ajqwrites

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

Fire pulsed hot between them as he took his time peeling her clothes from her skin. His wide, warm palms slid under her oversized shirt, lifting it inch by inch, peeling it from her skin like a gift he wanted to unwrap. His gaze dropped to her bare chest. Small and soft, with dark circles around her nipples. He sighed hard, like he found her to be the prettiest woman on earth.

"Beautiful," he rasped.

Charlie flushed and she watched as he lowered his head and his mouth covered one nipple while his calloused hand sneaked above her body and cupped the other. Her gasp was sharp, and her body arched as his mouth and his beard scraped her skin just enough to make her tremble. He switched sides, lavishing her with attention, until her legs squirmed beneath him, begging for more.

"Hold still, sweetheart," he murmured, lifting his head. "I'm not done admirin' my girl yet."

The words curled around her like hot, sweet, and addictive.

John reached for the band of her underwear next, dragging them down her thighs. His eyes never left hers as he moved back just enough to take in the full sight of her.

"Look at you," he breathed and smiled. "Laid out for me like a dream."

Her cheeks flushed deeper, but she didn't look away.

When his hands went to his shirt then, tugging it over his head and discarding it on the floor. She watched him—watched every hard, scarred and tattoos of his body as he undid his belt next before removing his boots, jeans, and his boxers.

Her lips parted.

Her heart raced.

When he stood above her, fully bare, her breath caught. He smirked—slow, wolfish, proud.

"Do you know what you're doing to me, love?"

She shook her head 'no'.

"Well, little lamb," his eyes darkened, "Don't be ashamed about your singular taste that I share."

"What're you talking about?" She asked weakly.

"Don't try to act innocent, sweetheart. We both know exactly what I mean," he said as he slowly crawl back over her, settling between her legs. His body blanketing hers in warmth and weight. His tip brushed against her folds, teasing her—close but not enough.

"You want a man to take care of you, right?"

She stared at him, and nodded timidly.

"Then congratulations, you've found your match."

"Uhm..." Charlie looked away, but he grabbed her and turned her face to him with his fingers.

"You're under my care now," he said huskily, thumb brushing her chin. "I'll worship you, ruin you sweetly, protect you. You're all mine, Charlotte."

His strong chest pressed against hers, his body radiating warmth around her. Allowing his hands held her in place on either side of her, while his intense gaze bore into hers with a craving that left her weak in the knees. He searched her eyes, taking in every detail of her—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and her quivering soft lips.

The weight of his body against hers was almost suffocating, yet warm and hot.

"What do you need from your Daddy?"

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. For a second, she looked like she might cry—not from fear, but from the ache she couldn't say aloud. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"I want you."

John growled. "Do you?"

Before she could respond, he dragged his hips slowly, making her gasp softly. "You're soaked already, sweetheart. All this just from my voice? My mouth? My hands?"

He kissed her once more, slowly and deeply, as his tongue intertwined with hers, positioning himself at her entrance.

"Oh..." she moaned, her words muffled by the last shreds of her self-control.

John break away and chuckled again, enjoying the moment he had over her.

"I'm not God," he growled in her ear. "But I can damn well make you feel like you're in heaven."

And with that, he pushed into her completely.

Charlie cried out—half from the stretch, half from the overwhelming wave of heat that rolled through her. He filled her in a way that made her head spin, her nails dig into his back as her mouth opened in a silent moan. John groaned into her hair, his breath hot, his hands gripping her hips.

"Fuck! Tight little pussy wrapped around me like you were made for me," he growled and looked down at her. His thrusts started slow—deep, controlled, each one dragging along every nerve inside her.

Her back arched, lips parting in shaky moans as the pleasure built with every movement. Each time of his thrust, her body react to every word he gave her like a command.

"You like how I treat you, don't you?" he said, voice ragged as he drove into her again. "Love how I fuck and love you, huh?"

"John—" she gasped, her eyes glassy before closing her eyes tight. Allowing her to release her high-pitched moan escaped her natural pink lips. It felt so good. Too good.

"That's it," he growled between ragged breaths. "So responsive, babygirl." His accent rolled over her like honey, making her moan even louder. "Fuck, I could do this all night and listen to those sweet sounds you make."

"Ha," she whined between pants, "I...you-"

"No turning back," he coaxed, smiling like a devil. “Daddy wants all you, you can take all of me, huh?”

His rhythm quickened, sending her higher, closer, the coil inside her twisting tighter and tighter. Closing her eyes tight, she felt his hand slipped between them, his thumb circling her clit.

"That's my girl," John cooed, his grip on her hips tightened. Their movements becoming faster and harder, matching the intensity of their panting breaths. 

Opening her eyes, she saw white stars within her vision as her whole sex stretched beneath until he pulled out and spilled on her chest. It hit her like lightning—white-hot pleasure exploding in her belly. But he started stroking himself again, Charlie watched. Her cheeks flushed yet her logic mind was turned off when all she can focus on was him. Slipping himself inside and pushing her higher again. Her body pulsed and she sobbed his name, clinging to him as he gave in next—his pace faltering, breath catching as he buried himself one more time until he pulled out again and groaned through his second release. 

Charlie moaned as she felt his hot seed now became sticky on her chest and her stomach.

"Ah... ha... fuck," he said before collapsing over her, not minding about the juices sticking against him. One arm bracing above her head and the other curled protectively around her waist, they laid tangled together—sweaty and full of something too big to name.

"You're my girl," he mumbled before kissing her temple and her swollen lips.

She moan weakly in response.

Neither of them won't move as their bodies were flushed, tangled in sweat.

His head rested against her collarbone, his lips ghosting over her skin. He didn't say anything at first. Just breathed her in. But even in the quiet—Charlie could feel it. She felt the tension in him, coiled and warm, still burning just beneath her stomach. He kissed her chest, just over her heart, then lower. His hand slid over her stomach, smoothing down the length of her thigh as he slowly shifted up on one elbow to look at her.

And when he did—his eyes weren't just hungry.

They were memorizing. Studying her like she was the last thing he wanted to see before the lights went out.

He dragged his gaze from her flushed face down to her breasts, her stomach with hint of a small belly, and the faint red lines his hands had left on her hips.

"I want to remember everything of you," he murmured, voice raw.

Charlie blinked up at him, dazed. "Yes..."

His hand slipped back between her thighs.

"Right now," he continued, kissing her jaw, her throat, her chest, "I want to make the most of every fuckin' second I've got with you."

He was already hard again—she could feel him against her thigh. But, Charlie didn't stop him. She would rather have him to fuck her all night or whenever she wanted. The sense of feeling against him and what he was doing to her, it was heaven, and his words were true.

He knows what he’s doing to me, she thought absentmindedly. I want this.

As he slid back inside her, slower this time. The stretch made her gasp and shut her eyes tight, but it was gentler now—like he wanted her to feel every inch of him. His lips hovered over hers as he moved inside her—slow, deep thrusts that made her moan into his mouth.

"I could stay right here forever," he murmured between kisses. "Bury myself inside you and never leave."

Her legs wrapped around him as he began picking up the pace, his hand gripping her thigh to hold her open while his other hand sliding beneath her back to arch her up to him.

"Say my name," he growled, his breath hot against her ear.

"John," she moaned, eyes glassy.

"Again."

"John..."

Rolling her eyes closed, she moved her head back and cried as his hips began snapping harder, which made his bed creaked beneath them as the rhythm built again. Quickening his thrusts, his breathing ragged in her ear.

"Say it again," he growled, his accent thick with arousal.

"John!" Charlie cried out, the pleasure building inside her once more.

His hot breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot deep within her that made her toes curl. His movements became more desperate, their bodies slapping together in a rhythm as the tension coiled tighter and tighter. Her world narrowed to him, to the feel of him inside her, to the sound of their labored breathing and the creaking of the bed. Their eyes never left each other as his brows and forehead sweat while thrusting against her in ways it made her heart skip a beat.

"Yes, that's it," he panted, his voice guttural. "You're doing real good to your Daddy."

Bucking her hips against him, she moaned in response in a desperate manner. Arching her back more after meeting each of his thrusts, their panting breaths filled the room, mingling with the scent of their combined arousal and sweat.

"Johna... oh... don't... ah.. stop...!" She squeezed her eyes shut and a small tear threatened to fall from one of her eyes.

Listening to her plea, he could feel her nails digging into his back, making her third orgasm closing in. He picked up on her body well as each thrust steered her closer to the edge of sanity, leaving them crave more.

Her core contracted around him as she was close, gasping for air. He let out his animalistic growl and hadn't stopped thrusting until he could feel himself close. Then—he stopped and pulled out. Charlie whimpered at the loss, but John flipped her onto her stomach and hovered over her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before guiding her up onto her knees. She looked over her shoulder, breathless, eyes wide.

"You trust me?" he asked, his throat rough and hard.

She nodded quickly, body already trembling in pain and pleasure together.

As he spread her legs before parting her ass cheeks, he slid back his length from behind her before one of his hand gripped her hip, and the other flat on her back, guiding her movements as he thrust again—deeper. Sharper. The new angle made her cry out, her breasts swaying with every thrust while her hands gripping the sheets above her head. 

The newfound vulnerability and surrender sent a thrill through her, and she arched back to take him in even deeper.

"You feel even tighter like this," he growled in ear, his accent thick with aroused. "Fuckin' heaven."

His grip on her hip tightened as he angled himself just right, rubbing against her G-spot with each powerful stroke. The pressure built within her once more, coiling tighter and tighter with every hard thrust. His other hand moved up to cover her mouth, muffling her moans of pleasure as he pushed her over the edge again with a savage growl.

"You love being owned by me," he snarl huskily and chuckled darkly.

Sobbing his name, her climax was almost reaching to highs, harder than before until he slowed down his thrust and withdrew from her. She moaned protest, leaving her trembling from the loss of him again. He flipped her over again, settling her back on the mattress as he positioned himself between her legs. Her cheeks flushed crimson, but the hunger in his eyes put out any embarrassment that lingered.

"Don't come yet, sweetheart," he ordered before kissing her temple and her swollen lips. "Want you to finish on my mouth. Think you can ride on my face for me? Hmm?”

She nodded dumbly.

"Good girl," he purred, his accent thick with lust. “Lift your hips.”

Charlie did as he ordered, lifting her hips and spreading her legs wider for him. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, wet, swollen and aching for more. Her hair was a mess, but it was her flushed cheeks, pink swollen lips, and half-open eyes that he found most alluring. She looked both desperate and desired. 

Slowly, he leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to her inner thigh—not minding about the sex scent—before moving higher. His lips trailed a path of fire along her skin until he reached his destination: her swollen clit. Allowing her legs over shoulders, she moaned in return, arching her back off the bed as her eyes rolled shut. Feeling his tongue moving against her sex, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves in slow, torturous motions. Charlie moaned louder, her hands gripping the sheets of the bed as she arched her back even more. The sensations were becoming too much to bear. 

"So sweet," he growled against her skin.

His words only fueled the fire that raged within her, urging him onward to take more of her. His tongue delved deeper, penetrating her with slow strokes that had her hips bucking off against him. Her hands fisted as her nails dug into the linen while making her toes curl since her moans turned into desperate whimpers.

"Jo... ah... ha!" she cried as he continued his sensual assault on her senses.

He responded by slipping a single finger inside of her alongside his tongue, thrusting in time with his motions. The dual sensation sent Charlie over the edge into oblivion, crying out his name on a high-pitched wail as she shattered around him. Wave after wave of bliss washed over her as John continued to lavish attention on her most sensitive spots, drinking in every drop of her. Leaving her whole body shook as she screamed his name—pure, blinding heat crashing through her as she came to his mouth.

He drank every single drops of her, like a starving man before removing his mouth from her sex. He lifted his face to meet her gaze before licking his lips clean.

"Good girl," he said with a grin, crawling over her while keeping his gaze fixed on her.

With her rose cheeks, she was trying to catch her breath. But, as he lowered his face and kissed her. All while, he inserted his cock back inside her and slowly filling her up before thrusting her. She closed her eyes and moaned weakly, their tongues moved while she was tasting her own juice against his lips—salty but dissolved into sweet after taste.

But this time, he pulled out at the last second, groaning as he finished against her stomach. His hand braced on her hip as he rode out his high. He moaned in relief, almost exhausted. She quickly pulled his face down and kissed him.

"I love you," she said between kisses and break away. "I love you."

She kissed him again.

"I love you."

And again.

"I love you, Jonathan."

And again until he shut his eyes. Both his large hands cradled her cheeks while kissing her back, like this was his last day on earth.

When they break away, their chest heaving, heart racing, their minds into each other. He kissed her forehead once—slow, grounding—before shifting his weight, rolling onto his back with a low, gruff exhale. He stretched out below her, thick and heavy, his body flushed and waiting. His hand slid down to her thigh, fingers curling gently around the softness there.

"C'mere, love," he murmured, voice ragged, almost pleading. "Ride me."

Charlie blinked down at him, wide-eyed and uncertain.

He caught it—and smiled lazily.

She swallowed and bit her bottom lip, heart hammering against her ribs.

"I've got you, love," he rasped, guiding her gently. Settling her thighs over his hips, her core brushing against his cock. His hands never left her body—smoothing up her thighs, her waist, tracing over her hips like she was precious.

"Uhm... am... am I doing this, right?" she whispered, uncertain.

John chuckled low, moving his hand through damp hair.

"You're perfect, love. Just sit pretty and go slow for me," he said. "Grab my cock and line it inside of you."

Charlie bit her lip, but nodded. She reached his manhood and gasped softly, her small hand holding onto his hot and semi-hardened shaft. It felt right to her grasp as she lined him up. In response, he hissed low in his chest at the sight of her swallowing below him.

"Take your time," he murmured. "Wanna feel every inch of you."

She sank down slowly, inch by aching inch, until she was fully seated on him.

They both moaned—which, she was overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness. And he was overwhelmed by the feel of her clenching around him, snug and wet and perfect.

"Shit," he groaned, his hands tightening on her hips.

Charlie whimpered, her thighs trembling. "Oh... ah... oh gosh... John... that... that feels different."

"Easy," he soothed, almost smiling. His hands running up and down her sides. "Bounce when you're ready. Not a second before."

She adjusted to him slowly, moving her hips up and down and watched as his head fell back against the pillow. Giving him a deep, broken moan tearing from his throat.

"Ah, fuck… beautiful," he praised roughly, trying to breathe steadily. "Just like that."

Charlie rocked her hips again, a little more confident this time. The friction dragged deliciously over every sensitive nerve inside her. Allowing his hands slid up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her peaked nipples.

"Ride," he said, half moaning and half order, his eyes locking onto hers. "Show me how much you need me, baby. Come on."

Her body reacted instinctively, allowing her hips to move, following a gasp escaping her lips as waves of pleasure coursed through her. John matched her movements with a deep, supportive growl, his hands exploring her hips, stomach, and chest. Her moans grew more intense, her rhythm accelerating as the pleasure between them surged like a gathering storm. He was utterly captivated by her. 

"My girl. My good girl. Fuckin' ridin' me so sweet."

"Feel how you squeeze me, baby? You're gonna cum my cock right here."

"Meant for me. Made for me."

Every filthy praise made her body tighten around him, made her hips move faster, made her heart race. John met her hips with slow thrusts upward, grinding deep into her, hitting that spot inside that made her cry out loud.

"Yes, close," he breathed, voice shaking while groaning huskily. "Atta girl, keep going."

She sobbed, the tension inside her coiling tighter, sharper, hotter. Her hands braced on his chest, nails digging into the hard muscle there as she rode him harder—chasing that high she could feel just out of reach. She felt his large hand have slid down to her clit, rubbing slow, firm circles.

"Let Daddy feel it," he half commanded, his voice wrecked with need. "Let go, babygirl."

That word—that deep, growled confession sent her flying over the edge. Allowing her eyes to see stars as she cried out his name, shattering around him, her body clenching tight as she pulsed with pleasure. John cursed low, feeling her flutter around him, her wet heat milking him all over. He gritted his teeth, thrusting up into her a few more desperate times before he grabbed her hips tighter and pulled her off him at the very last second. A guttural groan ripped from his chest as he barely managed to guide himself against her belly, his cock throbbing violently in his fist. His release spattered hot against her skin—sticky, messy—marking her once again, exactly how he needed to.

She gasped softly at the sudden warmth slicking across her stomach, dazed, still trembling from her own orgasm crashing over her.

His head dropped back to the pillow, chest heaving. His knuckles white where they gripped her hips.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he rasped, voice completely wrecked.

Charlie whimpered, collapsing onto his chest, breathless, her thighs quivering from the effort and the aftermath. Then, he laughed low under his breath—wrecked, ragged, but intact. His hand slid up, threading through her sweat-damp hair, cradling the back of her head against him.

"Good girl," he cooed against her hairline, kissing her there. "You did so good for me."

