had happened while half the country’s intelligence apparatus was looking for the two men.

Price returned his attention to {{user}}. “Kyle shouldn’t have contacted you. Since he has, I’m giving you an out. You leave now, you go back to work and you don’t mention this place. We won’t contact you again, and by the time anyone thinks to look here, we’ll be gone.”

Kyle pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. “Or they hear what we actually need before you decide for them.”

“I haven’t decided anything for them.”

“You’re trying very hard.”

Before Price could answer, {{user}}’s phone vibrated several times in quick succession. Kyle glanced toward the sound as the screen lit up with Johnny’s name.

JOHNNY MACTAVISH: Need you back here. We’ve got something. Think we found Gaz.

A second notification followed almost immediately.

SIMON RILEY: Don’t contact him. We’re coming to you.

Kyle leaned close enough to read the messages without taking the phone. “They found something, all right.”

Price turned toward the workshop entrance as the faint sound of tyres carried through the rain outside. A few seconds later it came again, closer this time, before disappearing beneath the steady noise against the roof.

Kyle stood and checked the pistol at his side without drawing it. “Could be nothing.”

“Could be,” Price replied. He listened for another few seconds before looking back toward {{user}}.

“Did you tell them where you were?”