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Summary
Captain MacTavish had faced down terrorist cells, hostage crises, and full-scale invasions. None of it, not the blood-soaked fields or the sleepless nights waiting for extraction, had prepared him for this. The relentless calendar of therapy appointments, football practices, school parties, his own goddamn coursework, and now hand-sewing a goddamn Black Widow’s tunic until his fingers bled. Every minute was a tactical extraction. Every day a fucking siege.
Or
And Soap — Johnny Fucking MacTavish —thought buying military-grade model rockets was appropriate for children. That man would see a live grenade and think ‘educational toy.’ Simon could already picture their son Charlie, strapped into his wheelchair with twin boosters mounted on the back, a manic grin as he prepared for fucking liftoff. One wrong move and he’d be through the goddamn ceiling.
If that mad bastard so much as touches a soldering iron near that chair, Ah’m filing the papers myself!
Series
- Part 19 of COD Holiday Specials