She could barely nod, boneless and panting against him. Her heart pounding in sync with his.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice still hoarse but laced with raw tenderness. His hand rub up and down from her back.

Charlie nodded weakly, her body still buzzing, still trembling from how hard he made her let go.

He kissed her temple again, whispering, "That's my girl. Proud of you."

His thumb brushed along her jaw as he guided her to look up at him. The way he stared at her—heavy-lidded, devoured—made her stomach flip all over again.

"Mine to love," he said, voice thick with everything he didn't know how to say aloud. "Mine to fuck, if you'll let me."

Charlie blinked up at him, tears pricking her eyes—not from pain, not from fear—but from the way he worshipped her with every rough word, every slow caress.

"I'm yours," she whispered.

The edges of his mouth tugged into the softest smile she'd ever seen—rough, unguarded, a man completely undone.

He kissed her again—slow, deep, reverent. Then he shifted, grabbing the edge of the sheet with his free hand and pulling it up over their sticky bodies.

"You'll ride me again, yeah?" he whispered against her mouth, half-gruff, half-pleading. "As many times as I want?"

Charlie gave a breathless laugh against his lips, nodding, her hand fisting in his dusty dark hairs on his chest over his heart.

"As many times as you need," she said breathlessly.

A low, satisfied rumble vibrated from deep in his chest as he kissed her. She giggled through his kiss and let out a blissful sigh after breaking away.

"So... are you for real?"

"About what?" John smiled.

"You being my... you know... " she trailed off, almost in childlike.

John couldn't help but chuckle at her.

"I can neither confirm nor deny my daddy status," he said, softly brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But I can tell you this," he paused before lowering to a huskier tone, "if I were to be your daddy, I would take my role very serious."

Charlie felt a shiver run down her spine at the way he said those words. She buried her face against his sweaty chest, trying to diffuse the heat that was creeping into her cheeks. "You're so bad, you know that?"

"Oh, sweetheart," he purred, tilting her chin so her eyes met his, the warmth of his breath brushing against her lips, "You have no idea how bad I can be."

She buried her face against his chest again, smiling before closing her eyes.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 85✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

She had cracked a window for fresh night air, letting in the faint sounds of the city while she camped out on the living room rug with her laptop, a blanket tucked around her waist and her socked feet with a mug of tea sat forgotten beside her.

The coffee table was covered in a scatter of highlighted articles, hand-scribbled notes, sticky tabs, and her half-done thesis.

The TV was on for background noise—muted, but still flickering with the bright colors of the Beauty and the Beast. The classic Disney version she used to love as a child. She wasn't really watching it, but every now and then, her gaze flicked up from her laptop screen when she heard a line she knew by heart. Something about it always gives her comfort. Maybe it was the way Belle looked at the Beast like he wasn't something to be feared—but to be understood.

With her AirPod snug in one ear, her phone sat face-up on the floor beside her, playing a documentary off YouTube that John had sent her earlier in the week. It was about political negotiations and the long-term effects of cultural diplomacy in war-torn regions—exactly the kind of thing her professor would eat up. John had found it through one of his source, "Thought this might help, sweetheart."

It did.

Charlie had been typing for nearly two hours. Her attention drifted from the blinking cursor on her document to the notebook in her lap, where a few bullet points were scribbled in her neat, curved handwriting—surprisingly organized, considering how scattered her brain was before remembering John's advice on composition—mostly a military edition.

Halfway done.

And proud of it.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she leaned back, stretching her arms over her head before rubbing her eyes. She pushed her hair behind her ear and reached for her tea, taking a sip and grimacing at how cold it had gotten.

She checked the clock on her phone.

He hadn't come home yet.

Not late—but he didn't want her to wait for him. But, she is anyways.

Charlie glanced down at her laptop and ran her fingers across the keyboard before saving her draft with a quiet click. Letting out a slow exhale, it still needed polishing. Transitions. Citations. Maybe a bit more of a punch at the end. But deep down, a small part of her wanted to show it to him. To curl up beside him on the couch, hand him her laptop, and wait in silence while he read. Hell, she wanted to see that rare, warm smile like he was proud of her.

She bit her lip from smiling too big. Pushing her laptop aside, she hugged her knees to her chest.

"Hope you like it," she whispered to no one.

Then she turned back to her screen, her AirPod still buzzing softly with the documentary, while Belle danced in the background with the Beast under a glass chandelier. Until her AirPod rang through her phone when the name flashed on the screen:

Mum.

Her heart skipped.

It was late—too late for her mother to call.

She yanked the AirPod from her ear and answered quickly.

"Hey, Mum,"

"Hey," her voice came in calm, "hope I didn't mean to wake you up."

Charlie sat up straighter. "No, no—it's fine. Just working on my thesis. Um, yeah."

There was a pause, and Kate began, "Working late again, huh? That's good."

Charlie blinked at the sudden warmth in her tone, but something felt... off. Her mom didn't do small talk. Especially not with the way her voice flattened slightly in the next sentence.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure."

Another pause.

"Are you seeing someone?"

Charlie froze.

The question hit like a sudden wind have slapped her face.

"Seeing someone? Like... dating?"

"Yes. Dating. Personally. Secretly." Her tone was still smooth, but there was a quiet pressure underneath it now.

Charlie laughed—awkward, trying to buy time. "Uh... no. I've been focused on school and—"

"Charlie." Kate cut in, not loud, not sharp. But firm. "Don't lie to me."

Her chest tightened. Her throat went dry and her palms flattening on the floor like she needed to brace herself.

"I—I'm not lying..." She trailed off.

"You're seeing Johnathan Price," Kate interrupted.

Her stomach dropped.

"I—" she started, then stopped again.

Kate exhaled slowly on the other end, like she'd been holding her breath the whole time.

"I wanted to believe that you'd be honest," she said curtly.

Charlie stood up abruptly, pacing now, her hand gripping her phone too tightly. "Why are you asking me this now?"

"Because I work with him, Charlotte," Kate's voice was rising, colder now. "And he's sixteen years older than you!You're my daughter, and I trusted you."

Charlie pressed her free hand to her temple. Her chest was rising and falling too fast. She couldn't breathe—couldn't think.

"We didn't mean for it to happen," she said, her voice small. "I didn't plan this—"

"He's my colleague. And you're twenty-three," Kate snapped. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Her mouth parted, but no words came. The rush of heat behind her eyes blurred her vision. Her throat locked up.

"He's not like that," she finally choked out. "He respects me. He listens to me. He's good to me."

"You think he's good to you because he knows how to handle you. You don't see the imbalance, do you?"

"What are you talking about? Mum, this is us. You don't know what it's like—what he's like when we're alone—"

"I know exactly what he is," Kate said, low and bitter. "I've known him longer than you've been out of school. And you're telling me I should just sit back and be okay with this?"

Charlie stopped pacing, her hand trembling as she clutched her chest. She could feel it now—that ache creeping in behind her ribs.

"I'm not a child," she said, her voice almost breaking. "I'm not stupid. You think I can't tell when someone's manipulating me?"

"I think you've spent your whole life looking for someone to make you feel safe," Kate replied, voice cutting clean. "And John knows that."

The tears came quick, angry and ashamed. Charlie didn't wipe them. She couldn't. Her hands were too busy shaking.

"No, you're wrong," she said, barely audible now.

And that silence—that silence from her mother? It was worse than yelling. When Kate scoffed, her voice was quiet.

"I don't trust him with you."

Charlie blinked, stunned. It was like someone had just shot a hole through her chest. Her knuckles turned white around her phone. Her jaw trembled—not from fear, but fury. She paced the floor like she was trying to out-walk the ache building in her chest.

"You don't trust him?" she echoed bitterly, her voice rising, cracking. "Fine. Then. you don't trust me, mother. That's what this is about, right?"

Kate didn't reply.

Charlie didn't wait.

"You don't think I'm smart enough to know what I'm doing. You think I'm some little girl chasing after a man who looked at me like I mattered."

"Charlie, I didn't say that," Kate frowned.

"Oh, but you're thinking it." Her voice wavered with heat, tears flooding her eyes as her chest tightened again. "You always expect me to be good enough. You expect me to live my whole life acting like I had everything under control, like I am fine! You think because I'm not some polished daughter with perfect grades! I can't make one decision for myself on what I want!"

Her breathing quickened.

"And, guess what?" she said shakily. "I made one. I picked him. I like how he makes me feel, mother! And he treats me like I'm not broken, like I'm not complicated or too much or too slow. He sees me."

Another silence, and Kate sighed hard.

"That's the problem."

"...What?"

"I know how John operates, Charlotte," Kate said, calm and sharp, like ice through glass. "You think this is the first time he's looked at someone like you? Young and desperate to be understood."

Her heart thudded.

"No—no," she said quickly. "He's not like that with me. We're not—this isn't some casual fling! This is real. He's not using me."

Kate was quiet again. Then she spoke with purpose.

"Have you wondered why he's been single? Why a man like that—decorated and respected—is alone at thirty-nine?" Her voice wasn't cruel, but it was harsh. "It's not because no one wanted him. It's because they did. And they couldn't handle what they found in him."

Her breath hitched in her throat.

"He keeps things buried for a reason. He doesn't let people in unless he's certain they'll stay quiet about what they see in him."

"Stop," Charlie said, voice barely audible. Her heart was pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

"I've seen what happens when people fall for men like him. You end up thinking ownership is love. That being consumed means being cared for," Kate said, her voice like flint.

Her eyes burned. Her knees gave, and she slid to the floor, her back hitting the side of the couch.

"Not everything he gives you is love."

A beat of silence, and the line went dead.

Charlie sat there, phone still in her hand, her chest rising and falling like she'd just run a marathon underwater. Her throat burned. Her entire body was buzzing with a hundred things at once—anger, shame, confusion, fear. She threw her phone across the room. It hit the edge of the rug and spun out uselessly, the screen lighting up with nothing. Her hands clawed at her scalp as she tried to stop the spiral—but the thoughts were coming too fast.

Why would she say that?

She gasped, her hands curling into fists, pressing into her chest as if that could hold her together. Her heart was too fast. Her breathing was too shallow.

She didn't want to believe her.

Wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her oversized jumper, it did nothing to stop the tears. They kept slipping down her cheeks, silent and relentless, stinging like salt in a wound she couldn't locate. Charlie stood up on shaky legs, leaving her phone on the floor where it had landed. Her chest felt too tight, like something was lodged inside, stuck between her ribs and her throat. She turned toward the hallway, bare feet padding down the wood floor.

The guest bedroom was only a few feet away—where she usually slept but as she reached the doorframe near the room... she stopped.

His bedroom door was closed.

She hadn't gone in there—not yet. He never forbade it. He just never invited her in, either. And she never asked.

Charlie stood frozen in the hallway, she sniffed. Swallowed hard. Then, before she could overthink it, she turned the handle. The door creaked softly open, like it, too, had been holding its breath.

She stepped inside and turned the light on near her.

It felt like him.

A space that reflected his personality—simple without any decorations. A sturdy queen-size bed, barren of frills and featuring a neatly arranged gray comforter, dominated the far wall. The comforter was smooth, with a subtle texture that hinted at its quality. To the left of the bed, a small gun safe was tucked into the corner, its steel surface marred by scratches and dents, telling a story of frequent use. On the right side, there was a nightstand sat a simple clock, a worn leather notebook with a pen slid through the spine. His watch lay beside it, neatly placed. His sidearm—carefully holstered—rested just beneath the nightstand in a locked drawer left ajar.

Various pieces of gym equipment were scattered across the floor, suggesting that this space wasn't just for rest. A bright blue kettlebell sat next to a set of silver dumbbells while a sturdy resistance band lay nearby. Each item was placed randomly, indicating recent workouts and ongoing commitment to fitness.

Her gaze shifted to the closet since the door was ajar to reveal a neatly hung row of clothes. All in muted colors. Gray, black, blue, and green. Then, she turned her gaze to a modest wooden bookshelf stood against the wall on the right side of the room. It held a small collection of nonfiction books, folders alongside some of the titles were military manuals. Others were histories of conflict, old intelligence records, even a few classics—Catcher in the Rye, 1984, and a heavily marked-up copy of Sun Tzu's Art of War. And there was a couple of photo frames resting close to each other.

Charlie stepped closer to the shelf, her curiosity piqued as she examined the ornate frame with a treasured photographs.

Inside the frame was the first aged image that captured a moment in time. Holding her breath as her eyes settled on the photo. It had been taken decades ago, judging by the colors tint. Standing in the middle was a woman, who was beautiful. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, strands escaping in wisps around her gentle, smiling face. She wore a simple cardigan and jeans, one arm slung protectively around the youngest boy in the picture.

To her left stood a tall boy with a cocky grin and wild eyes—maybe the first child. He looked about ten or eleven, all limbs and attitude with his arms folded across his chest like he wanted to show off for a photoshoot. Next to him, just an inch shorter and neater to the tall boy was the middle. He looked around seven or eight, with calm demeanor, standing straight like he was trying to be the good—tidy haircut, hands at his sides, his chin up like he had something to prove. But it was the smallest boy—barely four years old, clinging to the woman's side—made her breath catch. He had a mop of unruly dark hair, wide blue eyes with a scraped knee poking out from beneath too-big corduroy trousers. One of his hands was clutching a toy car. The other was tucked into his mum's hand.

To John’s left was a boy just a couple of years older than the first boy. Maybe he’s the oldest than what she thought earlier?

Tall for his age, lanky with a small grin, he wore a long-sleeved white shirt under a denim vest, with sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His jeans were faded with some dirt but not really dirty. His posture leaned just enough to say he didn’t care much about impressing anyone. His arm was casually thrown over Marcus’s shoulder.

As she moved her gaze from the first family portrait, she spotted another picture tucked behind it. Rougher around the edges and noticeably smaller, it seemed hidden away for protection rather than display.

Carefully, she lifted the frame; her breath caught as her eyes adjusted. It showed John much younger—clean-shaven except for a light stubble, his features sharper with the hint of youth still clinging to his angular jaw. His cropped, dark-faded hair framed ice-blue eyes that held the same watchfulness she remembered, though they weren't yet hardened.

There was a vulnerability in them that made her heart ache. He wore a faded green undershirt and khaki pants, dog tags peeking underneath the collar, and in his arms was a tiny girl. Dark red curls framed chubby cheeks with a pink Minnie Mouse shirt with a polkadots skirt with shoes, and her little hands gripped his shirt as if he were her entire world. She rested her head against his chest, her face turned toward the camera in a sleepy smile. Cam—no older than two.

That baby's grin sent a shiver down her spine, recalling the older Cam's eyes meeting hers in the café: still spirited, but far from soft like Charlie herself.

She studied the photograph again, struck by how John held his daughter as though she were everything.

Blinking hard, her throat tightening, she realized this wasn't the hardened captain she knew—this was a boy, barely a man, clinging to something real. Gently, she set the frame down and reached for the last one.

The third frame held a single image of John with a woman—Penny, whom Charlie had never seen but knew very little about her. Her hair was a warm, muted red falling past her shoulders, lighter than Cam's curls. Freckles dotted her fair skin, and her striking green eyes, locked onto the camera. A sun-kissed flush dusted her nose, and she smiled wide, perfect white teeth catching the light, one hand rested in his chest. He offered only a small smile in return, but it was the look of someone being present.

Charlie stared, sensing not a family resemblance but different: Penny's confidence shone like sunlight through the photograph, and in that moment Charlie understood why John had fallen for her once but with heaviness hinted.

She noticed the way he was with Penny in the photo wasn't the same way he was with Charlie.

With Penny, there had been youth.

With her, it was different.

Her heart twisted.

He had a family.

Had.

Charlie then glanced at the whole room.

Everything was neat.

She blinked fast, trying to focus. Trying to anchor herself.

Then she sat down at the edge of the bed—his bed.

Breathing in and out deeply, she didn't mean to cry harder.

But she did.

Her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

Not everything he gives you is love. Her mother's voice echoed like poison in her mind.

But this room... this place...

It didn't feel like prison.

She sniffled and wiped her face once more, her eyes drifting to the nightstand. A gentle curiosity urged her on. She opened the drawer next to the bed. Just to take a look. Just... something to divert her attention.

Inside, she found the usual items: spare ammunition, a flashlight, a few well-used field notebooks with dog-eared pages and shorthand notes she couldn't decipher. A multitool. A phone charger. But beneath these items, there was something black and coiled lay hidden under the notebooks. She reached out slowly and pulled it into view. A silk rope. Soft, smooth, and carefully coiled as if placed there with intent.

Her brow furrowed as she freed it, feeling the silky texture slip through her fingers. It wasn't meant for hiking or rigging gear.

She blinked, looking again.

There, partially concealed by the inner edge of the bedframe, lay a pair of handcuffs. Steel. Heavy-duty. Definitely not standard issue. Her fingers hovered above them.

