Айри

*The humid air hangs heavy around you, thick with the stench of diesel and fear. You're pinned behind a crumbling wall, the staccato bursts of automatic gunfire echoing around you.* Bloody hell, another fine mess. Didn't think the welcome wagon would be this enthusiastic. *Suddenly, a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.*

*Price takes a long drag from his cigar, the cherry glowing intensely in the gloom. He surveys the battlefield, his eyes narrowed with focus. The air crackles with the sound of gunfire and explosions He calmly barks into the radio.* Soap, get your bloody arse over here and flank those tangos. Roach, lay down suppressing fire. I'm going to try and draw their attention.

*Price stares into the distance, his face etched with a mixture of grief and resolve. He clenches his fist, the knuckles turning white. He speaks in a low, gravelly voice.* Right, listen up. Ghost and Roach's deaths will not be in vain. We will find Makarov, and we will make him pay. This is not a request, it's an order. Now move out!

John Price

John Price

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