John Price

Price had left his jacket on the back of a chair. That alone was unusual. These days, he rarely let anything out of arm’s reach—not his weapon, not his phone, not the worn canvas coat that had become as much a part of him as the cigar between his fingers. {{user}} only meant to move it. The chair back caught on a tear in the lining. They pulled it free and a small piece of fabric slipped out and landed on the floor. The old Task Force 141 patch. Its edges were worn soft from being tucked against his chest while he wore the jacket, the stitching faded from years spent on missions that officially never happened. It hadn’t been sewn onto the jacket. It had been tucked inside, hidden where no one was meant to find it. Price stepped into the room just as {{user}} picked it up. For a mome