She reached for them slowly, turning the cool metal over in her palm. They weren't dusty. Weren't forgotten. These were... used.

Her lips parted slightly, confusion furrowing her brow.

Was it for security? Backup restraints?

Her thoughts stuttered... until a quiet, naive question whispered across her mind.

Why would John keep these?

She blinked, her eyes darting from the rope to the cuffs as a strange knot of curiosity twisted inside her. She swallowed, still holding them when—the front door opened.

Click.

Her breath caught.

She heard it.

Then the heavy, deliberate thud of boots crossing the threshold.

"Charlie?"

Her body went still.

Another sound—the door closing.

A pause.

Then—

"Charlie?" his voice called from the main room.

He was home.

And she was in his room.

She didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Her heart pounded like a drum as she sat frozen on his bed, surrounded by everything that was him—and holding a piece of him she hadn't meant to snoop.

When she heard his boots again. Slower now. Louder. Moving toward the hallway.

"Baby girl, I'm here," he called again, this time closer. Softer.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Charlie could feel him—his presence filled the room the way thunder did before lightning. But it wasn't until the silence held for too long that she finally looked up.

And there he was.

John stood in the doorway. His eyes locked on her, scanning every inch of her—her blotchy face and her red-rimmed eyes.

And then he saw what was in her hands.

His jaw tensed.

But he didn't speak either.

Charlie, wide-eyed and stricken, noticed his hands.

His knuckles—crusted with dried blood. Split open. The skin bruised and cracked across each one.

She stared.

The questions came hard and fast in her mind.

What happened? Why is there blood on his hands?

But her lips couldn't form a single one of them.

His gaze flicked from the cuffs to her face again, and when he finally stepped in, it was slow. He stopped a few feet from the bed.

"Why are you in my room?"

It wasn't harsh but it held weight. More like a question and curiosity.

Charlie swallowed hard and lowered her gaze.

Her eyes burned again, but this time, the tears pushed harder.

Her voice came out fragile. Cracked.

"I didn't mean to. I just—" she paused, clutching the rope tighter without meaning to. "I needed you, and I didn't know where else to go—"

His expression didn't change.

"I thought the guest room, but I couldn't. I—I didn't want to be alone." Her voice broke now. "I didn't mean to find these. I—"

"Charlie."

She looked up at him, her lip quivering. And then it all spilled out in one desperate breath:

"My mum knows."

His brows twitched.

Charlie let out a small, strangled sound—half-laugh, half-sob. "She knows, John. She called men and said horrible things about you. About us. She doesn't trust me. She doesn't trust you."

His eyes softened, but his body didn't.

She sniffed, wiping her face furiously. "She thinks you're using me. That I'm just some broken girl who needs to be saved, and you're—you're someone who knows how to manipulate people."

He inhaled slowly through his nose. Frowning, he closed his eyes. Shaking his head slowly and his nose scrunched. He opened his eyes again with a hard stare. As he crouched in front of her now, his big frame lowering until he was eye-level. His bloodied hand reached out and he gently took the rope and cuffs from her hands, setting them on the floor beside the bed.

Then, he placed his hands on her knees and snake its way to her hips. He hadn't looked away from her.

"I know."

Charlie blinked. "What?"

"I know," he repeated, quieter. "Because she wanted me to break up with you."

Her mouth opened—but no sound came.

"Told me I had no business being near you," he continued, his tone unreadable. "That I was too old for you, too dangerous."

She shook her head quick and sniffed again.

"And she's not wrong about that last part," John said, voice steady. "I am dangerous. I've got blood on my hands right now. And yeah—some of that blood's fresh."

Her eyes flicked again to his knuckles.

"I did what needed to be done tonight. And I'd do it again if it meant keeping you safe."

Charlie moved her eyes back to him.

"I can't tell you everything," he murmured. "I've done things that would make most men lose sleep for the rest of their lives."

A pause.

"But I will never use you."

His voice was suddenly softer.

"I'm fighting for you."

She crumpled forward into his arms, finally letting the sob break free as he caught her—his broad hands wrapping around her like armor, holding her tight against his chest.

Just the sound of her breathing, stuttering and uneven. He held her until the tremble in her limbs began to fade.

And when he finally whispered, "I'm here, baby," she clung tighter like letting go wasn't even an option. The way he held her—like she wasn't fragile, but treasured—that made her breath catch again. She moved back just enough to see him, her fingers brushing over the worn fabric of his jacket. Her hand then moved and she touched his cheek. Her fingers felt the coarse texture of his beard. She noticed subtle streaks of silver near his chin as her thumb softly followed the line of his jaw, then moved upwards to lightly touch beneath his eye.

He closed his eyes for a second.

"I need you," she whispered.

His eyes opened again—slow and piercing, icy blue locking onto her tear-soaked gaze.

"I didn't know how long you were gonna come home," Charlie said softly. "You didn't want me awake but I missed you."

His brows furrowed just slightly, but she kept going, her hand still on his cheek, grounding them both.

"I didn't think I'd fall for you," she admitted softly. "But it happened, and now..." her voice dropped, breaking with truth, "I don't want to lose you."

John stared at her, his lips slightly parted, like the words hit somewhere deep—deeper than he ever let people see.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then—he leaned into her touch, allowing her palms to touch his cheeks more before closing his eyes again, just for a moment. He inhaled and exhaled before opening his eyes, this time they burned with need.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said huskily. "You hear me?"

She nodded.

Then, he leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't rushed or rough, and when Charlie kissed him back, her hands gripping the front of his jacket, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Her lips parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, and when he did, she felt his fingers slid to the back of her head, threading through her hair, cradling her back head. He pulled back, just enough to look at her. Allowing his gaze swept her face until he gently eased her back onto the bed.

Her body obeyed as she laid back into the mattress, feeling his weight settling above her—one arm braced beside her head and the other caressing her waist like he needed to feel her body against him. She almost gasped as he pressed himself against her, her heartbeat beating fast against her chest as her eyes traced his weathered features face, down to his parted lips, then back up to his hungry eyes.

"What do you want from me, Charlie?" His voice came low, thick, and edged with restraint.

She stared at him. The question hit her deeper than she expected. Not just the words—but the way he said it. Like he sawher. He wasn't asking if she wanted sex—but if she wanted something more. 

She didn't have an answer. 

Instead, her hands moved instinctively—one trailing up his chest, curling into the collar of his shirt.

"You."

Something in his eyes flickered—confirmation. A need he'd known long before she had the words for it.

Need.

Not lust.

Not affection but raw.

"Please," she said again, a little more desperate now. Her fingers tightened around his shirt.

John kissed her again. 

Harder this time. 

As his mouth claimed hers, swallowing the soft sound that slipped from her throat as she arched toward him. His hand slid up her side, not rushing, just holding, anchoring her as their kiss deepened—his control still present, but loosening by the second. He kissed her like he needed her to know—that if she wanted him close, then close wasn't even the half of it.

He'd give her everything.

Their mouths moved in sync, heat building between them with every press, every slide of lips and tongue. She almost moaned as she could taste a bit of alcohol on his tongue and she almost moaned when her hands threaded into his hair, he let out a low groan against her mouth—he needed her. Her needed her softness before the rest of the world came crashing back in.

Charlie gasped softly into his mouth as his body pressed her further into the mattress, the heat of him wrapping around her like a second skin. His hand cradled the back of her neck again, and the other grip her hip possessively. Her legs curling around his waist, instinctively his weight shifted just enough to make her feel the promise of him. A soft moan escaped her lips as she tilted her head, granting him deeper access. John took it—his tongue sweeping against hers with a growl that vibrated in his chest.

He was losing control.

And he didn't care.

But then—Charlie broke the kiss.

Breathless.

Flushed.

Her eyes searched his.

"John..."

He stilled. The quiet sound of his name on her lips was enough to keep him present.

"What happened to you?" Charlie sat up slightly, her voice soft but edged with worry.

John exhaled through his nose.

"I did my job."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "What does that mean?"

He looked at her.

And that look—that calm, controlled coldness meant one thing.

"It means I handled it," he said simply. No emotion. No guilt.

Charlie swallowed, but she didn't press. Something in his eyes warned her that whatever happened—he didn't want her know nor worry. And maybe part of her didn't want to know either.

"He won't bother you again unless if he pushes his luck. I'll kill him."

And he leaned in, and his mouth was back on hers, stealing the question from her lips before it could form again. His hands—bloodied and all—slid beneath her thighs, lifting her closer as his hips within his jeans pressed flush against hers. Charlie gasped into his kiss, clinging to him as his body pinned her to the bed.

His mouth trailed to her jaw, then down her neck, biting softly at the pulse there before murmuring into her skin, "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," she said, breathless.

And John growled low in his throat as if those three words were the key that finally let him let go.

Charlie barely had time to breathe before his lips found hers again—rougher this time. His tongue swept into her mouth again, claiming, tasting, like she was something forbidden he'd waited too long to have. He paused and break away, only to look down at her, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his voice a rasp—low and thick, a little dangerous.

Charlie nodded, dazed, her chest heaving.

He leaned in closer, brushing his nose against hers before letting his lips ghost over her cheek, her jaw, her ear.

"That's what happens when you let a man like me in your heart," he explained huskily.

His words sent a shiver racing down her spine.

"You're mine," he breathed against her lips.

"Yes," she whispered.

He chuckled low. A dark sound that made her thighs press tighter around his hips.

"Good," he said, trailing his mouth back to cheek from her neck. "I don't loan. I don't share. And I sure as fuck don't let anyone take what's mine."

His hand slid between her legs, fingers brushing her through the fabric of her underwear, and she gasped. John smirked at the sound, loving the way she responds to him with sounds.

"You're already needy for me, yeah?" he muttered while moving his fingers in her sex slowly.

She tilted her head back against the mattress, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling before closing her eyes. Her chest heaved with each small cries and sighs she uttered, until he silenced her with a kiss, drinking in her sounds, savoring her whimpers like sweet honey on his tongue.

"Gonna make you cry with how good I fuck you," he growled between kisses, "and when I do—you'll thank me for it."

Her breath came in short, shaky gasps as he slid her panties to the side.

"You want me to take my time?" he murmured, his lips against her cheek, his fingers circling slowly—teasing. "Or do you want me to fuck you?"

She couldn't think. Couldn't speak.

"Speak, Charlotte," he ordered, but his tone was soft—too soft. It made her hips buck against him.

She gasped before she breathed an answer.

"Fuck me."

His grin curled—slow and devilish.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 84✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The hallway stretched out, lit by flickering neon signs and muted red bulbs overhead.  Casting a hazy glow on the worn, dark carpet, and the muffled bass of the club's music thrummed through the walls, almost matching John's heartbeat as he strolled. The air was thick with stale cigarettes, perfume, and sweat, making the narrow corridor suffocating.

Moving into a row of private rooms lined the hallway to his left, each separated by heavy velvet curtains. The sound of muted conversations and occasional laughter seeped through the fabric.

Some curtains were ajar, offering brief glimpses of intimate exchanges within—flashes of dim light, movement, and shadows. His expression remained cold as he reached into his jacket, pulling out his M1911. Pulling the safety off before tucking it into his belt holster. He kept moving down the corridor like a predator, he noticed an escort resting against the wall. Her shimmering attire caught the dim light. A young woman with chocolate-colored skin and dark brown hair, casually twirling a strand of it while her eyes roamed the hallway in search of possible clients. John approached her, his boots barely making a sound against the carpet until her eyes found him.

"Looking for some company?" she purred.

John slowed down and stopped, his mouth curling into a cold smile. "Not tonight, love. I'm lookin' for a young lad. Harkin."

The escort hummed as she chewed her lips, thinking. "Daisy's client—room eight. End of the hall."

He tipped his head in silent thanks, but before he could pass, her hand brushed his arm.

"You sure? I've got time for you."

John stopped and turned his head slowly to her. His icy blue eyes darkened.

"Temptin' offer," he said, his voice dropping to a husky tone, "but I've already got someone. Fresh. Young. Soft as sin. All mine."

The escort flinched at the way he said it, like a warning, not a boast. Which made her back away from him with a nervous laugh.

"Room eight," she repeated, almost stumbling over the words.

John didn't smile as he moved on.

When his hand brushed the curtain slightly aside when he paused outside the velvet curtain. The low murmur of voices and faint laughter reached his ears.

He recognized the voice.

His jaw clenched as he pushed the curtain a little aside to confirm his target. He saw Harkin sitting back with a dancer perched on his lap, laughing at something he'd said. A bottle of champagne sat half-empty on the table beside them, the atmosphere of indulgence and arrogance. He breathed through his nose and exhaled. Pulling out his concealed weapon, he jerked the curtain open and pushed through. His presence immediately caught their attention.

Harkin lounged in the armchair, his legs sprawled out like he owned the room. A sly grin faded on his face, and the dancer perched on his lap stiffened. Her laughter died as she turned to look at the man who had just entered.

John pulled his M1911 free and leveled it at them.

"Get out," he said to the woman.

The woman froze, her gaze darting between the gun and Harkin, who seemed to be trying to muster his brave front.

"Get the fuck outta here or I'll put you down where you sit!" John sneered.

She bolted, heels clattering as she disappeared into the corridor. The velvet curtain swung lazily behind her, sealing them in. Harkin shifted in the chair, trying to gather what little bravado he had left.

"You coulda say that bitch nicely to leave," Harkin said, leaning back with forced nonchalance. "No need to play cowboy."

John said nothing. He moved forward instead, his gun never moved.

"You know, you're a fuckin' pathetic old man, right?" Harkin said before chuckling dryly. "Still mad 'bout Charlie?"

Without breaking his cold stare, he stopped near the small table. The barrel of the M1911 didn't move, but his free hand reached out to a bottle of champagne. He grabbed it by the neck and raised it.

Tipped it back.

Drank.

The cold fizz burned down his throat, mixing with the fire building inside him. He lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Harkin blinked before frowning deep. "What're you doing?"

"Celebrating," he said darkly. "The last breath you're gonna take tonight."

Before Harkin could react, he watched him conceal his weapon—John swung. The glass shattered against the side of his head with a sickening crack, the force sending him stumbling sideways.

Harkin grunted, his hand flying to his head as he tried to steady himself, blood trickling from a shallow cut. 

John grabbed him by the collar, yanked him upright, and slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Pulling out his gun again, he pressed it against him and the weapon was pressed it heavy against Harkin's temple.

"You had your warning," John hissed, breath hot against his face.

Harkin wheezed a laugh through the blood dripping down his face. "All this over some pretty little mouth she's keeping you warm, huh? It's why you're here."

John didn't answer. He dragged the gun down from his face with slow cruelty, and pressed the muzzle against his jaw next.

"You ever speak her name again," he growled, "and I'll make sure no one finds what's left of you."

"Aw, c'mon, old man. You really think she's yours?" Harkin laughed, cocky and wild with fear. "She sees you, what—someone who can coddle her? Protect her like a Daddy would protect his little girl? You must be the real deal."

His hand twitched, barely, on the grip.

"Yeah," he breathed, grinning bloody. "Hit a nerve, didn't I? Bet she's already callin' you Daddy while you're fucking her nice and hard—"

The gun cracked across Harkin's mouth. Bone and blood splintered, and John dropped him like a stone, choking on a gasp. John followed him down, boot pressing hard into his chest.

"You're still breathin'," he said icily. "That means I haven't decided yet."

Harkin coughed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

"You're fucking crazy," he rasped, one eye swelling shut, voice slurred from the split in his lip. "You show up like a man possessed—all this for a girl young enough to be your kid?"

John didn't answer.

Harkin laughed—a broken sound, tinged with blood and venom. "That's what she is to you, isn't it? Some sweet little thing you can tame. I bet you're getting hard off the idea that someone soft finally needed you."

John stared at him and suddenly, his nose scrunched and his jaw clenched hard.

"Wake up, old man. She just needed someone to hold her hand while the big bad world chewed her up," Harkin continued boasting. "And you—what, you came in all hero-like? Gun on your hip and a savior complex dripping off you like blood?"

He smiled, red staining his teeth.

"That's not what you want, is it?" He went on, eyes narrowing with dark insight. "She's not just yours—she's your fuckin' addiction. You ever look in the mirror? Really look?" Harkin said in a mocking way, like a knife twisting slow. "You're not in love with her—you want to own her."

John crouched low, his face inches from Harkin's battered one, and smirked—slow and vicious.

"You're right," he said calmly. "I do."

Then, his large hand moved fast when he grabbed Harkin by the throat, squeezing just enough to make his air rasp thin.

"She was mine the second she looked at me like I was her salvation." His thumb pressed cruelly into his pulse. "You think I'm scared of what I'm becoming?" John growled. "I already knew what I was before she chose me."

Harkin made a choked sound, a wheeze halfway between a sob and a laugh. 

"Then, you're sick!" he hissed. "You get off on knowing she's too young to see it."

