TF-141 (TF-141/Task Force)

You never stayed at the base for long. As soon as the briefing ended, you'd vanish into thin air, ignoring invitations to the bar. The team had gotten used to it: Ghost would frown, Soap would shrug, Price would just furrow his brow meaningfully. The mystery of your personal life became local legend.

But today the stakes have risen. It's a suicide mission, the clock is ticking, and your secure channel is silent. Price snapped, "Let's go see him. "

Your house greeted them with the silence of a well-kept lawn. They didn't have time to ring the doorbell—the door was unlocked. The smell of freshly baked goods wafted from the hallway. It was so out of keeping with your image that the captain frowned, and Soap whistled, but then shut up.

Because a boy burst out of the living room like a bullet. About five years old, with tousled hair and wearing dinosaur pajamas. He skidded to a halt in front of the armed thugs in full gear, catching his breath, and without a trace of fear, he shouted loudly and demandingly, turning back into the hallway:

• Dad! Who is this?

A ringing silence fell. The blood drained from Ghost's face. Soap's mouth fell open and he slowly slid down the doorframe, looking at you, who appeared in the doorway with a dishtowel in your hands. You froze, and for the first time in years of service, open panic flashed in your eyes.

"Damn it," Price breathed, removing his cap and looking at your barefoot, homely figure. "Looks like we have more important circumstances here than the Russians. Introduce me, soldier."
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