The tunnel engulfed him, its gaping maw closing around John like the jaws of a beast. Moving in with stealth that only years spent in war could instill him still, each footfall as a quiet steps. The darkness clung to the concrete walls like wisps of smoke, curling and twisting in the dimness, creating a spooky atmosphere.

Every step he took was a commitment to see this through to the end. His fingers clenched tightly around his rifle as he prowled deeper into the maze of old maintenance corridors. These once-functional dry-dock tunnels, now became a hideout for his main target. The bastard had transformed a piece of British maritime history into a tomb and John was determined to move further down its depths.

"Two tangos patrolling east catwalk. Silenced in five." He heard Ghost spoke over his earpiece.

A pause, and then...

Crack. Crack.

"Targets down."

John didn't reply. He trusted Ghost's shots like he trusted the air in his lungs.

Ahead, the narrow corridor expanded into a broader space, its walls marked with patches of peeling paint and streaks of grime. A rusted steel hatch, its surface pitted and worn by time, sat ajar, allowing a sliver of dim light to seep through the narrow seam where the door met its frame. John slowed his pace, his movements cautious as he crouched near the edge of the widening passage. The air was cool and carried a faint metallic scent. He strained his ears and could discern the steady rhythm of footsteps on the other side—leisurely, as if the person on guard had not a care in the world.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a subtle movement that he knew it was Gaz coming up across from him, making his way through the left flank without being seen like John was hidden. Exercising the intricate network of supply piping that wound its way beneath the tunnel's spine like a metallic serpent. His suppressed SCAR-L rifle was known in his hands, its matte finish absorbing the dim light as he moved with calculated precision.

"I've got eyes on the next two," Gaz said quietly through the comms. "Standing by to breach."

John raised two fingers.

Three... two... one—

The bullet went off from Gaz's suppressed end as it sent straight to the guard and they watched the body dropped. They moved quick and John kicked the hatch in. It slammed open with a metal shriek.

The two guards barely had time to reach for their weapons.

Phfft. Phfft.

Gaz lifted his rifle and spat two quick bursts. The bodies dropped in unison.

"Clear," John muttered, already moving past them.

"That's four out of six," Ghost said through their earcomms. "One heat signature posted near the old control chamber. Could be Harkin."

"I'll take him," John said. "Gaz, sweep right. Tunnel junction's narrow—watch your angles."

"Copy."

They moved like shadows—John straight ahead, Gaz veering off into the broken conduit system on the flank. The old dry-dock layout was like a decayed map burned into John's brain (since he had studied it long before arriving here as Gabby came up with a strategic plan and John would have to follow her lead). He ducked beneath hanging cables, past rusted machinery once used to pump water from ship basins. Now, it hummed faintly with rerouted power. A jury-rigged network—Harkin's doing.

Every corner smelled of oil and mold.

When he crept down the next corridor, his boots soundless over the grit and dust. A door lay ahead—slightly ajar. A flickering light inside painted stuttering shadows along the wall.

John crouched low.

Voices.

"...bloody bastard's takin' too long," one man muttered.

"He'll come. Harkin said he would," another replied. "The girl's enough bait."

John didn't wait. Gathering enough strength to kick another door, he dropped his knee, weapon raised.

Tap-tap.

Two rounds. Two bodies.

The sixth man lunged from behind the crates.

John rolled aside as a blade slashed through air—then jammed the barrel of his SIG under the man's chin.

Pop.

The body dropped like a bag of bricks.

"Six down," John whispered into the comms, voice cold and clipped. "Gaz, sitrep?"

"All clear on the west. No stragglers."

"Ghost?"

"Area's too quiet," came Ghost's dry reply. "Tunnel ahead leads to one final room. Strong heat signature in the center. Stationary. Could be Charlie."

His blood ran cold, but his voice stayed iron.

"I'll handle the rest."

He was certain this was the room where Harkin might be executing his act, trying to rattle him by holding Charlie hostage as if it were a life-and-death situation.

"Price," Ghost said quietly, "go dark. We'll hold the perimeter. Godspeed."

"Copy." John reached to his mic, clicked it once—radio silent.

No more backup.

No more voices.

Just him and Harkin.

As the corridor narrowed, lined with exposed brick and old iron fixtures. Water dripped from somewhere unseen. With every step forward, his pulse beat steady. He switched his weapon by moving it behind his shoulder and pulled out his SIG. When he reached to the metal door, he kicked the metal door hard and it swing open before stepping in. Weapon aimed straight and his icy blue darkened into almost a lake-like blue when his focus came to Charlie and his target.

Tied to a metal chair, head over her shoulder, updo hair tangled around her face. Her hoodie dark with grime, her wrists bound behind her. But her chest was rising and so were her chocolate brown doe eyes widened.

Sit tight, love.

Harkin paced forward with a knife in one hand till he was behind her. He forcefully turned the chair around as it scraped the floor, which made an echoing sound to where she gasped out of fear. Forcing her to stare at John, her mouth parted and no voice came out except her eyes screaming at him to end this.

His eyes narrowed as they fixed on Harkin.

"Well, well. The great John Price," Harkin drawled. "Come to play the hero again?"

His expression remained impassive, though his trigger finger twitched. "Let her go, Harkin. Your fight's with me."

"Straight to business then," Harkin chuckled darkly before pulling her head back sharply, causing her to let out a cry as he gripped a handful of her hair tight. "You know, the girl's my insurance policy so where's the fun in that?"

John hesitated, his mind racing through scenarios. He needed to get Charlie clear without endangering her further.

"Tick tock," Harkin growled. "Where is the drive?"

"The drive's gone, Harkin. Destroyed it myself," John lied. Inside, his nerves thrummed with adrenaline. He had to play this just right.

"You expect me to believe that?" Harkin sneered as his lip curled downward.

"It's the truth. Now let her go and we can talk, just you and me."

"Not a chance," Harkin spat. "You think I'm stupid? The girl's my only leverage, so she's not going anywhere." He tightened his grip of her hair until she began to cry as she try to look up to Harkin.

"Michael let go of me!"

"Shut up!" Harkin yelled at her back before grabbing her chin and forced her to look straight at John. "You see your man right here? You're tied up and he's here with a gun, pointing at me and I got a knife so any more words and I'll slit your throat. You got it?"

She kept her lips pressed tightly together, but a single tear began to escape from her eyes, trembling on her lashes as she took in shaky breaths. Her gaze flickered from him to John, uneasy, while a protective instinct flared within his chest.

For a brief second, his calm demeanor cracked, but he quickly regained his composure. John held his gun straight, aimed directly at Harkin, thoughts racing through his mind.

He knew this was his last shot.