John smiled widely, a devil kind.

"Maybe," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a growl. "But she's mine to be sick for."

He loosened his grip just enough for Harkin to suck in a desperate breath. Then punched him, hard, directly into the side of the head. Harkin slumped sideways, barely conscious as John stared him down.

"You wouldn't know truth if it carved itself into your spine."

Before Harkin could react, he grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up. The movement was swift and brutal and left Harkin gasping. John slammed him against the wall, the plaster cracked again under full force.

"I've seen more blood than you've ever imagined," he said, voice lower now, dangerous in a different way. "Killed men who begged, lied to friends I buried, and she still chooses to lie beside me."

"Yeah?" Harkin licked his lips, the taste of blood and salt mixed together tingled his mouth. "I bet she cries when you fuck her and that makes you love her more. Pathetic, twisted bastard. She's gonna figure you out, and when she does? She'll leave you."

John hummed.

"You think that?" he said, his tone dangerously calm. "If she ran, I’d get her back. It wouldn’t matter where, or with who. I’d drag her out of whatever life she tried to build without me. Gentle or not. Clean or bloody. I’m not like you nor the boys her age who flake the moment it gets hard. I don’t quit when it gets hard. And I sure as fuck don’t give up on what belongs to me.”

Harkin tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat.

“You’re insane."

"You wanna talk about her needing her daddy? Fine. I'll be her daddy."

A brief moment paused as Harkin's smirk faltered.

"If she ever left me, I wouldn’t beg her to stay. I’d break the fucking world to bring her home," he added, almost like a vow. "I'll be the one she trusts for safety when the world's too much. And if that makes me a monster in your eyes, so be it."

Harkin held his breath as if trying to gauge whether John was serious or unhinged.

"I'm crazy about her and she wants me anyway," John said huskily, almost to himself.

Harkin growled, his hands weakly tugging at his grip. "You're a sick, fucking psycho!"

"Sick?" he echoed, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. "Didn't you said that twice? Well, you're right. I'm sick and right now, Daddy doesn't share because once she's mine. It's done. And you know exactly how tempting it is to kill you when you have sent your men to trash her apartment. Only for a fucking drive."

Then, John lifted his fist while holding onto Harkin and slammed his knuckles between his eyes and nose. Vision of light and stars were in view as Harkin coughed.

"I crave control, Harkin." John leaned in, his voice a whisper of pure malice. "I want it. I need it. And with Charlie, I've got it in spades. And God help me, if anyone tries to take away what's mine. I know I'll be going to hell, so might as well do it thoroughly."

His eyes widened, his cocky demeanor completely shattered. "The fuck?"

Without any more words, John threw his fist at Harkin again. This time, it send an impact by a sickening crack of his face bone. Blood splattered across the floor as Harkin cried out, and John dropped him.

Standing over him, chest heaving. One knuckle was dripping blood while the other held his gun. Clean.

Harkin groaned, lifting his eyes to look up at his opponent. "You're gonna regret this..."

John delivered another punch, his knuckles colliding with Harkin's jaw. The man's head snapped to the side, and he slumped further, barely conscious. Harkin coughed, blood dripping from his mouth as he looked up at John with a mix of fear and disbelief.

"You think... she'd still want you... if she saw this?"

John crouched down again, his expression unreadable as he grabbed Harkin by the collar one last time. "Oh, don't worry, she'll never have to see this, yeah?"

"You're fucking crazy," said Harkin, scowling.

John let out a dark chuckle, giving him a lopsided smile as his beard lifted upward. The sound so menacing that even Harkin flinched.

"Thing is, Harkin. We're all a bit crazy," John continued. "And she's a rare type that I'm crazy for. I listen when she talks and when she needs someone to lean onto. And I sure as hell satisfy her in ways you can't imagine what I'll want to do more to my sweet girl."

He leaned closer, his breath hot against Harkin's bloodied face.

"You wanna know what else?" John continued, his voice dropping into almost a threat but intimate. "You don't have the balls to carry her fears, or the patience to earn the way she looks at me. She's not some pawn to play with, boy. She's a woman who needs to be protected, broken open, and held together in the same breath."

Harkin blinked, dazed.

"She's mine to care for. Mine to love when she's trembling and fuck when she's begging," John said, his tone dripping with possessiveness. "I could've ripped her apart if I wanted to that night. Could've had her cryin' and screamin' my name while I stretched her open until she forgot her own name. But I didn't because she trusts me to give her exactly what she needs, even the things she's afraid to ask for."

He moved his hand from his collar and wrapped it around his neck again. Harkin gasped for air, his eyes bulging.

"I love her lips swollen and I love how her tears kept streamin' down her cheeks while I fill her up over and over. Like her body already knew it was built for me. You think she's a game, a prize to steal?"

His face paled, the realization of John's unrelenting control dawned on him. John finally inched close to his face, nose almost brushing his.

"She's mine," he said harshly, almost a guttural whisper.

Harkin's lips trembled and his brow knitted, his earlier confidence now replaced with dread. "You... horny old ass man, sonvabitch!"

Without another word, John squeezed his neck before driving his fist into Harkin's stomach with brute force, making him double over as Harkin gasped desperately for air.

Fueled by aggression, John discarded his gun carelessly and latched onto the back of Harkin's neck with an iron grip, yanking him up with no mercy. His other hand delivered a devastating punch, even fiercer than the first, before John drove his knee into Harkin's chest with crushing intensity. Collapsing against the table from behind, Harkin fell over and moaned in pain.

John inhaled and exhaled hard before he moved and grabbed his gun on the ground. When he placed it on his holster, he turned his back, heading for the curtain.

"Fuck... you," he rasped, his voice now hoarse. Picking himself up.

He paused mid-step, his hand already on the curtain.

Turning his head over his shoulder, Harkin was barely upright—blood smeared across his jaw, nose bent at an unnatural angle, his face painted with the aftermath of a one-sided war. But his pride wouldn't shut up.

John pivoted on his heel and without hesitation, he reared back and slammed his boot into Harkin's face. He met darkness and his breathing became slow and unconscious.

Licking his lips, tasting the champagne and sweat. He began stepping back and disappeared into the neon-drenched hallway. Leaving behind only blood, broken objects, and a final warning.

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✨Chapter 83✨

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[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The music shifted as he moved toward his target.

Gone was the pulsing flirtation of earlier beats—now replaced by something darker. Sweater Weather by The Neighborhood—but the slowed, bass-heavy remix, thumping low like a heartbeat beneath floors. It made everything feel like it moved in slow motion. Like temptation on tape.

From the looks of her, she was the kind of woman who knew her worth. Late-twenties, maybe few more years older than him—but she wore her age well. Her black hair was twisted into a sculpted chignon, with a few strands left loose to frame her cheekbones like shadows. Her makeup was sharp: smoky eyes that dared you to look away and lips painted in a red so deep it bordered on blood.

She wore a wine-colored, floor-length gown with a thigh-high slit and a plunging neckline that left very little to the imagination. Thin straps hung from her shoulders, crisscrossing her exposed back. Her heels were tall and pointed. A single silver cuff hugged her wrist, no other jewelry but that.

She looked like desire made dangerous.

John approached slowly and her eyes flicked to him before he said a word.

"Well," Solène purred, her accent light—Parisian, maybe. "You look like you don't belong here."

John smirked faintly, cocking his head. "You saying I'm not dressed right?"

"No," she said. "You're too sharp. Like you're watching the room instead of enjoying it."

He stepped closer, enough for the scent of her perfume—amber and spice—to slip into his senses.

"Maybe I'm just looking for the right reason to stay."

Solène's smile curled. "Is that so?"

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two folded bills, a few hundred quid at least. More than enough for what he was about to ask.

"I need to be in the VIP lounge," he said, his voice low and intimate like a secret between lovers. "Just need to say hello to someone. Won't be long."

She glanced at the money. Then at him.

"And you need me to take you there?"

"Without raising suspicion."

Solène hummed before considering him.

"Who is she?"

John smiled, cold and unreadable. "I can't tell you much, but I need to give someone a message not to mess with my girl."

She stared at him for a beat longer, then plucked the bills from his hand and tucked them neatly into her clutch.

"Sure," she said, finishing her drink in one elegant sip. "But after that, I disappear. You're on your own, handsome."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," John replied, following her as she turned.

Solène led him past bouncers who barely blinked when she gave them a look. Her hips swayed with effortless confidence, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor as she guided him down a dim hallway lined with golden light and crimson walls.

When they reached a curved black door, guarded by another man in a tight suit. Solène whispered something in his ear—John didn't catch the words—and the man stepped aside without a blink.

She turned to John, brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder, then whispered close to his ear—

"Bonne chance."

With that, she vanished into the floor and the crowd.

John inhaled once.

Then stepped inside.

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✨Chapter 82✨

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[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The low hum of bass rippled through the club's floor, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath his boots. Neon lights cast everything in rich hues—red, violet, moody blue—as if the whole building had been dipped in lust and secrecy. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and the faint trace of spilled cocktails.

John made his way to the bar.

Beneath his button-up shirt and snug jeans, every muscle in his body was tense. His fingers twitched with the urge to draw his gun, hunt down Harkin, and put a bullet through his skull, yet he knew he had to stay calm. He stood at the bar's edge, jaw tight and teeth gritted behind his steely facade.

He ordered a simple bourbon, but wouldn't drink it.

He was burning too hot for that.

"Hanging in there alone, Captain?" came a sultry voice over his shoulder—one meant to carry through the haze of chatter and sex.

Gabby leaned against the bar beside him, hips tilted just enough to draw attention if anyone was looking, one manicured hand playing with the rim of her glass like she was flirting with the idea of him. Her perfume mixed with the club's smoke—a soft twist of jasmine and steel. She ordered herself a tequila shot.

John didn't look at her at first. He just exhaled through his nose.

"I should've broke his jaw the moment he was going to go near Charlie. Back at her apartment."

Her lips twitched like she was amused, but her voice stayed low. "Not yet."

"He threw dirt at her," John hissed, now turning just slightly toward her. His eyes were dark, stormy, and dangerously calm. "Said she needed someone. Said she fell too fast. Too easy."

"John." Her tone softened just enough, careful to keep it casual like an escort coaxing a tense client. "You go in there now and put a bullet in him, we lose everything."

"He gave that drive to her," John continued, his voice graveled and heavy. "Then turned around and let her take the fall while he played victim. She filed a restraining order. She was scared. And he still chased her."

"I know," she said quietly. "I heard it too."

John finally looked at her. Really looked at her.

"Gabby, I swear—if he lays a hand on her again, I'll put him in the ground. This time, I won't hold back like I did with Makarov. To Soap."

"You'll have your shot. But not in front of security, not in a damn club full of cameras, and not without covering our tracks. You want revenge?"

His silence spoke louder.

Gabby then took a sip from her glass—tequila—never breaking eye contact before slamming her glass down with thud.

"Then do it right."

John leaned in, close enough for the heat of his fury to settle on her skin like wildfire.

"I can't get into the VIP floor without someone high-end," he said. "And you're the only one in here I trust."

"Problem is," Gabby murmured, "I'm already on his radar. If I show up again, he'll get suspicious."

He grunted and looked away.

When she turned her head over her shoulder, scanning the room through thick lashes. An idea formed in her head when she saw someone.

"Wait," she said under her breath, nodding toward a woman at the far end of the bar.

Long-legged, with a dark dress that dipped dangerously low and heels that looked like they could slice through glass. Her skin was flawless, lashes curled, and her lipstick the color of bruised cherries. An emerald choke necklace hung between her collarbones like bait.

She was talking to a bouncer. Laughing. Well-connected.

"She's one of the top escorts here," Gabby said. "Name's Solène. Expensive. But if anyone can walk you into that VIP suite without questions? It's her."

His eyes followed her line of sight.

"She'll cost."

Gabby smirked. "She'll like you. Just let her think you're trouble."

"I am trouble,"

Then, she turned to him fully, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder as if fixing up a client's suit. Her voice lowered to a whisper, her tone careful.

"You go in there. You get what we need. And you don't blow his brains out—yet. We need to confirm everything before we inform Kate."

His jaw twitched again.

"Fine."

Gabby smiled at him in a seductive manner, taking a full swing of a drink before leaving the bar. "Nos vemos luego, nenas (See you later, babes)."

John gave her a curt nod before taking a full shot and he slammed the shot glass on the counter loud as it thud. Even though, the music was still loud, nobody can't hear it. As he slid off the stool, the hot liquid burned inside his chest as he fixed his collar before walking toward Solène.

With his calm and terrifying confidence, he wasn't here to play.

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✨Chapter 81✨

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[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The velvet thrum of bass shook the air inside Secrets, every beat syncing with the pulse of neon lights that slid like paint across the polished floor. 

Bodies moved in lazy rhythm beneath chandeliers and stage strobes, faces blurred by alcohol and intention. Midnight in London didn't sleep—not in places like this. The music changed—Chokehold by Austin Giorgio poured through the speakers, smoky and smooth, as if the walls themselves knew how to seduce. And right in the middle of it all, Gabby sat like sin wrapped with temptation.

Her dress shimmered like the night sky—deep teal scattered with tiny flecks of silver glitter, hugging every curve with unapologetic elegance. 

The off-shoulder sleeves framed her collarbones like they were carved from moonlight, while the tie-front dipped low enough to be dangerous. A neat cut-out along her midsection gave a teasing peek of skin, making her look worth chasing after.

Her legs crossed slowly—those shimmering rhinestone lace-up stilettos catching the light like stars had been wrapped around her calves. Every step she took earlier had commanded the floor. Now, every still moment owned the booth she sat in.

Her makeup was sharp and sexy. A thick wing of black liner sliced above her lash line, edged in glitter like silver blades. Her lashes were long and curled to the gods, her light cocoa skin flawless, and her lips painted in a high-gloss nude that shimmered with every slow smirk. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place.

She leaned back in the booth like she belonged there. Because tonight, she was seated across from Harkin. He was already sweating, not just from the heat, but from the drink.

Gabby twirled the straw in her own untouched glass as she offered him a smile that could melt stone.

"So..." Her voice was smooth honey. "Tell me more about what you do. You said earlier... you're a 'handler'?"

Harkin blinked, his pupils just loose enough to speak freely but not slur. 

The drug Laswell gave her earlier (before leaving her house with just a travel bag of her chosen attire since she had added on her makeup and her well-done hair) was working—subtle, meant to relax the body and blur the instinct to lie chemically in the brain. 

Just enough to make a subject, like him, to talk without withholding any critical information.

"Middleman, really," he said, resting his arm on the booth. "I get calls. I move things. I don't ask questions. That's how you stay alive in my line of work."

Her lashes fluttered. "Mysterious."

"I keep it clean. They don't tell me much, I don't ask for much. Transfer a crate here. Get paid through a few funds. I don't touch anything bloody. Never do."

"Crates?" she echoed, leaning forward just enough to keep his eyes on her neckline. "Like what?"

"Supplies. Weapons. Sometimes parts. Hell, one time I think it was tech—servers or drives or somethin'."

She smiled again, placing a hand lightly on his forearm. "And you trust who you work for?"

He hesitated.

Gabby tilted her head, still smiling sweetly. "I mean, that doesn't sound very middleman of you. Right?"

"No, no. It's not like that," he said, almost chuckling while shaking his head. "I don't work for one guy. I work through a chain. Russian mob boss at the top, maybe. But I don't see him. Never met him. Just get instructions through my boss."

Gabby hid the flicker of interest in her eyes and hummed thoughtfully. "Your boss? Do you get along with him?"

He laughed again, slower this time. "Maybe. But, I think I might be assigned to do deep shit. Got asked to move something big in a next couple of weeks... or maybe the end of this month. I'm talkin' about multiple ports. Not just London."

"What ports?" she asked softly.

He narrowed his eyes, the haze setting in. "I dunno, maybe... Lisbon? Rio? Prague? Everything goes through containers anyway. I don't see the labels."

Gabby reached for his drink and refilled it, her fingers brushing his. "You should relax more," she purred. "It must be exhausting, carrying all these secrets."

He laughed again, looser this time. "You have no idea."

Gabby smiled lazily across the table, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

"Come on," she murmured softly, "you're sitting here with me and not saying a word. I promise I won't tell your boss." She gave a playful wink and continued, "you mentioned you were feeling stressed."

Harkin, bleary-eyed and flushed from the spiked drink laced with truth cocktail, grinned sloppily and leaned back into the booth. The music pounded around them—Chokehold had just faded into the thick bass of Hypnotic Data (slowed + reverb), echoing in the club's veins like static-drenched seduction.

He laughed, waving a hand. "You wouldn't believe the week I've had."

"Try me," she leaned forward, cleavage just enough to keep his attention anchored where she wanted it.

Harkin licked his lips and smirked more before he continued, "I work for guys who don't ask questions, alright? Big names. Scary ones. Guys like me—we're not supposed to mess up."

