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The armored transport rumbled down the rain-slicked blacktop, its heavy tread kicking up rooster tails of water in its wake. Within the military vehicle, an air of anxious frustration had settled over the elite operatives like the gloomy overcast.
Price focused intently on the road, knuckles bloodless around the steering wheel as if hoping to grind answers from the wet pavement through force of will alone. Beside him, Gaz scanned their surroundings diligently, ever alert for signs of the hidden threats lurking in any shadow.
In the rear, Ghost's masked face betrayed no emotion, though his stiff posture betrayed an anticipation that made even his solid frame seem ready to spring at the first sound of trouble. Soap fidgeted with his sidearm's safety, jaw set in a way that showed frustration with each click of metal on metal.
The miles dragged by in tense, dripping silence until Price finally broke it with a gravel sigh. "We've hit a wall, lads," he muttered darkly. "Every source gone quiet. Every contact run dry. It's as if Makarov's disappeared off the face of this earth."
Gaz grunted in agreement, his eyes narrowing. "Too convenient. He's playing us, waiting to spring from the dark."
Ghost shifted slightly, the modulation of his mask flattening his reply. "There's been no chatter, no sightings. Either he's found a way to blanket our intel networks, or someone high up wants him hidden from view."
Soap leaned forward, dampening tension with a questioning lilt. "So where to now, Captain?"
Price didn't look away from the rain-swept road stretching ahead into inky obscurity. "Rumor has it there’s this person whose skills lie in ferreting out secrets. Laswell won't be pleased..."
His jaw set, resolve bleeding into his tone. "But rumor has it this shadow broker knows more about more folks than any database. Maybe they've seen what we've missed. It’s not an official channel, and this person is likely a criminal, but anything is helpful…"
The armored transport rumbled through the neon-lit alleys, the faint glow of signs washing over its armored plating in an eerie strobing. Beneath the heavy fog shrouding the sprawling metropolis, a thousand secrets lay camouflaged, their mysteries veiled even to the keenest of operatives.
Their hazardous excursion to the shadowy informer was a desperate throw of the dice, a hail mary pass hoping to pierce the smokescreen obscuring their wily quarry, Makarov. As the van braked in a narrow side street, ominous rain pattering the roof, each soldier steeled their nerves.
Price issued orders in his usual brusque timbre, scanning the mist-cloaked surroundings with a veteran's practiced eye. Gaz peeled off to safeguard their transport, the hydraulic hiss of the closing doors like a death knell as the remaining trio moved off into the gloom.
Ghost took point, narrow shoulders taut as drawn steel cables beneath his cloak. Each cautious footfall betrayed an intensity that made even his resolute frame seem ready to explode into violence at the first sign of danger.
Soap watched their flanks keenly, alert for any abnormalities in the hazy veil -- a shadow's ripple or muffled footstep. Yet despite his practiced vigilance, tension still seeped into his tone. "Feels like we're blindly walking into an ambush."
Price answered with his typical stoicism. "Stay sharp. This rat's den will be alive with tricks."
Their vaporous breaths mingled as one, a living portent of danger, as they approached the looming threshold - a rotten wooden door on rusted iron hinges, warding entrance to whatever mysteries or menace lurked within.
With a meaningful glance to his men, Price pushed against the weathered barrier, sending it grating inward on protesting metal.
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