CHAPTER 21 – PRICE ALIVE
The skyline cracked open with dawn—minarets piercing the mist, mosques casting long shadows over steel and glass. Istanbul breathed contradiction. East and West. Faith and firepower. And somewhere inside it, a man everyone had written off was still breathing.
A gull's scream cut through the drone's camera feed. The aerial view panned low across the Bosphorus, water churning under a Turkish patrol skiff. Then: a compound, boxed in by concrete walls and razor wire, tucked behind a shell company dockyard. Guard towers, floodlights, motion-activated turrets—the works.
Overlay flickered on the screen:
CLASSIFIED INTEL – ENCRYPTION PROTOCOL ALPHA BLACK
Subject: PRICE, JOHN – Status: HOSTAGE – Confirmed Visual ID
Holding Party: EMIR AZIZ – Mercenary Warlord
Transfer Window: 48 Hours
Receiving Party: VOSS, ALARIC
Inside a surveillance van half a kilometer away, Ghost watched the feed in silence. His thumb flicked across a burner screen—static, then a map, then a countdown clock.
Forty-seven hours, twelve minutes.
No chatter. No plans. Just the target.
Across the van, Soap exhaled through his nose and muttered, "We cutting close."
Ghost didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on the cage in the far corner of the screen, the blur of a man hooded and shackled. Every breath the bastard took made the clock louder.
Price was still alive.
For now.
---
The safehouse stank of rust, mildew, and old gun oil—four cracked walls clinging to the edge of the Bosphorus like a drunk to a barstool. Rain tapped the warped windows. A single bulb buzzed overhead.
Blueprints and drone stills were spread across a scorched table. Red grease-pencil circled a sea gate, thermal scans marked the guard towers in Xs. Ghost stood over it all, arms braced on the table, fingers twitching like they wanted to strangle the plan into submission.
Behind him, Soap sat on an overturned crate, loading mags. His shoulder still wore a fresh scar from Warsaw—stiff, slow, but not soft. Never soft.
"Two entry points," Ghost said. "Drainage line here, power relay here. Disrupt the grid, breach the sublevel, get him out before Spectre moves."
Soap chambered a round, the click sharp in the silence. "You call this a rescue?"
Ghost looked up. One eye visible beneath the skull-pulled hood. "This isn't a rescue. It's a reckoning."
Soap leaned back. "Yeah? For who? Him or you?"
A beat passed. Ghost didn't blink.
"For all of us," he said. "If Price breaks, Spectre wins. Full stop."
Soap scoffed under his breath. "Captain goes quiet for a year, and you think he's just waiting on us like it's bloody Sunday brunch?"
Ghost didn't bite. He tapped a corner of the blueprint—highlighted fuel tanks near the east wall.
"You get us in. I'll get us out."
Soap looked at the blueprints, then at Ghost. Something passed behind his eyes—grit or doubt, hard to tell.
"We screw this," he said, "we're not ghosts. We're ash."
Ghost snapped the map shut. "Then we don't screw it."
Soap slung his rifle over his back and stood. No nods. No speeches. Just motion.
Rain hit the windows harder.
Countdown had started.
---
The Bosphorus shimmered under moonlight, its dark water slick and quiet as a grave. A low whine cut through the silence—the RIB's electric motor whispering them into range. Soap gripped the rubber edge of the boat, nodding once. Ghost didn't reply, eyes locked on the fortress rising like a scar along the shore.
"Three minutes," Ghost murmured into comms, thermal goggles sweeping the dockyard perimeter.
Soap already had the wetsuit zipped up to the throat, the limp charge tucked under one arm. He adjusted his rebreather and slipped overboard without a splash.
Water swallowed him whole.
He knifed through the current, lean and deliberate, tracing the sonar feed from his wrist display. Above, steel pylons loomed. Below, the drainage pipe waited—narrow, rusted, barely passable.
Motion sensors webbed the inlet. Soap slid under them with inches to spare, attached the limpet charge with a magnetic thunk, and kicked hard, veering off as the timer blinked red.
