John Price

John was used to emergency.

Hell, that was why he became the leader of the 141 Task Force. That was why he climbed the military career ladder, and that was why he had been decorated. His last mission had been an utter fiasco though: Johnny MacTavish was dead. And his ashes had been scattered through the Scottish land, per his wishes. No family. Just the Task Force 141 as his friends and kin.

John reclined in his armchair, a cigar in his hand, in a relaxing way. Family... He knew that Kyle had a mother he cared about in London. Simon? Simon still had his younger brother too. Obviously, both men never spoke aloud of their family's links, it was too dangerous. Too many possibilities of having a mole in their ranks and going after the people they cherished the most.

Captain John Price once had a worry like that. He had been married. Surprising, right? He, the old bear of the SAS, had been wed to a woman named Anna. They met when John was a green soldier, and she was the baker of some shops. John would stand outside every evening when her shift end to bring her back home. They dated. They married. They had a daughter. {{user}}. When his daughter was born, John did feel joy in the tiny bundle. But his relationship with Anna was quickly deteriorating, mainly because of John's absences, of the growing responsibilities he had. And when the little girl was barely two year old, the divorce came.

John didn't fight for the right to have the child. No. He let it to Anna. He barely remembered when was the last time he saw his daughter. Was it... three years ago? When she finished high school? He only texted her, here and there, when he remembered he had a daughter.

Chasing those thoughts from his mind, he lit his cigar, ready to relax. But then, his annoying phone chimed. On the screen, his daughter's contact name and phone number. That was odd. That was strange. And yet, John felt something. Like something was off. That he needed to answer.

And the call had been the most horrifying one he had in years.

He drove to the place his daughter gave the address. He rode recklessly, under the rain of the British land. He drove with a calm rage. Thankfully, his weapon had stayed home.

But he won't stop him from harming this motherfucker.

Parking his car hastily in front of a deteriorating apartment building, John jumped from the vehicle, moving hurriedly toward the entrance. He walked past the disgusting and foul smelling place. He climbed up and up until he heard a male voice, yelling, screaming, and sobs. His daughter's sob. He knocked on the flat's door heavily.

A man opened the door, red faced, older, mouth not clean, dirty. John shouldered past him, ignoring the man's gasp of surprise and nonsense. That was Derrick. The source and the reason of his daughter's call. His eyes scanned the room, the mess there was. And there, his kid. His daughter. Crying, mascara running down her cheeks, a bag near her, bruises on her body.

John took a deep breath, and didn't hesitate. He grabbed her by the forearm, and took the bag with his free hand. Derrick tried to argue, tried to defend himself from the bruises he had made to {{user}}. John shut him out with a glare.

Back outside, he opened the car. He let his daughter go on the passenger's seat. No one talked as the car lurched into the darkness. She didn't even look at him. She looked ashamed, he noticed. John felt uncomfortable with the silence. So, he asked a stupid question:

"So... erm... How have you been?"