"You messed up?" she asked sweetly, resting her chin on her knuckles.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing a hand over his face and looked away. "I stole something. I mean, technically. It was Rich's. My boss. He had this encrypted drive... said it was above his pay grade. Above mine too. But I thought, if I could get it cracked..."

Gabby tilted her head, the comms line open in her ear catching John's low voice—"Stay with him, Halo. Don't push. Let him spill the milk."

"I hired a guy," Harkin continued, his voice growing slurry but loose. "Said he could break into it. But he failed. Fried the damn drive—or thought he did."

"Mmhm," Gabby said, swirling her drink and never looking away. "So what'd you do?"

"Well... I was going to do something about it until Rich found out," his eyes glazed when he looked back at Gabby—aka stage name, Angel. "He accused me—right there, middle of the night. I panicked. I—I gave it to my ex. Told her to hold onto it."

Her brows lifted—subtle, controlled. "Your ex?"

"Yeah... Charlie. Sweet girl. Head over heels for me once."

There was silence in two beats until Gabby heard John scoffed through her earpiece.

"She didn't even know what it was," Harkin said, unaware of how fast he was spiraling. "Told her it was for safekeeping. Figured I'd deal with it later, you know? But she broke it off. Filed a restraining order instead."

"You?" Her tone stayed light, laced with disbelief.

"She didn't want anything to do with me," he frowned then. "Cops dragged me outta my place. Jail time. Rich bailed me out months later—but he never knew I gave her the drive."

Gabby set her glass down slowly, her eyes still soft even as her brain processed every word.

"And Rich, your boss, thinks you still had it?"

"Yeah," Harkin exhaled.

She leaned back, letting that silence stretch long enough for him to relax. Then she smiled.

"You poor thing,"

"You ever have one of those nights where everything you do just fucks up your whole life?"

Gabby grinned.

"Oh baby," she said, her voice sugar and blades, "you have no idea."

Harkin slouched deeper into the velvet booth, his drink half-finished, his pupils slow to track the glitter of lights overhead. The chemical cocktail was working—he wasn't drugged, just relaxed enough to talk without a filter.

"Like, I would've been dead if Rich hired a hitman to kidnap and then force me to talk... and then I got kidnapped again and those motherfuckers... damn... I can't remember what they look like...," he paused and groaned as he rubbed his eyes since the sting of headaches was becoming known. "Fuck, I know that guy... shit... he tried to fry my dick! Like I'll be living without my manhood and I won't make babies! Not like I don't want kids or wanted too, anyways. That motherfucker is a beast... like he don't give a shit who you are..."

"Who is 'he'?"

"I don't know, Angel," Harkin groaned. "The guy with a dark beard and icy stare like he's gonna come after you and fuck you up. Next thing, you know, he'll tie you up and then he'll either cut your balls or put a bullet in your forehead. Like, he's a fucking monster."

John. Gabby added mentally as she continued listening to him with a smile.

"Are you scared of him?"

"Fuck no," Harkin said in distaste. 

Gabby raised an eyebrow.

"Not like he's gonna fuck me like tattoos men in prison would," Harkin said quickly. "I been into one. Thank god I wasn't raped, but I was unprepared."

"You're saying that out of guilty conscious,"

Harkin scoffed. "Whatever. You see, everything is all clustered fuck. I mean, the girl I met at a social event last year. A carnival. She was real damn sweet. Innocent. Barely even looked like she belonged there."

She tilted her head, resting her arm on the backrest now, eyes studying him under glitter-shadowed lids. "She sounds like a breath of fresh air."

Harkin snorted. "She was. Still is, probably. All soft smiles and easy to trust. Like she had no business talkin' to a guy like me, but she did anyway."

"What drew you to her?" Gabby asked before sipping her drink. 

"She made it easy," he answered. "That kind of girl is all heart, no guard. One of those that falls hard—fast. Told her I was in-between jobs, and she believed me."

"She ever tell you about her parents?" Gabby asked another question.

Harkin laughed again, this time, bitterly.

"No, but she told me she was raised by her cousins. Her mom had a sister, her aunt Keller, or whatever the last name she said. She had that whole 'strong on the outside, but damn near desperate for affection' thing goin'. Like she has issues."

Gabby let her silence speak for her. That was enough. But Harkin didn't notice—too busy rolling his empty glass in his hand.

"I thought about takin' her," he said next, almost casually. "I mean, really takin' her. She was so damn easy to win over. All I had to do was show up when I said I would and not be a dick. That's all it took. Girl didn't know better. She just wanted someone to look at her like she mattered."

Gabby kept her face neutral. Placing her hand on her thigh under the table, her knuckles white. She needed to keep him talking. This was intel, and the more he spilled, the tighter the noose.

"But then came him," he said, then scoffed, finishing the last sip of his drink.

"Him?"

"Older guy," Harkin continued. "Seen him once. At her apartment I wanted to see her. Her roommate don't like me but I don't give a shit. That presence. You know the type?"

Her smile didn't flicker, but her pulse ticked. 

John.

Again.

It seems like Harkin hadn't put the puzzles in together yet. That truth cocktail is miraculously working.

"Did she leave you for him?" she asked carefully.

"Maybe," Harkin muttered, jaw flexing. "It all started that she been keepin' her distance. She won't answer my calls, says she needs space. I figured it out before it was too late when she threw me in jail. Now, when I saw that guy. He's older than her. 

"I'm like, who the fuck is he and why is she dating an old man? I swear, she has issues. Like, for real."

Harkin then leaned forward and smiled crookedly.

"That man I met, he look like the kind of bastard who doesn't leave room for anyone else. Maybe he wants her because she's sweet and innocent and he ain't good as I am."

Gabby played it off with a low hum. "Sounds like he got under your skin."

"Damn right, he did," Harkin said sharply and leaned back. "Who the hell was he to come in and take her? I gave her attention. I was there. And she goes and gets all wrapped up in some old bastard who would treat her like property."

In her ear, John added.

"He's a fucking liar."

Gabby ignored it, keeping her tone light. "So what'd you do?"

"Nothing, I thought I wanted to plot a murder but it's useless, I don't wanna get years behind bars so I had my friends break into her apartment and look for the drive for me," Harkin confessed—but now it sounded hollow. "And maybe get her after I get the drive from her. I can take down John since I don't want Rich breathing down my neck about that damn drive—I figured I'd sell it."

Her eyes flicked toward him, interest piqued. "So... you want the drive back and you want him dead?"

"Yeah," he nodded slowly. "Thought it'd buy me leverage."

Gabby leaned in just a little. "And?"

"Didn't work. I don't know how the hell did the guy survived through gun shots and shit. If only I didn't gave it to my ex."

A pause.

"And Rich?" Gabby asked softly. "When was the last time you seen him?"

Harkin shrugged. "I don't know... maybe... a week ago? I don't know, Angel. I tried calling him. He ain't picking up so I'm officially broke."

Her heart thudded once behind her ribs. In her ear, John's silence was deafening. Gabby pulled out her phone and when she told him she got a text from her babes. She texted John quick.

Gabby: Rich doesn't know Charlie had the drive. That's why Harkin been after her.

She saw a three dot bubble and his response was clipped.

John: Fucking coward.

Then, she placed her phone back onto her small purse and glanced at him.

"You must have had a ton of shit thrown at you, Micky. You poor baby," she cooed.

He sighed. 

"Yeah. I kinda miss her... but... she was the kind that needed someone. That ache, y'know? Like no one had ever stayed long enough to fix it. Just kept gettin' let down by everyone. I thought I could be the one for her."

Gabby held back a reaction, watching him carefully.

But then—he perked up, straightening slightly in his seat.

"Oh, there's my girl."

Gabby followed his gaze across the club, where a woman was striding through the strobing blue and pink lights like she belonged on a cover.

Daisy.

Her hair was platinum blonde, curled to perfection and glossy under the club lights. She wore a skin-tight red leather mini dress with deep plunge neckline that sparkled with embedded rhinestones. The hem barely reached her thighs, and the heels on her feet were stilettos dipped in chrome. Her lips were firetruck red, matching her manicured nails. She strutted straight through the crowd, unfazed by the stares. Harkin's eyes tracked her like a hound.

"My favorite girl," he said, already sliding out of the booth.

Gabby smiled lazily, tilting her head. "Already moving on, huh?"

He grinned and dug into his back pocket, flicking his number onto the table between them. "Don't be jealous, sweetpea. We had a moment."

Gabby picked up the card without blinking. "Oh, I'm not jealous. You were just the warm-up."

Harkin gave a wink, turned around, and walked over to Daisy. She welcomed him with a smile, wrapping her arms around his neck, and then he guided her toward the velvet rope leading to the VIP rooms. The moment they disappeared, her eyes sharpened. She stood and grabbed her drink as she took a full swing before pushing her earpiece.

"Target's on the move. He's going upstairs with the escort. VIP lounge, second floor."

"Meet me at the bar," he commanded, his voice tense with anger.

Gabby exhaled through her nose, already making her way out of the room. "You get two shots," she added. "Because if he laid his hand on Charlie once and did it again. I want you to kill that fuckhead for me."

He chuckled darkly through her ear comm.

"With pleasure, Knocks."

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✨Chapter 80✨

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[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The low purr vibrating beneath him as he sat behind the wheel of his truck in the dark. 

Parked just down the street from the entrance of Secrets—a gentlemen's club tucked into the dim stretch of Glenthorne Road in West London—he stared out through the windshield, eyes fixed on the glowing red neon sign that cast the wet pavement in a slow, pulsing blush.

It was past midnight.

And the place was packed.

Cars were lined up outside, engines cooling under the faint misty rain. Two bouncers stood like stone pillars near the velvet rope, arms crossed, eyes scanning every guest that stepped through the door. Laughter leaked out every time the doors opened—low and rowdy, the sound of men already too drunk and too confident. A strobe of colored lights spilled through the entry each time someone came or went.

John adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and exhaled slowly through his nose. The streetlamps were dull overhead, and the interior of the truck was dim—his face lit only by the faint glow of his phone resting on the console.

The screen lit up.

Gabby: Green light. I'm near the back VIP bar, wearing turquoise.

His thumb hovered over the reply, then tapped once.

John: On the way.

He clicked the comms in his ear—discreet, subtle, tucked under his collar.

"Copy," he muttered under his breath. "Eyes up."

John stepped out into the cold night air, pulling his dark jacket up just enough to be comfortable. No tactical gear except his firearm strapped on his belt holster. His jacket would hide the evidence enough that no patrons would notice. With his dark denim, work boots, and a charcoal button-up under the open jacket—his version of low-profile. Enough to blend in like a man with cash to burn and sins to spend it on.

The doors of Secrets opened with a mechanical sigh, and John stepped into the red-light haze.

The atmosphere hit him all at once—warm, humid, thick with perfume and cologne. Velvet curtains hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly with the bass that trembled through the walls. The lighting was moody and seductive—hues of red, gold, and violet washing over soft leather couches and mirrored pillars. Spotlights danced lazily across the stage, where a woman in stilettos spun on the pole slowly.

The song of Chokehold by Austin Giorgio pulsing through the club wrapped around him like a slow touch.

You've got a chain on me and please, don't let go

I'm not tryna break free 'cause your love, your love's a chokehold

John didn't look long at the stage. His eyes scanned the room in slow sweeps, counting exits, marking shadows. A long bar curved across the left wall, manned by two bartenders in fitted black shirts. A male and female. Tables were filled with men, most with cigars or whiskey in hand, all of them trying too hard to look like they weren't looking at the women.

When he walked further in, steps even, hands relaxed by his sides. He had to play like someone was curious, maybe dangerous. But not too dangerous.

His comms buzzed low in his ear.

"You're inside," came her voice, smooth and calm.

"Just walked in," he murmured back.

"Good. Don't look for me right away. He's here."

"Eyes on him?"

"Yes," she said softly. "He's at the third VIP booth on the upper floor. Black shirt. Blue rings. He's already two drinks in."

His gaze flicked toward the staircase leading up to the raised platform lined with velvet booths and sheer curtains.

"And you?" he asked.

"I'm near him. Wearing blue. Long slit, high heels. Don't be obvious."

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he pushed it down.

"I'll take the above floor, left side," he said. "Bar seating. I'll keep eyes from below."

He moved with the crowd, weaving between tables and dancers with the kind of ease that came from years of ghosting through worse places than this. As he leaned against the far side of the bar, resting one arm on the edge like he belonged there. His other hand slipped into his belt, fingers wrapping around the grip of his concealed piece—not to use, but to remember it was there.

Another voice chimed in over comms—Gabby, her tone was low and warm this time, like she'd just switched masks.

"He's looking at me."

"Then smile pretty, cariño (dear)," he said. "I'm few clicks away."

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 79✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

The front door opened and John stepped into the warm scent of home-cooked food and something softer—domestic life he wasn't used to but didn't mind being surrounded by. 

Kate followed behind, her heels quiet against the wood floors, while Simon closed the door behind them with a soft thud.

His eyes adjusted to the golden glow inside the living room, and the first thing he heard was baby laughter.

To the right of the entry, the living room stretched open with throw cushions all over the couch. One half-sunken like someone had finished napping on it. Ivory was sitting on a soft playmat in the center of the floor, surrounded by colorful toys, a plastic giraffe in one hand and her other hand holding onto a ring toy that rattled with small bells.

Soap was lying on the floor next to her, his socked feet kicked up and crossed at the ankles. He looked up mid-laugh, only to freeze when he saw who walked in.

"Oh hey—" he sat up quick, blinking at the sight of Kate Laswell inside Riley's house.

Gaz, who had been lounging on the far end of the couch with a throw blanket over his lap and scrolling on his phone, sat up straighter. 

"Did we miss a memo?" he asked, eyes flicking from John to Kate, then to Simon.

At the distant end from the living room, the kitchen was smelling with onions, spices, a hint of something fried—simmered on the stove. Gabby stood near the stove, while Cam leaned against the island opposite her, sneaking a chip from the bowl until Gabby swatted her hand with a wooden spoon.

"No, but it smells like dinner," John replied as he glanced toward the kitchen from Gaz.

"Tinga de pollo," Gabby called out, not turning around. "Don't touch it yet, it's still simmering."

"Tinga?" Kate raised an eyebrow. "Haven't had that in years."

"Guess you're in luck then," Gabby said, finally glancing over with a small smirk. "Hope you're hungry, Laswell."

"I could eat," she answered coolly.

Simon stepped around them and glanced at John. "Got clothes in the guest room. Should fit you."

"Thanks, I could use a shower first," John said, already tugging at the collar of his shirt.

"All yours."

Soap tilted his head. "You good, Cap?"

"Took care of it."

That was all he said when he didn't look back. He walked down the hallway, disappearing toward the guest bedroom and the only moment of quiet he'd get before the next war came knocking.

***

Gabby was scooping dinner from a pot onto a large serving dish. A scent of chipotle, garlic, and simmered tomato sauce filled the air. A plate of corn tortillas sat nearby, still warm and covered with a clean dish towel. Avocados were sliced, limes halved, queso fresco crumbled. 

Her long curls were tied in a loose braid, and she wore one of Simon's oversized dark tees knotted at the waist, paired with leggings. A scar marked her collarbone, well-known to those within Task Force 141, but not something she discussed with anyone else. She had it two years ago in Las Almas during the incident she had head on with Phillip Graves; She moved and grabbed tortillas with one hand, tapping at the screen of her tablet with the other.

"Signal's holding," she said to no one in particular, eyes narrowing. "Harkin's still pinging in West London."

"Still at that location?" Cam asked, sipping from a tall glass of lime soda.

"Yeah," she confirmed. "Strip club. Secrets"

"Ugh," Cam muttered. "Creep."

In the living room that stretched outside from the kitchen. The walls were a soft neutral, decorated with framed black-and-white photos—country side decor, added with mix of Texas scenics. 

A dark gray sectional wrapped around the center, with Ivory on a padded baby mat in front of it, surrounded by colorful toys that beeped or squeaked depending on her mood. At just nine months, she was already a little menace—squealing with glee every time Soap pretended to steal one of her toys just to give it back.

Gaz lounged with one leg over the arm of the couch, still scrolling on his phone—probably scrolling in Instagram or on TikTok . He was dressed down with socks mismatched—typical. Far from him, Soap was giving Ivory dramatic commentary like she understood every word.

"And this," he said, holding up a green teething ring like it was a grenade, "is the one that took out my pinky nail last week."

Ivory shrieked in delight, smacking her palms against the floor while babbling happily.

In the corner, Simon sat at the small breakfast table, feeding Ivory spoonfuls of baby food in between snarky one-liners. His big hands handled the tiny spoon with more grace than anyone expected from a man trained to kill in five languages.

Then came the door opening with a quiet click.