Above the surface, Ghost crouched behind a mooring pillar, rifle cradled. Thermal caught movement on the catwalk—two guards, one smoking, one pacing. He didn't flinch.
Then—BOOM.
The explosion cracked through the sea mist, not massive, but sharp enough to short the relay. Lights on the far tower flickered, then died. A dog barked somewhere. Footsteps scrambled. Radio chatter spiked.
Ghost moved.
He vaulted the mooring line like a shadow given shape, feet silent against the wet steel. A guard spun at the sound—Ghost was already behind him. Choke wire. Collapse. No alert.
Below, Soap pulled himself through the drainage pipe, water slapping at his thighs as he surfaced in a grime-stained sub-basement.
"Clear," Soap hissed into his comm.
"Copy," Ghost said, already scaling a service ladder.
The two converged inside—silent, soaked, hearts hammering in sync with the war drum rhythm pulsing in their ears.
---
The hall reeked of rust, gun oil, and disinfectant that hadn't masked blood. Ghost led, Uzi tucked tight under his arm, every footfall calculated. Soap ghosted behind, rifle up, eyes slicing through the dark.
They moved past stacked shipping crates repurposed into bunkers—coiled razor wire, welded slots for machine guns. Whoever built this expected a siege, not infiltration.
Voices echoed from the far end. Russian. Laughing. No patrols crossed them yet. Either luck or arrogance.
A steel door loomed ahead. No lock. Ghost eased it open.
Inside: a converted shipping container, its walls painted with dried screams. Meat hooks overhead. Zip-tie scraps underfoot. Soap's jaw clenched.
A battered desk in the corner. On it—a pair of blood-slick dog tags.
Ghost picked them up. His gloves didn't help. They stuck.
He turned them over.
"J.P."
He stared too long.
Soap stepped beside him. "That fresh?"
Ghost didn't answer. Just scanned the walls—grooves etched from fingernails, black spatters, a broken IV line.
"This isn't where they kept him," Soap muttered. "Too open. Too loud."
Ghost's voice cut through the static. "No. This was for showing off."
Soap's eyes narrowed. "You think they knew we'd come?"
Ghost pocketed the tags. "They want us inside."
Metal creaked above them. Both froze. A merc with a radio stepped onto the catwalk—right over their heads.
Ghost didn't blink. He raised the Uzi, waited for the angle—three... two...
Suppressor spat twice. The body dropped like meat in a sack.
Soap exhaled. "They're keeping him close," he said, low. "He's leverage."
Ghost didn't respond. He was already moving, faster now. The game had changed. This wasn't a breach—it was bait.
---
Soap held his breath behind the doorframe, one boot braced against the wall. Two guards patrolled the junction ahead, rifles slung lazy but eyes sharp. He tapped the mic twice—short, sharp.
Ghost's return click came instantly.
Soap dropped low, slid a suppressed round into the taller guard's throat. The body didn't fall so much as fold, knees giving out before the man even knew he was dead. Second target spun—Soap put one through his temple. Clean. Silent.
Opposite hall—Ghost moved like a shadow uncoiling. One step, two—his combat knife sank deep between a merc's ribs, hand over mouth. The body hit the floor with no more sound than a dropped coat. Ghost yanked a suppressed Uzi from the fallen man, checked the mag mid-stride.
They regrouped at the corridor's fork. Hand signals: two fingers, point left, sweep. Soap nodded.
Countdown. Ghost mouthed it. "Three… two…"
They breached the central hub like smoke under a door.
Soap peeled left, double-tapping a technician scrambling for a pistol. Ghost swept right—put a burst through the chest of a guard lunging from cover. No wasted motion. No time for warnings.
Monitors lined the wall, static flickering across most—except one.
Live feed.
Ghost froze. "There."
CCTV footage: a cage. Reinforced steel bars. Single bulb swaying. Inside—hooded figure, slumped, wrists zip-tied, shirt stuck to his ribs with dried blood.
