Chapter Text
Kate Laswell sat in a relatively quiet coffee shop, paperwork strewn about on the table before her. She was going over it, checking her work once, then twice to make sure not a single thing was out of place. A cup of coffee sat beside her, the steam rising off of it dissipating as it cooled against the air. There was a heavy thud of boots approaching her table, slowly bringing her from her thoughts.
"Tea?" She asked softly, sparing a glance at John Price as he settled in the seat across from her.
"Yeah, well I'm a long way from a proper pint," he gave her a smile, though the action didn't seem to reach his eyes. He leaned in slightly, trying to keep prying eyes or ears out of his conversation.
"Russia disowned Barkov," Kate stated simply.
"Well they didn't have much choice, did they?" Price leaned his head to the side, shrugging lightly at her words. "He's dead."
"You took a big bite out of that problem John," Kate attempted to praise him, but he wasn't going to let that happen when he knew there was still more work to be done.
"For now. But left unchecked," he started, ready to argue.
"It won't be," she assured him. After a brief pause, Kate took a deep breath in and leaned down to the bag she had stowed beside her. She set it atop the table, raising her gaze to meet that of Price once more.
"General Shepherd pulled the files you asked for," she eyed him curiously, not taking her hands off the bag so he could take it. It was her turn to lean into the conversation, voice hushing slightly as she continued. "What exactly is this about?"
"A task force," John laid his cards on the table. He trusted Kate, for all they had been through together, so there was no reason to hide his true intentions from her. She stared him down, trying to sense if he was being serious or not.
"We already have loose ends," she shook her head, clearly objecting the idea. Her hands were still planted firmly on the files so Price couldn't get to them.
"And I will tie them," John insisted.
"I can fund assets, not outlaws," Kate tried to reason with him, tried to get him to see the reality of the situation. But Price was hardheaded. It was part of what made him such a great captain. He nodded, letting her words soak in. Finally, he wrapped his hand around the cup he had brought with him and slid it slightly towards her.
"Enjoy the tea then," he turned in his seat, ready to stand, but Kates voice stopped him.
"Zakhaev wants Barkov's throne," her hands finally lifted from the binder containing the files, moving it a little closer to him but still not letting Price take it.
"I almost buried him in Pripyat. With MacMillan."
"That was the father," Kate explained with a small shake of her head. "This is the son, 'Victor'."
"Lovely family," Price quipped, a sigh exhaling through his nose.
"They're big fans of Hadir's," Kate continued.
"Well that would explain why he's still alive," John put the pieces together. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly in his seat as he waited for Kate to finish.
"They're going to get him out."
"Then give me what I need," Price tapped his finger on the edge of the binder. This was his window into the task force he wanted, all he had to do was make Kate realize how badly she needed it. Kate stared at him for a moment and John offered a small smile in condolence to the fact that he had her absolutely cornered. She sighed, sliding the binder over to him as she fell against the back of her seat.
John paused a moment, letting his hands rest on top of the binder. He made eye contact with Laswell, as though asking if she was sure, before smiling slightly and opening the binder. Kate leaned forward now, interested in whose files John had chosen. He pulled out four manilla folders, each one containing the information about his chosen squad.
"Who's your crew?" Laswell eyed the folders, but she couldn't see any names or pictures from her side of the table.
"Sergeant Garrick," he started, pulling the file from the others and handing it to Kate.
"Kyle?"
"They call him 'Gaz'. He never said anything," John shrugged slightly. He moved onto the next folder, pulling it free as well. "John MacTavish, SAS. Sniper- demolitions. Goes by 'Soap'."
"Why?" Kate asked as she took the folder from Price's hand.
"That's classified," a hint of a smirk ghosted the edges of his lips, but he maintained a straight face. "Ah, there he is." As he slid the third folder over to Kate, John couldn't help but let out a short chuckle.
"Simon Riley."
Kate looked over the file for a moment. With the others, a picture had been attached along with a callsign on the front. However, with Simon's folder, there was no photo of him and no callsign either.
"There's no picture," she pointed out, motioning her hand at the folder.
"Never," Price shook his head and then dropped the fourth and final folder on the stack that had been growing in front of Kate.
"Last, but most certainly not least, (F/N) (L/N), goes by Coyote." Kate raised a curious glance to Price who just shrugged. "I actually don't know the story behind her callsign. She's American though, a former Navy Seal. Small, but lethal and a hell of a shot."
"I'm more just curious that you'd pick her," Laswell lifted your folder, staring at the little picture of you in the corner. You were grinning ear to ear, unlike Gaz and Soap who had more serious looks on their faces. "Don't get me wrong, she's a perfect pick, but given your propensity for strong men, I'm just surprised." She gestured to the folders of the three men who had also been picked for the task force. John laughed, tapping his fingers against the table.
"Take me for some kind of sexist, ay?" He continued to chuckle at the sour expression that coated Laswell's face. She opened her mouth to tell him off, but he raised his hand to stop her. "I'm sure you've seen her work on missions, based on her being from your country and all. I've heard the stories and I even met her once or twice on foreign soil. She's just as strong as any of the men I picked."
"But the rest is need to know," Price leaned forward, eyes surveying Laswell's face as he looked for hints as to whether or not she was onboard with this. "Unless we got a deal?"
"What are you calling this task force?" She was searching his face just as much as he was hers.
"1-4-1."