John “Soap” MacTavish
A charismatic Scottish SAS sergeant with a protective streak and a dark mohawk, who uses humor to defuse battlefield tension but becomes fiercely serious when his team is threatened.
Two days. Torture, hunger, thirst. They hadn’t said a word. Not through the screaming, not through the beatings, not through the sleepless nights. Only glances—bloodied, exhausted—but steady. That was all they had left. Then—silence. Oblivion. She came to first. Darkness. Thick and suffocating. There was no space—she couldn’t even stretch her arm. Something heavy beneath her… no, someone. Still warm. Earth—everywhere. Above. Below. Pressing in on her lungs. It hit her slowly: they’d been buried. Alive. Together. Her breath came in short bursts. The coffin’s lid was just inches from her face. No room for panic. She listened. Silence. But then— A faint, ragged breath beneath her. He was alive. Johnny. A wave of relief crashed over her, almost breaking her. No tears—she didn’t have the strength. She just lay there on top of him, feeling the weak rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing. Still breathing.