Soap stared. "Is that—?"
"Yeah." Ghost stepped closer. The figure twitched—barely—but it was enough.
"Price."
Soap exhaled through his nose. "He's still breathing."
"Barely."
Ghost didn't say it, but they both saw it—next to the cage, a laptop wired into the feed. Red LED blinking.
Broadcasting.
"Shut it down," Ghost snapped.
Soap was already moving. Fingers flew across the keyboard, yanking cords, smashing drives.
"Someone wanted us to see him like this," he muttered.
Ghost didn't answer. His eyes were on the cage.
---
The security hub stank of burnt circuits and blood. Smoke coiled from a shattered monitor bank where Soap had put a round through a guard's neck. Ghost dragged the last survivor to his knees—Hakan Tamer, Aziz's translator.
Hakan's nose bled freely, shirt soaked with panic sweat. His glasses hung cracked and useless off one ear.
"Where is he taking Price?" Ghost asked, voice flat, gun leveled at the man's temple.
Hakan blinked rapidly. "You—You don't understand—"
Ghost struck him once, a brutal forearm across the mouth. Teeth hit the floor.
Soap paced behind them, rifle scanning the corridor. "Don't drag it, mate. Clock's ticking."
Hakan coughed blood, tried to speak. Ghost jammed him against the screen wall, muzzle grinding into his cheekbone.
"Next answer better be worth the breath."
"He's not keeping him!" Hakan gasped. "He's delivering him—Voss made a deal. NATO asset list for Price. Exchange is tomorrow. Eastern airstrip, near Silivri."
Soap froze mid-step. "NATO list?"
Hakan nodded quickly. "Agents. Locations. Everything."
Ghost stared at him, unreadable. "Why does Voss want it?"
"To burn it. Clean house. He wants to rebuild from zero."
"Who else knows?" Ghost asked.
"No one. Aziz and me."
A beat passed. Soap gave Ghost a nod.
"Alright," Ghost muttered. He silenced Hakan with a sharp, close shot. No ceremony. Just necessity.
Soap exhaled, jaw tight. "You sure?"
"We're past diplomacy."
They moved. The clock had turned. This wasn't rescue anymore. This was containment.
---
Basement level. Humid concrete walls sweated under halogen floodlights. The stink of mildew and blood clung to the air. Ghost led with his suppressed Uzi raised, Soap close behind, pulse steady but strained. They cleared the last hallway—two bodies down, one twitching.
A cage loomed in the corner, half-buried in shadows. Steel bars reinforced with welded mesh. Inside—motion. A hunched shape, cuffed at the wrists, hood over his head. No sound.
Soap moved first, yanked the door open, weapon still ready.
Ghost stepped in, ripped the hood off.
Captain John Price blinked slowly through one swollen eye, lip split, cheekbone the color of dried plum. He didn't flinch.
"Took you long enough," he rasped.
Ghost didn't answer. He dropped a sidearm into Price's lap—Glock, full mag.
Price grunted, tested his wrists. They'd bled through the cuffs.
Soap stood at the doorway, eyes scanning the corridor. "Yeah, he's still alive, alright."
"Don't look so surprised," Price muttered. "You think Voss breaks me with a chair and a speech?"
"You look like hell," Soap said.
Price smirked with half a mouth. "Then I'm in good company."
Ghost unhooked a spare rig and slipped it onto Price with quiet efficiency. No words. Just work.
Footsteps above. Muffled shouting in Turkish. The clock had started again.
"Let's move," Ghost said.
Price chambered the pistol. "Thought you'd never ask."
---
Steel groaned above them—heavy boots, shouted orders, magazines slamming home.
"Time's up," Soap said, checking the mag on his suppressed M4. Full. For now.
Ghost led them through the maintenance tunnel, low ceiling and rusted pipes bleeding condensation. Price kept pace, favoring one leg, pistol steady in his grip. He hadn't asked for help, hadn't slowed once. But Ghost saw it—his left hand trembled, the pain clenching his jaw tighter than any command ever had.