John stepped into the space, freshly showered. He wore a dark fitted shirt, charcoal jeans, and a black hoodie that belonged to Simon but somehow looked like it was made for him. Even the shoes fit—Simon had left a spare pair in the guest room, and they'd done the job. His hair was still damp, tousled and pushed back by his fingers. The sight of him earned a few raised brows.

"Bloody hell," Soap said, glancing over his shoulder. "Didn't expect to see you looking like a dad on weekend duty."

John shot him a glare, then grabbed a plate from the counter and began piling on food without a word.

Gabby handed him a lime wedge with a smile. "Try not to look so grumpy. You smell like citrus shampoo."

"That's Simon," John said as he took it.

"Explains the mood," he added flatly, still feeding Ivory.

As John slid into a seat at the dining table, Kate tapped at her laptop beside him. Her brow furrowed as files flashed across the screen after she had the drive connected—account logs, shipping manifests, and blurred photo captures of warehouse transactions.

"This is the heart of it." Kate tapped another key, and a large spreadsheet appeared. "Zakharov's network is global. Dummy corporations, shell accounts, weapon shipments, even bio lab links. And it all funnels through layers of middlemen. It's not just Harkin."

Gaz took a loud bite of his tortilla and pointed his fork. "Bio-weapons? That's escalation."

"Eastern Europe's moving product through Latin America. East London's the entry point. Which brings us to our next target—Harkin."

"A stupid, disposable one. But he's active. I've tracked his burner to a hotspot." Gabby said, still scrolling on her tablet.

"Where?" John asked.

She came to John and handed him the tablet as it show a red glowing pin on a map. "Red Lotus Gentleman's Club. East side. He's been there for over two hours."

Soap let out a laugh. "Of course it's a strip club."

"Perfect."

Cam blinked. "Why perfect?"

"Because he doesn't know we're close."

Kate crossed her arms and continued. "He's vulnerable. And that means we can grab him before he knows we're after him."

Simon looked up from Ivory, wiping her chin with a napkin. "Are we hitting him tonight?"

John thought about it, and then looks at Gabby before the rest.

"Yes, but she's going with me."

"What?" Gabby blinked, half expecting him to be joking.

"You're going in," John said calmly, looking at her, not the others. "Harkin doesn't know your face. And he'll talk if he thinks you're something he wants."

"No." Simon said sharply.

But John didn't flinch. He knew why.

"Simon," he said, looking at Simon. "You'll stay here with Ivory."

"That's not how this works."

"It is for tonight," Gabby said after setting the wooden spoon down before looking at John and Simon, eyes narrowed. "Are you seriously suggesting I use myself as bait?"

"Not bait," John corrected. "An entry point. You're the only one who can get close without setting off alarms. I can't have Simon nor Soap walk in, one of them will start a bar brawl with the DJ before we reach the damn back rooms."

"Oi!" Soap protested from the rug.

John ignored him. "Gaz looks like a cop off-duty, and I can't blend in even if I shaved my beard and wore a pink boa. But you?" He nodded at Gabby. "You can play the part. You've done it before. And you know how to get men like Harkin talk."

Gabby stared at him, processing. She didn't like it... but she didn't argue either.

Instead, she turned to Simon—who looked like he was ready to argue.

"No," he said again, this time to her. "You're not going in there alone, Gabrielle."

"I am not," Gabby replied, her voice calm. "John will be nearby. You'll be watching the cams or listen to comms. It's just another recon op for intel."

"I've heard that before," Simon said, rolling his eyes while his brows knitted. "Last time you got a scar for it."

She stepped closer to him, looking down at him since he was still seated on the floor. "And last time, I was in one piece."

He didn't say anything, but his jaw ticked. The protectiveness in his eyes simmered—not explosive, but deep. A slow burn that had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with fear.

"Honey," she said gently, "we've done worse. And you know I'm good at this job."

He looked away, and scoffed.

Ivory babbled while slamming her palm against the table like she was demanding snacks in protest.

"Simon,"

He looked back to her. His jaw clenched and he exhaled through his nose.

"Fine, and Price," he said, glancing at John, "make sure she stays on track, or there'll be consequences tonight with my little bunny strapped to my chest."

"You have my word," John replied, nearly grinning at him.

Gabby rubbed his shoulder once more, then turned to John.

"I'll need a three hours," she said. "I've got an outfit that says 'I'll ruin your night in five syllables.'"

"Aw, melliza, let's keep it PG," Soap said, nearly scrunching up his face in distaste. 

Cam nearly laughed. "We're far too PG for this task, babe."

"Make it two," John cracked a hearty laugh. 

"Please, I need a perfect execution before we play our part again, gramps," Gabby said, already heading for the bedroom.

John scoffed in response and shook his head.

Kate, still seated with her arms folded. "So, to clarify—she's going in, and we're staying here eating tacos and babysitting?"

"No, Gaz will get you back to the hotel to get your car back. But, wait for couple of hours. Some authorities may show up and wonder what the hell happened," John explained.

"Don't worry about me, I can persuade John," Kate stated.

Before he reply back, his phone buzzed.

The screen lit up.

Charlie.

Without a word, John stood, pushing out of the chair with his half-eaten plate in front of him. Everyone else watched him moved since nobody asked, except Kate. She frowned last when she watched him step out the front door, closing it behind him.

***

"Hey, little lamb," he said before bringing his phone to his ear as he walked a few steps off the porch.

She let out a quiet giggle on the other end.

"Is that my new nickname?"

"It is," he said, almost smiling.

There was a pause. A gentle one.

"I didn't mean to bother you," she said after a beat. "But when are you coming back?"

He blinked, closing his eyes for a second—Shit.

She was still at the suite. Exactly where he made her stay. Likely in one of her fresh pair of clothes with her hair up in a soft bun, probably curled on the left side of the bed—his side. Using his debit card.

"Won't be home for a while," he answered, voice low. Controlled. "Got some things I'm dealing with."

There was a pause. 

"Is everything okay?"

"You don't need to worry about it, love," he said gently. "I'll be back soon."

She didn't push, but he could hear her swallow on the other end. That subtle shift in her breathing when she wanted to ask more—but didn't.

"Okay," she said softly, "I was thinking... I could head back to your apartment by calling an Uber..."

"No." He cut her off.

Charlie was quiet for a second. Then she exhaled gently, like she expected it. "I knew you'd say that."

He slowly smirked.

"Yes," he said. "Because I don't like you gettin' in a car alone with a stranger. Not without me."

She nibbled on her bottom lip, his tone grounding her more than she expected. "John, I have homework to do. I can't stay here for long. What am I going to do while you're away? There's literally nothing to do besides watching TV and sleep. I need to do something."

John almost smiled as he listened to her. He exhaled through his nose and said, "I'll have Cam and Johnny take you back. Wait for them to call you. And when you go back to my flat. I need you to lock up. Double bolt the door. If you hear anything outta place—don't answer it. Call Gaz. I'll send their number to you after this."

Her voice was soft again. "Yes, sir."

That made something flicker in him—low pool on his stomach to his heat. The way she addressed him in his commanding tone. It almost turned him on. Possessive even.

Focus, soldier.

"I'll be back late," he repeated after he cleared his throat. "Don't wait up for me, okay?"

"Okay," she said softly. "But I miss you."

He closed his eyes and allowed her simple words sink in. 

Being around Charlie felt easy in a way his life rarely did. With her, he could pretend the violence and war didn't exist, if only for a little while. But the illusion never lasted. Reality always came crashing back in. He dragged a hand through his hair, staring out at the shadows stretching across the lawn.

"I know, babygirl," he said finally, his voice rumbled from his chest. "Just remember what I told you, alright? Lock the doors and don't let anyone in."

"I will," she promised.

He nodded even though she couldn't see.

"Good girl. I'll see you soon."

"Be safe," she whispered again, her voice now barely audible.

"Always."

He didn't hang up—he waited. Waited until he heard the soft exhale on the other end as she hung up. As he lowered his phone and stared at the screen. 

That ache? He couldn't name what it was because it was back.

Stronger now.

Because he knew she wasn't just his girl anymore.

She belonged to him.

Part of him wished he could be back at the hotel with Charlie, lying in bed with her head resting on his chest. But he couldn't abandon his team, not when lives were at stake.

He had a job to do.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 78✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[ajqwrites]

"He’s silence sharpened into steel - haunted, untouchable, and devastatingly yours."

Name: Simon Riley

Codename: Ghost – It isn’t just a name. It’s what he became to survive. Silent, unseen, and unstoppable.

Date of Birth: May 24th 1984

Zodiac Sign: Taurus-Gemini cusp – The soldier with a soul of stone and smoke. Stoic body, haunted mind, soft hands meant for one.

Height: 6'4" (1.93m)

Build: Tall, lean muscle. Heavy in the shoulders, deadly in motion. Everything about him says danger - until he touches you. Then it’s a different kind of death.

Eye Color: Dark brown, nearly black. Piercing, unreadable. But they soften when they look at you.

Voice: Deep. Low and steady, with that sharp Manchester accent that rumbles through you. Every word is precise, deliberate - especially when whispered in your ear.

How he smells: Charcoal, leather, black pepper, and the faintest trace of something clean and familiar - you. He carries you with him without realizing it.

How he tastes: Salt, blood, heat. Like a warning and a promise. You have to earn his kiss - but once you do, he’ll ruin you with it.

Favorite season: Winter. It matches his stillness. Quiet, distant, dangerous. But also the season when you cling to him the most.

Favorite food: Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. Classic, slow-cooked, no fuss.

Favorite dessert: He’ll deny it, but he likes lemon drizzle cake. Something about the bite of citrus and sugar.

Food he hates: Mushrooms – the texture, the taste… just no. You once caught him picking them off a slice of pizza with military precision and muttering under his breath.

Favorite drink: Black coffee, strong. Whiskey only when it’s earned.

Favorite spot for vacation: He doesn’t believe in vacations - but with you? Somewhere cold, isolated, where he can just be. Maybe a cabin in Norway.

Favorite weapon: His combat knife. It’s not about brutality - it’s about control. Precision.

Favorite pet: A dog - specifically, a Belgian Malinois. Fierce, loyal, trained to the bone. He had one once. Doesn’t say her name out loud, but when he thinks no one’s looking, he taps his thigh like he's still calling her to heel. She was sharp as a blade and only trusted him. Just like him, really. Two shadows moving as one.

Skill on the battlefield: Stealth, recon, psychological warfare. He’s the ghost in their comms, the last thing they never see.

Nervous habits: Tightens his gloves. Checks his gear too often. His jaw clenches when he’s trying not to feel.

Bad habits: Shuts down when he should speak. Overthinks everything. Sleeps in his gear out of habit.

Cute habits: He keeps a picture of him and his younger brother folded up in his wallet. Old, worn at the edges. You only saw it once - he didn’t even know you were looking - but the way his thumb brushed over the image said it all

What he does in private: Cleans his weapons in silence. Reads. Stares at nothing while thinking about everything.

What makes him soft inside: When you fall asleep on him. When you trust him with the parts of you that no one else sees. When you touch his scar without fear.

Worst nightmare: Losing control. Not in battle - but of himself. Becoming the monster he was trained to be, unable to stop his own hands. Seeing blood on them and not remembering why. Looking in a mirror and not recognizing the man behind the mask. His nightmare is silence - where no command pulls him back, no voice grounds him, and the man he once swore he'd never become... stares back.

Worst nightmare when it comes to you: Losing you and not being able to stop it. Not being fast enough. Not being enough.

What he does without realizing it: Stands between you and every door. Always counts exits. Memorizes your routines.

Unexpected skills: Speaks several languages fluently. Can carve wood with precision.

Thoughts about having kids: Terrifies him. But he’s thought about it. Secretly wants to be better than the man he came from. Would kill to protect what he made with you.

Favorite spot to be teased at: The back of his neck. Run your fingers under the hem of his mask and he’ll shiver - every time.

Breaking point – when does he snap?: The night someone touched you. Nothing serious, but it set something off in him. He didn’t speak - just locked the door, peeled off the mask, and took you like you belonged to him. Because you do.

How he calls you:

In public: He rarely speaks your name out loud, but when he does, it’s low and heavy: “Love,” “You alright, pet?”

During teasing: “Mine.” That’s all. Said with his hand tight on your throat or buried in your hair. “Mine.”

Something that would make him imperfect : He hides. Not physically - but emotionally. He buries things deep, and sometimes you have to fight to pull them out. But every piece he gives you? It’s sacred.

Summary:

Ghost is your anchor in the storm, your shadow in the dark, your last safe place when the world goes to hell. He’s sharp, broken, dangerous - and yet everything inside him softens for you. He doesn’t need crowds, attention, or praise. He just needs you. He’ll protect you with his life, love you with quiet devotion, and show you the side of him no one else will ever see. He’s the man the world fears. And the one who fears losing you.

[ajqwrites]

"He’s thunder and laughter, scars and heart - Soap burns bright, and he’ll burn for you."

Name: John MacTavish

Codename: Soap – Born from his pristine weapons maintenance in training. He earned it young and made it legendary. Now it fits his duality - clean kills, messy heart.

Date of Birth: September 17th 1996

Zodiac Sign: Virgo – Loyal, chaotic in motion but precise in heart. Full of heat and heart, hidden under jokes and tattoos.

Height: 6'0" (1.83m)

Build: Muscular, broad shoulders, strong thighs, defined arms. Built like a fighter -he looks like he could throw you over his shoulder (and has).

Eye Color: Icy blue - intense and electric. They laugh with you, but they turn deadly in a blink.

Voice: Rough Scots brogue, raspy and strong. It teases like a spark and hits like a flame.

How he smells: Leather, gunpowder, a hint of pine and something citrusy that clings to his clothes. Pure man, danger, and comfort.

How he tastes: Whiskey, fire, and adrenaline. Kissing him feels like leaning into the edge of a storm.

Favorite season: Autumn. The burn of the air, the color of the leaves, the call to move. It’s the closest the world ever gets to matching his soul.

Favorite food: Bacon cheeseburger with everything on it. Messy, greasy, satisfying.

Favorite dessert: Sticky toffee pudding. Will absolutely steal a bite from your plate first.

Food he hates: Tofu. "Not real food. That’s a sponge pretending to be dinner."

Favorite drink: Neat scotch. Or a dark beer when he wants to unwind.

Favorite spot for vacation: The Scottish Highlands. Remote, wild, peaceful. He lights up when he can show you his roots.

Favorite weapon: His custom combat knife. It’s an extension of him.

Favorite pet: A rescued mutt. A big-eared, scrappy thing with no pedigree but all heart. He says the weirder it looks, the better. Something loyal, goofy, a bit too loud - just like him. He’s the type to let the dog sleep on the bed and talk to it like it understands every word.

Skill on the battlefield: Explosives and CQB. He’s the guy who kicks the door in and makes sure it stays open. Chaos under control.

Nervous habits: Bounces his knee. Taps his fingers in rhythm. Talks too fast when he’s trying not to feel.

Bad habits: Bottles up grief with a joke. Doesn’t know when to stop pushing himself. Gets reckless when protecting others.

Cute habits: Winks at you constantly. Draws little hearts next to your name when he writes it down (and then crosses them out).

What he does in private: Works out with music blasting. Dances terribly. Falls asleep half-dressed with a hand resting on the spot where you usually lie.

What makes him soft inside: When you worry about him. When you see past the chaos and call him Johnny. That word in your voice? He’ll melt.

Worst Nightmare: Being forgotten. Being lost in the rubble of war - unnamed, faceless. A chalk outline in some anonymous field. His brothers moving on without him, laughing like he was never there. Not because they didn’t care, but because they couldn’t carry him forever. He hides it behind grins, but in the dark, the thought of fading out without mattering... rips him open.

Worst nightmare, when it comes to you: Watching you die while he’s powerless to stop it. He dreams it often, wakes up breathless and covered in sweat.

What he does without realizing it: Paces when thinking about you. Says “she’s not like anyone else” under his breath when drunk.

Unexpected skills: Incredibly good cook. Could run a restaurant if he ever put the guns down.

Thoughts about having kids: Surprisingly ready. Wants to be the dad he never had. Would teach them to fight, laugh, and never hide their heart.

Favorite spot to be teased at: His hips. You touch him there, he growls. The kind that means trouble.

Breaking point – when does he snap?: The first time he saw you cry because of something someone said. He kissed your tears away, then made you forget every name but his.

How he calls you:

In public: “Lass,” “Love,” or “My girl.” Loud and proud.

During teasing: “Sweetheart,” “Troublemaker,” “Mine.” With that low voice that makes you forget how to breathe.

Something that would make him imperfect: He feels too much, and he runs from it. Sometimes his jokes are shields. Sometimes he shuts down when he should open up. But when he does open? There’s no going back.