They hit the stairwell. Soap peeled left, ascended fast—two guards on the landing. A controlled burst put both down, blood smearing the railing. Ghost signaled Price up.
Halfway through the climb, the radio on one of the dead men squawked. Turkish. Sharp. Angry. Then: "Onlar kaçıyor! Yukarı çıkın!"—They're escaping. Go up.
"Move," Ghost snapped.
Above, floodlights flicked on. A catwalk. Metal rails. No cover.
A staccato burst of rifle fire screamed down—one round tore through Soap's shoulder plate, spun him into the wall. He grunted, rolled behind a vent unit.
"Contact top deck!" he barked, voice tight.
Ghost swung out from the stairwell, dropped a tango with two rounds to the chest, clipped another in the knee. Price followed, firing one-handed, took down a runner mid-sprint.
They broke into the open air. Night wind slapped them. Sirens screamed across the dockyard compound. The chopper wasn't here yet.
A fresh squad of mercs surged from a side hangar, rifles raised.
"Soap—roofline!" Ghost called.
Already moving, Soap sprinted for a ladder bolted to a scaffolding rig. He climbed fast, blood trailing down his arm. Reached the catwalk. Dropped prone. Scoped.
"Three right, two left—marking!" he shouted.
Ghost and Price advanced under cover fire—short, precise bursts raked the enemy line. One man crumpled off the loading platform. Another twitched in place, never fired.
Ghost reached the depot junction. He slapped a remote charge to a fuel stack, wires already run.
He turned to Soap. "Blow it."
"Go loud?"
"Do it."
Soap pressed the trigger.
THWUMP.
Then a roaring blast swallowed the night. Orange flame surged, swallowed the sky. Shockwave cracked concrete. Guards screamed as heat and shrapnel carved the air.
Through the smoke, the chopper's spotlight cut a hole in the haze—Zaid's bird descending fast, rotors howling.
---
The Black Hawk cut through the smoke like a blade, rotors chopping up the fire-stained air. Zaid Karim rode the stick hard, eyes locked on the rooftop bathed in orange glow. His voice crackled over comms, clipped and tense.
"Sixty seconds. You miss the window, I don't circle back."
Ghost didn't respond. He didn't have time.
Soap landed first—hit the pad, cleared left with a half-raised rifle. Shouldered a dying merc trying to crawl from the fire. One round ended the crawl.
Price staggered behind Ghost, breathing in broken rasps. Left side dragging. Right hand clutching the sidearm Ghost had handed him ten minutes earlier.
"Cover right!" Ghost barked, spinning mid-step to lay down a burst—two mercs in street gear, both down before they got a shot off.
The helicopter's skids scraped the edge of the rooftop. Zaid held it steady, door gunners firing suppressive arcs into the courtyard below. Tracers stitched across the night sky.
"Go! Go now!" Zaid yelled.
Ghost shoved Price toward the open bay. The captain didn't argue, just grimaced and lunged for the bird. Hands hauled him in.
Ghost turned, looked for Soap—
The Soap burst from the stairwell, limping, armor scorched and smoking. He tossed a grenade behind him mid-run.
It cooked off as he dove into the cabin, shrapnel slapping the hull.
Zaid didn't wait for confirmation. The bird lurched skyward, rotor wash flinging ash and broken gravel off the rooftop.
Down below, the compound writhed in chaos. Oil drums popped like thunder, walls buckled in fire. The last of Aziz's men scattered or burned.
Price leaned out of the hatch, watched the fortress shrink behind smoke.
"You shouldn't have come for me," he muttered.
Ghost sat across from him, blood spattered and silent. Then, low: "We owe each other too much not to."
Price didn't nod. Didn't look away, either. Just sat with it. Let it burn behind them. Let it follow.
---
The Ankara safehouse sat half-sunken into a hillside, built more for secrecy than comfort. No windows. Just concrete, dust, and silence thick as smoke.