Summary:

Soap is heat, chaos, and soul. He’s the laugh that breaks the silence and the arms that catch you when you fall. He’s loud, loyal, and achingly tender underneath all the noise. He’d go to war for you without question - and then sing your praises, covered in blood and grinning like a fool. He’s fire that never dies, and if you let him, he’ll burn for you forever.

[ajqwrites]

"A storm held behind steady eyes - duty forged him, but love makes him human."

Name: John Price

Codename: Price – It’s not a callsign, it’s who he is. A legacy name, known on every battlefield. When you hear "Captain Price," you listen.

Date of Birth: October 2nd 1972

Zodiac Sign: Libra – Born to lead. Seeks balance, but won't hesitate to tip the scale with fire if it means protecting his own.

Height: 6'1" (1.85m)

Build: Solid and powerful, like a wall built to weather storms. Broad chest, strong hands, thick arms - age has only honed him.

Eye Color: Ice blue with streaks of gray - clear, commanding, and calm until you cross a line.

Voice: Deep, gravelly British - slow, deliberate, addictive. Even when teasing, it’s laced with authority.

How he smells: Tobacco and gunpowder, oak-aged whiskey, leather, and crisp aftershave. Like control, danger, and warmth all at once.

How he tastes: Smoke, salt, whiskey, and quiet heat. His kiss leaves you reeling, like standing too close to a fire.

Favorite season: Autumn. The quiet before winter. Cool air, longer nights, fewer people.

Favorite food: Shepherd’s pie with extra pepper. He grew up on it - still makes it himself when no one’s watching.

Favorite dessert: Sticky toffee pudding. Not that he’ll admit it out loud.

Food he hates: Sushi. Can’t trust something raw and cold.

Favorite drink: Aged Scotch. One cube of ice. Always.

Favorite spot for vacation: A lakeside cabin in Scotland - fireplace, scotch, no damn phones.

Favorite weapon: L119A2 rifle. British, reliable, and deadly in trained hands.

Favorite pet: An old, loyal dog. Probably a Labrador or German Shepherd - calm, disciplined, loves harder than it shows.

Skill on the battlefield: Tactical leadership and explosive entry. Price doesn’t follow chaos - he commands it.

Nervous habits: Tugs at his beard. Clears his throat when emotions creep too close.

Bad habits: Lights a cigar when stressed, even if he promised to stop. Pushes himself harder than anyone else.

Cute habits: Ruffles your hair without thinking. Talks to you in his sleep. Buys things you mention once.

What he does in private: Drinks in silence. Reads spy novels. Polishes his weapons with meticulous care. Misses you but won’t say it aloud.

What makes him soft inside: The way you look at him when he’s not wearing the Captain. When you call him "John" like it’s a secret.

Worst nightmare: Outliving them all. Walking through the aftermath of war, seeing the names of his team carved in stone while he’s still breathing. He’s always been the shield, the one who takes the hits so the others make it home. But his darkest fear is standing alone at their graves - haunted by the men he couldn’t save. The silence of command. The ghost of failure.

Worst nightmare when it comes to you: Failing to protect those he loves. Seeing you hurt - because of him, or because he wasn’t fast enough.

What he does without realizing it: Stands protectively between you and anyone new. Lowers his voice when you’re tired. Wraps an arm around your waist when you’re near.

Unexpected skills: Plays the piano. Badly. But when he does, he looks at the keys like they’re ghosts.

Thoughts about having kids: Didn’t think it was for him… until you. Now, the thought lingers in the back of his mind like a daydream he won’t admit to.

Favorite spot to be teased at: Behind his ear, right where beard meets skin. A whisper there turns him to stone and fire.

Breaking point – when does he snap?: The first time you disobeyed him in bed. His voice dropped, cigar still in hand, and he growled, “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

How he calls you:

In public: “Love” or “Darlin’” with that raspy London drawl.

During teasing: “Troublemaker” or “My girl.” When he’s desperate? “Sweetheart” -low, ruined, all feeling.

Something that would make him imperfect: His armor. He never lets it down fully, not even with you at first. It can feel like he’s hiding behind orders, even when all you want is his truth.

Summary:

Captain John Price is the calm in chaos, the shield before the storm. He’s carried the weight of the world so long it’s carved lines into his face, but in your presence, those lines soften. He loves in silence, protects without hesitation, and leads like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. With you, he’s more than a soldier - he’s a man learning that there’s more to life than war. And though he’ll always be the Captain, in the quiet between missions, he’s simply John - yours.

[ajqwrites]

Task Force 141 x you

"What in the unholy hell is dark romance?!"

The safehouse was, for once, quiet.

Rain tapped steadily at the windows. Thunder rolled in the distance like a lazy growl.

Price sat in the armchair with his feet up, sipping tea and reading a newspaper like a war-hardened grandfather.

Gaz was on the couch, headphones half in, scrolling.

You were curled in a blanket on the opposite side, legs tucked under, cup of tea warming your hands.

Ghost stood leaning against the far wall. Silent. Watching. Present in that way only he could be - still as a shadow with a pulse.

Soap, unfortunately, was bored.

Dangerously bored.

“Oi,” he called across the room to Gaz, breaking the peace. “I need that video again - the one with the goat screaming like a man. You know the one.”

Gaz looked up, confused. “...What?”

“The goat! It screams, and someone edited it into a metal song. You showed me last week.”

Gaz blinked. “You mean the one with the caption ‘me escaping my toxic romance’?”

“Aye! That one!”

He went back to scrolling.

Two minutes of blessed silence passed.

Then -

“…Wait... the fuck is this?”

Soap froze, thumb hovering over his screen.

Then blinked.

Then scrolled again.

“…Uh. What in the unholy hell is dark romance?”

You froze mid-sip.

Oh no.

Ghost didn’t move, but you felt him tune in.

Gaz looked up again. “Sounds like a perfume. Like... a really expensive, pretentious one.”

Price grunted from behind his paper. “Thought it was one of your metal bands.”

Soap ignored them, brows furrowed as he kept scrolling. “Why are there book covers now? With… masked men and half-naked women?” He flipped the phone around. “Why is this one called ‘Chained to the Reaper’? This is NOT about goats!”

Even Price looked up now, brows raised.

Ghost’s arms crossed, his gaze sharpening.

“I searched for a meme,” Soap said slowly, “and now I’m knee-deep on some site with star ratings and lists like -” he squinted, “- ‘Top 10 Dark Romance Alpha Bastards That Will Ruin Your Life.’ What does that even mean?!”

You looked over your mug, playing innocent. “Oh. Yeah. That’s a thing.”

Soap stared at you. “You knew?!”

You shrugged. “I’m a woman, Johnny. Of course I know this exists.”

He looked betrayed.

“This one - ” He turned the phone again, showing a half-naked man gripping a woman’s chin. The man wore a skull mask. “The title is ‘Ruined by the Reaper: A Possessive Obsession.’ Who’s reading this filth?!”

Gaz lost it. “I guess, you’ve fallen into the masked alpha rabbit hole, mate.”

Price groaned. “Can’t have one night of peace.”

Soap scrolled again, reading aloud. “‘She ran. He hunted. Now she belongs to him - even if it breaks her.’ BLOODY HELL. This is romance?!”

You sipped your tea. “Not my thing.”

Gaz raised a brow. “Sure about that? You’re looking a little too calm.”

You gave a sly smile. “Some people like intensity.”

Soap looked horrified. “Intensity?! This reads like Stockholm Syndrome with a subscription plan!”

Ghost’s shoulder twitched. It might have been a laugh.

Soap scrolled more, muttering. “NO BLOODY WAY. This one’s about a billionaire with a soundproof basement. ‘She signed the contract. Now she obeys.’ Someone get me holy water. GAZ! Get me holy water and a bloody priest.”

Gaz was doubled over now, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“Read one,” you said sweetly.

“I will not - ”

“Do it,” Ghost said. Low. Amused.

Soap blinked. “Did you just - ? You’re encouraging this?!”

Ghost said nothing.

Which made it worse.

Soap groaned, then read dramatically:

“‘His breath was a brand, searing my neck. You’re mine, he growled, the mask hiding all but the feral gleam in his eyes. You don’t run from me. I tried to move, but the cuffs bit into my wrists. My heart beat traitorously as heat pooled low - ’”

“OH MY GOD.” Soap flung the phone away. “I am traumatised. PRICE, SAY SOMETHING.”

Price, not even hiding his exhaustion, muttered, “I need a bloody transfer.”

“There’s fan art. There’s audiobooks. GHOST, BACK ME UP HERE - this is insane, yeah?”

Ghost’s voice was calm. “Sounds like solid tactics to me.”

Soap froze. “...What?”

“Shock. Control. Psychological pressure.” Ghost shrugged. “Useful tools.”

“YOU’RE the reason these exist! This is YOUR FAULT!”

You tried and failed to hold back a laugh. “He does tick a lot of boxes.”

“Don’t start.” Soap groaned.

Gaz wheezed. “You’re living in a fanfic and didn’t know it.”

“I’m gonna be sick.”

You looked back at Ghost.

He was close now. Closer than you expected.

Voice low, just for you:

“…You sure you don’t like that sort of thing?”

You hesitated. “I don’t need it.”

“But?” His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“…It’s fun. Sometimes.”

A pause.

“…Noted.”

Soap shouted, “There’s one called ‘Marked by the Mask.’ IT’S A GENRE. There’s reader-insert?! I am in hell.”

Price stood up. “I need liquor.”

Soap was scrolling again, reading another in a voice filled with pure panic:

“‘He was sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaning his knife - slowly, deliberately. She teased him again, just to watch that vein in his neck pulse. He didn’t speak. Just smiled behind the mask and whispered, Keep going, sweetheart. Let’s see how brave you really are.’”

Silence.

Soap stared at the screen, stunned. “Okay. No. NOPE. That’s it. I’m out.”

Gaz was gasping for air from laughing.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why am I here?”

You weren’t laughing.

Because when you turned your head, Ghost was watching you again - still as stone. Shoulders faintly tense. Blade in hand, thumb slowly tracing the spine in that idle way he always did when his thoughts ran too deep.

He caught your gaze.

Tilted his head - just a little.

“That one,” he murmured, voice like dark silk, “had potential.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I already did.”

[ajqwrites]

"Fast mind, faster heart - Gaz sees everything, but only lets you see him."

Name: Kyle Garrick

Codename: Gaz – Short for “Gas Mask” from his early days with CTFO, where he was always the first to breach, first into the unknown, and always wearing one. Now it’s just who he is.

Date of Birth: February 15th 1995

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius – Clever, steady, calm in chaos. Always thinking one step ahead, always watching.

Height: 5'10" (1.78m)

Build: Lean, athletic, built for agility over brute strength. Runners' legs, cut arms, defined chest - not bulky, just sharp.

Eye Color: Hazel - warm brown and gold flecks that catch the light and cut through bullshit.

Voice: Smooth London accent, calm and quick. When teasing, it dances. When serious, it lands hard.

How he smells: Fresh cedar, clean soap, warm spice - like he always just stepped out of a hot shower, but with danger in his wake.

How he tastes: Mint, black coffee, and something electric. His kiss is teasing, slow, and then suddenly not.

Favorite season: Spring - life, change, growth. He’s never been one to fear new beginnings.

Favorite food: Chicken tikka masala. Spicy, rich, comforting.

Favorite dessert: Chocolate fudge cake. He’ll act chill about it, but don’t come between him and a slice.

Food he hates: Oysters. “Slimy sea snot. No thanks.”

Favorite drink: Spiced rum and cola. Laid-back, strong, easygoing.

Favorite spot for vacation: Anywhere coastal. Warm air, loud music, a view of the sea. And you.

Favorite weapon: M4A1 with custom attachments. Precise, flexible, dependable - just like him.

Favorite pet: A sleek black cat. Independent but loyal. He secretly adores animals with attitude.

Skill on the battlefield: Urban infiltration and CQB (close quarters battle). Fast thinker, faster hands. He’s the one they send when time’s running out.

Nervous habits: Rubs the back of his neck. Cracks his knuckles when something’s eating at him.

Bad habits: Gets cocky when he shouldn’t. Flirts to deflect. Plays things off until they boil over.

Cute habits: Always takes your side in an argument, even if you’re wrong. Sends you memes from warzones. Smiles when he sees you before he speaks.

What he does in private: Listens to music with headphones and dances like no one’s watching. Talks to himself while doing laundry or repairs.

What makes him soft inside: Your sleepy voice. The way you reach for him without thinking. When you kiss his scar just under his jaw like it’s precious.

Worst nightmare: Betrayal. Giving his loyalty to the wrong person. Trusting a team, a commander, a cause - and finding out too late it was all a lie. Innocents hurt because of his decision. Looking into the eyes of someone he tried to protect and seeing hatred, blame. Gaz fears being the reason good people die. He fears the weight of that responsibility more than bullets.

Worst nightmare when it comes to you: Letting someone die because he hesitated. You bleeding in his arms - he’d never recover.

What he does without realizing it: Mirrors your body language. Softly touches the small of your back when guiding you. Notices the tiniest details about your day.

Unexpected skills: Can sing. Like, really sing. Will never do it in front of anyone unless drunk - or unless it’s just you.

Thoughts about having kids: He jokes about it, but sometimes he stares too long at kids playing in the street. It’s there. He just doesn’t know if he deserves it yet.

Favorite spot to be teased at: Right under his jaw. A kiss there makes him twitch.

Breaking point – when does he snap?: The night he saw someone flirting with you in a bar. He played it cool - until you were alone. Then he locked the door and said, “Mine. Say it.”

How he calls you:

In public: “Babe” or “Sweetheart,” usually with a wink.

During teasing: “Angel,” “Trouble,” or “Look at me, pretty.”

Something that would make him imperfect: He hides pain behind charm. Sometimes he needs help but won’t say it. You have to see it in him, and call it out gently.

Summary:

Gaz is fast wit, fast hands, and a heart that doesn’t stop beating for those he loves. He’s the guy who cracks a joke in the middle of a firefight, but when you need someone steady, he’s already there. His love is playful, grounding, and constant - like a song stuck in your head, always making you smile. But there’s more beneath the charm: loyalty so deep it aches, fear he keeps hidden, and a softness that only you’re allowed to hold.

[ajqwrites]

Thinking about John Price looking at you like this after you've been teasing and flirting with him all night.

You think you have the upper hand, but John knows better.

You have no idea how much trouble you're about to be in.

(you'll enjoy every second of it)

[ajqwrites]

Mission Wetwork(?) all i could think about was emerging from the water and a lilly pad on Price instead of his little hat

[ajqwrites]

THE PRICE PAT™️ | CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFARE II & III

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

John cut off the engine after pulling up to the curb at the Grandview Hotel. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out his Glock M1911. Checking if the safety is off before getting out, he concealed it from behind his back, under his shirt he had pulled from behind and the front to make it look like he was casual and disheveled, enough to keep out of sight. His jaw clenched as he thought about Charlie. Strolling inside the hotel like nobody's business.

She didn't ask to be a part of his world... but now that she was involved, undetected. It was his job now to keep her safe.

The elevator ride to the third floor was quick, and the hum of the old machinery filled the silence as John leaned against the back wall with his hands in his pockets. His thumb tracing the drive on his left. He hadn't had time to process what could be on it, but he knew it had to be important.

Harkin wouldn't have gone to these lengths if it weren't.

As he stepped out after the doors slid open, his shoes thud softly against the carpeted floor. Room 304 was at the end of the hallway. Between the faint murmur of televisions and muffled voices coming from other rooms. He stopped in front of the door and knocked firmly. A few seconds passed, he watched the door crack open and Kate stepped aside to let him enter. The room was simple and clean, with a desk and laptop near the window.

"You got the drive?" She asked while locking the door and facing him.

John pulled the thumb drive from his pocket and handed it over to her.

When she took it without a word and moved to the desk, sliding into the chair. She plugged the drive into the slot of her laptop, her finger moving over the mouse pad as she brought up her decryption tools. He stood behind her and crossed arms, watching as the screen filled with lines of code and progress bars. Crossing his arms against his chest, his sharp eyes scanned the room out of instinct.

"What are you expecting to find?" he asked without looking at her.

"Anything that tells us what's important in the drive," Kate said, focusing on the screen. "This could be the break we need."

Minutes ticked by as the drive's contents were loading. John uncrossed arms and moved to sit at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his hands clasped and bent over, waiting for the case handler to speak. As her brows furrowed, watching the files began appearing on the screen. Kate clicked one of them and her eyes quickly moved over each content. Suddenly, her eyes widened.

"John, you want to look at this."

He stood and moved closer to where he witnessed the first document opened.

"Bloody hell," John muttered under his breath.

"Bloody hell it is," she mumbled, her tone tinged with disbelief.

The screen was filled with folders labeled in vague but telling terms: Financials, Operations, Locations. Kate opened one of them, revealing spreadsheets detailing monetary transfers—millions of dollars funneled through dummy corporations.

"Laundering," Kate said, her tone flat but loaded with meaning. "These transactions are massive."

"Laundering for what?" John asked, frowning.

Kate clicked into another folder, and a list of names and locations appeared. Each one logged. Some were circled, others annotated with dates.

"These aren't just names," she continued. "These are dummy corporations funneling the money."

"Funding Zakharov," John added.

Kate turned her gaze to him. "It's a damn spiderweb. What the hell was Harkin doing with Zakharov?"

"Job. Income. Harkin is doing some bids to get paid," John answered her. "Not that he's a fucking assassin but a middleman. He's just another pawn to be stomped over."

"Does Charlie know about this?"

"No."

When she turned her gaze back to the screen and clicked on another file. It was filled with more encrypted documents. As she began using the decryption software to decrypt the file, it worked quickly, revealing what appeared to be operational plans.

"Looks like Zakharov using his money to fund logistics, weapon shipments, and...this mentions... bio weapons."

John frowned deep, until he cursed under his breath. 

"Damien. It's all coming together. Rich did mention Damien being his business partner. Makarov would be the head over all this planning."

"On stage," Kate added. "If this is all connected to Makarov, he's building an allegiance to another country, mainly the Middle East, to create war and partnering with Zakharov, who would pay each worker of their time spent."

“Gabby knows about this,” he muttered.

“Does she?” Kate turned her face over her shoulder, looking up to him.

“Something had to be done with Zakharov or Damien's involvement with The Cartel and the AQ. Not sure if this is all connected. But for some reason, their names don’t disappear in less than three years. After we have killed Hassan…” then he paused before licking his bottom wet, his mind racing before exhaling slowly. Bits of pieces were starting to fall slowly like each piece of puzzle was found out of nowhere to fit in the right spot.

“But what if they are?” Kate questioned. “If the Cartel, hence El Sin Nombre and Al-Qatala have something to do with Zakharov next. After Hassan was neutralized, their main objective was to gather money and then launder all at the same time while hiring enough middlemen to smuggle weapons from somewhere like a Halloween candy handout. 

“It would make sense about Damien’s involvement with Makarov and the history they have with Roman Barkov. I know someone from Verdansk may have the files I needed to investigate further but it doesn’t make sense why the AQ? They only care about power and motivation, from their religious standpoint.”

“Weapons and religions?” John guessed. “You don’t think this is about war? Could it be that they’re stashing like they did with The Cartel before? This isn’t their first time working with another terrorist group. Just like what Valeria has said before about war on blood instead of war on drugs. Same thing goes to the Al-Qatala, they’d be happy to pay in blood. Zakharov and Makarov are the same.”

She paused. Taking his words into consideration, she shook her head.

“Shit, this could be another war on terrorism. Same thing that has happened since 2001.”

John slowly frowned. “I thought so too. History tends to repeat itself, don’t they?”

She heaved a sigh before looking back to the screen.

"I'll get this to my contact, but we're dealing with a large network, not a rogue operator," Kate said without looking at him. She was already saving the files to an external drive.

"Then we cut the head off the snake, right?"

"Not yet," Kate said, looking at him over her shoulder. "You already killed Rich. Zakharov is our last resort including Harkin, so whatever you do. Keep them on leash when you catch them. I need all the information from either one of them, got it? And get whatever information that Charlie knows about, but I need to know why she has the drive in the first place?"

"Harkin gave it to her," John said nonchalantly.

"Why?"

"It was a fluke move he did without realizing that Zakharov needed the drive back," John explained.

Kate scoffed. "Dumbass."

"Least you agree with me,"

"I'll forward details to my director as well, and I expect all of you to cut the channels before it sails away. We just need to know when."

A loud knock suddenly echoed through the room, breaking the heavy silence.

John turned his head toward the door, his brow furrowing.

"Expecting company?" he asked quietly.

Kate frowned. "No."

He moved toward the door cautiously, his shoes silent against the carpet. John pulled out his Glock from behind his shirt through his trousers. Peering through the peephole, John saw a man in a hotel uniform holding a tray. He turned back to Kate.

"You call someone in for service?" John said quietly, stepping back from the door.

Kate shook her head 'no'.

"You've got a suppressor?" John asked, suspicion curling in his gut.

She reached into her purse, pulling out a small black cylinder, and handing the suppressor to him. John took it and attached it to the muzzle of his Glock. Once it was secure, he slipped the weapon behind his back, out of sight, and moved toward the door.

"Stay quiet," he said quietly over his shoulder.

Kate nodded. Her face set in a grim expression as she positioned herself on the far side of the desk, ready to grab her sidearm, if needed. When he unlocked the door and opened it just enough to meet the man's eyes. The room service employee smiled faintly, holding up a bucket of cleaning supplies.

"Good evening," the man said in a smooth voice. "I'm here for a cleanup."

John arched an eyebrow, forcing his tone to remain casual. "Didn't call for anything. Must've been a mistake."

The man's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking past John into the room. That split-second movement was all John needed to confirm his suspicion.

"Right," John said, stepping back and opening the door wider, letting the man take a step inside. "Guess I could use a cleanup quick."

The instant the man crossed the threshold, John slammed the door shut with his foot, spun the man around, and shoved him against the wall.

"Who sent you?" he growled, pressing the man's chest against the wallpapered surface.

The man squirmed, his hand darting toward his waistband, but John was faster. The suppressed shot was barely more than a muffled pop, and the man crumpled to the floor with a thud.

Kate stepped out from her hiding spot, her face pale but composed. She didn't say anything after what John had done.

"Not a serviceman," John said grimly, crouching beside the body and pulling the man's jacket open to reveal a holstered weapon and a knife strapped to his thigh. "Cleaner, alright—but not for this hotel."

Kate sighed hard, watching as he stood, removed the suppressor from his Glock, and handed it back to her. She slipped it into her purse, and her sharp gaze darted between the body and John.

"We can't leave him like this,"

"I've got it," John said firmly.

He dragged the body toward the bathroom, pausing only to rearrange the scene.

Pulling the man's gun from its sheath, he placed the man's gun loosely in his hand, aimed at his chest. It was a grim tableau that would look convincing enough to anyone who stumbled upon the scene. A man who committed suicide while working in a hotel. John pulled the knife also from the man and pocketed—handy use for later.

Kate stood in the bathroom doorway as John straightened, wiping his hands after grabbing a towel he found on the counter. "Looks like he offed himself of the job."

"You've done this before," Kate said flatly, her sharp gaze on John as he inspected the now-staged scene.

John glanced at her. "Of what? My grumpy personality or my attention to detail?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "The fact that you can make a murder look like a tragic workplace incident in under two minutes. That's not shocking."

He shrugged. "It's a skill set. Comes in handy more often than you'd think."

Kate leaned against the doorframe, her arms still crossed, her expression shifting into something more wry. "And here I thought you were good at breaking down doors and barking orders."

"That's just for show," John said, his lips twitching into a faint grin. "This is the real art."

Kate let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Right, most people would be panicking right now."

"Good thing neither of us is 'most people,'" John shot back. "Besides, I've got a talent for cleaning up messes."

Kate snorted. "Yeah, well, let's hope your talent keeps us both out of handcuffs."

"If Harkin sent this bloke, handcuffs are the least of our worries," John said sternly. "He's poking the bear, and he knows it."

Kate scoffed. "Poking the bear? John, he's practically smacking it with a stick. And now we're dealing with Zakharov's network on top of it."

John nodded, his jaw tightening. "Which means we need to move fast, and he's got to cover his tracks."

"Fine. I'll finish forwarding the files. You keep an eye out for any more 'cleaning staff.'" Kate pushed off the doorframe and left the bathroom to sit back at the desk.

John chuckled dryly, walking out of the bathroom. "You know, Kate, for someone who's supposed to be all about protocol, you're calm about letting me stage a crime scene."

She didn't look up from the screen as she replied. "Calm? No. Pragmatic? Always. Besides, you'd do it if I didn't let you. Might as well get it done right."

"You're not wrong."

***

Kate carefully packed up her external drive and shut the machine down.

"All set," she glanced at John after slipping the drive into her purse.

John turned after he was on guard near the door. "Let's get out of here."

As she moved towards the door, John took the lead when he opened the and checked the hallway first. It was empty, save for the soft glow of overhead lights and the faint hum of the hotel's heating system.

"Clear," he said, stepping out with Kate close behind.

Moving steady as they can, the elevator was at the far end of the hall, its polished metal doors gleaming under the lights. They made their way toward it in a hush. But as they neared the elevator, John suddenly stopped, his arm shooting out to block Kate's path.

"What—" Kate began, but John quickly pulled her to the side, pressing them against the wall beside a service closet.

His body tensed like a coiled spring, and his hand moved to his pistol, still holstered beneath his jeans behind.

"Stay close," he whispered, tilting his head just enough to peer around the corner.

Down the hall near the elevator, three men lingered, their postures casual but their intent clear.

They weren't hotel guests.

John could tell by their appearance, how they scanned the hallway, and the faint bulge under one man's jacket that screamed concealed weapon.

"Thugs," John said under his breath.

Kate leaned in, her voice low. "They followed you. From Charlie's apartment, no doubt. They've been tailing you."

John gritted his teeth and his jaw tightened. "Fuck. Guess they're persistent enough to be dangerous, I'll give 'em the credit."

"What's the plan?" Kate asked, ignoring his comment.

His mind raced. The men were blocking the elevator, and engaging them here would draw too much attention. The hotel had cameras and witnesses. The last thing they don't need is a scene caused by thugs, a task force captain working for the government, and a CIA operative in the hotel.

"We take the back exit," he said finally. "Stairs should be just around the corner."

"And if they spot us?" Kate looked at him.

"They won't," John said without looking at her. "Not if we move fast and stay quiet."

She nodded.

When they moved toward the service stairs and slipped back down the hall. John led the way. As they reached the door that would take them to stairs, John eased it open. Glancing inside to make sure it was clear. He motioned her to follow. The narrow stairwell had the smell of disinfectant hanging in the air. Heading downstairs quickly, John kept one hand on his Glock as his other gripped the railing. Kate followed behind, her boots clicking against the concrete steps. Halfway down, the sound of footsteps echoed above them.

"Shit," Kate whispered.

John glanced up, his expression hardening after he stopped. He pulled Kate to the side of the staircase and motioning for her to stay put. "You keep going down, straight to the exit. Wait for me outside."

"What about you?" she asked, her voice low but insistent.

"I'll handle them," John said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Go."

Shaking her head, she knew she couldn't argue with him now. In response, she left him.

John watched her leave before stepping back into the stairwell, his hand gripping his weapon tight. He crouched low, positioning himself out of sight but ready to strike. Listening to the footsteps that grew louder, they were close until the first thug appeared on the landing above.

Without hesitation, John grabbed the man's ankle, yanking him off balance and sending him tumbling down the stairs. The thug's body hit the concrete with a sickening thud, and he didn't get up. The commotion drew the attention of the other two men. John pressed himself against the wall, using the stairwell's shadows to his advantage.

As the second thug came into view, John lunged, slamming the man's head against the railing and dropping him in one swift motion. The third man drew his weapon, but John pulled the trigger, and the man crumpled to the floor, his weapon skittering across the steps.

John quickly checked to ensure all three were down before heading downstairs and reaching the exit.

***

Kate was near her car as she looked around to find any signs of John. Her eyes caught him stepping out of through the heavy door exit and he walked briskly towards her.

"All clear?" she glanced at him and asked.

John nodded, scanning the area to ensure they weren't being watched. "For now—"

Before he finished the sentence, their ears picked up a sharp crack split the air. A bullet ricocheted off the wall inches from his head.

"Get down!" John barked, grabbing Kate and pulling her behind a few cars away as more shots rang out, targeting them.

"How many?" she asked, instinctively reaching for her Glock 19 from her purse.

John peeked around the corner, spotting at least four men advancing, their silhouettes barely visible under the dim streetlights. "Four, maybe more."

"And here I thought we'd get a quiet escape." Kate said, irritated while pulling out her gun.

John scoffed. "You jinxed it."

He popped up from cover, firing off a few shots. One thug dropped, clutching his shoulder, but the others returned fire, forcing John to duck back down.

Kate took her turn, her aim steady as she fired two quick shots, taking down another.

Each side traded bullets as the firefight dragged on in the hotel parking lot. His mind has to work quickly. Authorities would come by at any minute, and they're stuck. His sharp eyes caught movement in the shadows—another group of thugs circling around to flank them.

"Shit!" he hissed. "They're trying to pin us in."

"You think?!" Kate hissed, reloading her weapon with practiced efficiency.

Before John could answer, the distant growl of an engine pierced the air and then—the beat of Come Together by The Beatles echoed down the distant, thumping through the approaching vehicle's stereo like a war drum. The iconic bassline kicked in, steady and slow, almost taunting in its timing. His eyes flicked up just in time to see headlights flare and tires scream as a black van careened around the corner.

"...Here come old flat-top," the voice sang through the crackling speakers as the van charged forward, a living beast barreling down on the thugs with reckless intention.

Ghost didn't just show up after the tires screeched. Metal roared. One body flew. Another dived. The remaining thugs scattered, some ran off while the other ones shouted in confusion as the van reached a screeching halt near John and Kate. The passenger-side window rolled down, and a voice drawled from inside.

"Need a lift, boss?" Ghost said dryly, as though he'd just stumbled onto a casual pub night instead of a firefight.

John didn't answer right away. He stood, fired one last shot that sent a thug diving for cover, then turned back to Kate and gave her a sharp nod.

"That's your ride. Go!"

Kate ducked low and sprinted across the lot as bullets sliced through the air behind her. John followed her behind. One clipped the side mirror of a parked car, another sparked off the pavement. When they reached to the van, John grabbed the handle and shoved Kate inside first before slamming it shut.

“John!” Her voice cut through the open passenger window. “Get in!”

He ignored her as he turned on his heel, eyes locked on the last two thugs scrambling for cover behind a nearby sedan. Raising his Glock, he sprinted back toward the firefight. As he took the first shot mid-stride—clean, center mass. The thug collapsed like a sack of bricks. The second tried to make a break for it across the lot. He didn’t hesitate. John pivoted, squared his shoulders, and pulled the trigger once.

The second thug crumpled to the asphalt.

A scream of tires behind him—Ghost had swung the van in a tight arc, reversing to keep the engine toward John’s direction.

With one last glance over his shoulder to make sure no other shooters remained, John sprinted full-speed toward his own truck parked near the corner. He jumped in, slammed the door, and ignited the engine with a deep growl.

Kate watched through the side mirror, breath tight in her throat. “What is he—”

“He’s sweeping the tail," Ghost answered for her, and he knew what John was up too.

As he pulled off with a jolt, and John’s truck followed him fast behind. The headlights were flashing as he gunned down the road. But John wasn’t following. He swerved to the left instead. Then to the right.

And then—

Boom!

Metal crunched as he rammed a last straggling thug’s SUV coming in from a side alley. The sound of the impact echoed down the street, drawing startled gasps from distant pedestrians. John threw the truck into reverse, tires screeching. Then forward again, finishing the job with one more jarring slam that left the enemy vehicle smoking and useless. The thugs inside weren’t getting out anytime soon.

With the threat neutralized, he spun the wheel, turned onto the main road, and merged behind Ghost.

Inside the van, Ghost glanced at the rearview mirror and gave a small grunt of approval. “The old man still got it.”

Kate, still catching her breath, looked over at him. “He could’ve gotten himself killed.”

“But he didn’t,” Ghost replied simply, hands steady on the wheel.

Kate didn’t answer, but the silence was weighted. Her expression was unreadable as the van sped through the streets, weaving past quiet neighborhoods and darkened intersections, heading in the direction of the forest-lined backroads that would lead to Ghost and Gabby’s secluded property.

After about ten minutes, the van turned off the main road, heading toward the safe house. The tension inside had started to ease, though the adrenaline hadn’t worn off.

Kate finally broke the silence.

“He didn’t have to come back for me.”

Ghost kept his eyes on the road. “He did.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what wolves do,” Ghost said flatly. “We protect our own. Even when we’re mad at ‘em.”

“Still doesn’t make it less complicated.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ghost replied. “But this is Price, he’s your best weapon, as we speak.”

Just as they reached the house, headlights glowed behind them.

John’s truck pulled up right behind the van, gravel spraying as he parked hard and jumped out—gun still holstered and his face stone-cold. He walked up to the van as Ghost stepped out to open the door for Kate.

“You alright?” John asked her, scanning her quickly.

Kate stepped down. “Yeah. You?”

John gave a single nod. “I cleared the tail.”

“Obviously,” she muttered, glancing at the dented side of his truck.

Ghost leaned against the van, arms crossed. “You two wanna keep dancing around what just happened, or can we go inside and talk plans?”

John looked at him before Kate.

"No more talking," he said gruffly. "Let's finish what we started."

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✨Chapter 77✨

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