Price sat at the edge of a metal cot, left boot untied, right shoulder twitching from the strain of old pain. His undershirt was soaked through with sweat and blood that had dried tacky under the gauze. He poured two fingers of whiskey into a cracked glass and set another beside it.
Didn't say a word.
Soap leaned against the far wall, rifle stripped down across his lap. The cleaning cloth hung idle in his fingers. He hadn't spoken since they'd landed.
Ghost stood by the door. Still armored, helmet off but mask on. No one asked him to take it off. No one ever did.
Finally, Price broke the silence. His voice scraped like gravel.
"I heard about Mosul."
Ghost didn't move.
Price took a slow sip, then set the glass down. "Laswell lied to you."
Soap's jaw worked. No words came out.
Ghost's reply came low. Controlled. "We knew she'd bend the truth. We didn't think she'd snap it."
"She buried Spectre's involvement. The drone strike—wasn't rogue." Price's hands clenched around the glass. "She signed off. Voss leaked the satellite intel just to prove it."
Soap leaned forward. "Why now, John? Why tell us this now?"
"Because I needed to know if I could still trust you," Price said. No anger in it. Just a verdict. "I didn't break. I listened."
"To Voss?" Soap scoffed. "You're smarter than that."
"I didn't say I believed him." Price locked eyes with Ghost. "But he offered something none of us have had in a long time—clarity."
Ghost stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
"What kind of clarity?"
Price picked up the second glass. Swirled it once. Didn't drink.
"That we're just hammers in someone else's hand. Tools. Disposable. You want to keep swinging, that's your call. But don't pretend we're not breaking the wrong things."
Soap looked away. Stared at the rifle like it had an answer.
Ghost didn't blink. "We're not hammers."
Price raised a brow.
"We're the fire they lit and lost control of."
The room stayed quiet after that. Long enough for the whiskey to warm. Long enough for what was left unsaid to settle into the walls.
---
The safehouse lights buzzed—cheap fluorescents. Harsh on the eyes, unforgiving on the walls.
Soap hunched over the table, fingers drumming beside an open laptop caked in road dust and burn scuffs. The fan inside whined, working hard to decrypt.
Zaid Karim stood near the back exit, AK slung low, eyes flicking between the hallway and the screen. His jaw clenched when the feed blinked to life.
"Got it," he muttered. "Firewall's fried from the blast. Most of it's corrupted."
"Define 'most,'" Ghost said.
Zaid tapped the arrow key. A grainy video loaded: charred server racks inside the fortress' sublevel, smoke still curling from one. The camera auto-scrolled across a scorched USB hub.
Then the feed sharpened—schematics loaded. Convoy manifest. Vehicles. Payload icons. GPS route threading east from the ruins of Aziz's compound to the Taurus Mountains. Coordinates blinking red.
Soap leaned in. "You seeing this?"
"Yeah," Ghost said, voice flat. "Mobile armory. Spectre's not hiding anymore."
Price limped over, cradling a half-bandaged arm, eyes bloodshot but tracking.
"Voss?"
Zaid shook his head. "Not listed. But whoever's running this, they're fueling a small war. Turkish interior's not ready for it."
Soap narrowed his gaze on the last coordinate. "You think Voss is headed there?"
Ghost didn't answer immediately. His hand hovered over the mouse, tracing the route's endpoint—a ghost town in the mountains. Abandoned since '95. No roads. No oversight.
He clicked once. File name: "Op Midnight Harvest – Manifest A."
Ghost: "He's not going there."
Soap: "Then where?"
Ghost: "He's already been. This isn't deployment. It's distribution. Voss is arming the next massacre."
Price exhaled slow. "Then we move now."
Zaid tossed a thumb drive onto the table. "Convoy rolls in twelve hours. I'll fly you as far as Adana."
Ghost nodded once. "Gear up. We hit the road in thirty."
Soap snapped the laptop shut and stood. No music. No speech. Just boots on concrete and the cold press of inevitability.
---
[This is extra chapter]