Somebody's Gonna Get Their Head Kicked In Tonight | Task Force 141

Leave had always sounded better in theory.

In theory, leave was rest. It was the temporary surrender of weapons, schedules, encrypted briefings, sleepless transport flights, and the particular kind of silence that settled over men who had spent too long listening for footsteps on the other side of walls. It was civilian clothing and uninterrupted sleep, perhaps a meal eaten while it was still warm, perhaps one evening in which nobody bled on anything important. In theory, six members of Task Force 141 could enter a pub like ordinary men, drink like ordinary men, and leave before the evening acquired witnesses, property damage, or a report requiring Price’s signature at the bottom.

In practice, the first mistake had been allowing Soap to choose the pub. The second had been permitting him to order the first round. The third, fourth, and fifth had followed so closely afterward that Price had stopped counting, which was unlike him and therefore should have been regarded as a warning.

The place crouched between a betting shop and a shuttered takeaway beneath a sign whose painted gold letters had surrendered years ago to rain, cigarette smoke, and indifference. Inside, the air was thick with old wood, spilled lager, fried onions, damp wool, and the scorched electric breath of speakers forced to play music louder than their manufacturers had intended. A football match flickered soundlessly above the bar while men beneath it shouted advice at players who could neither hear nor benefit from it. Glasses struck tables. Chairs dragged over dark floorboards. Someone near the dartboard laughed like a car refusing to start.

Task Force 141 had taken the rear table out of instinct rather than discussion. It offered a view of the entrance, the bar, both corridors leading toward the toilets, and a narrow service door Price had identified as a secondary exit before removing his jacket. Even without uniforms, they arranged themselves like men expecting trouble. Price sat with his back protected and the room in front of him, dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal shirt with the sleeves pushed back from his forearms. He had made a sincere effort to appear off duty. The effort had failed. He still looked as though the pub belonged to him and everyone inside had disappointed him personally.

Ghost occupied the darkest corner in black jeans, a heavy hoodie, and a plain black fabric mask over the lower half of his face. The bartender had stared at it. Ghost had stared back. The matter had resolved itself without discussion. Gaz sat beside Mutt in a clean jacket that somehow remained clean through the first three rounds, his posture loose, his smile measured, his eyes warm with the dangerous patience of a man watching an evening become a story he intended to deny later. Roach had disappeared briefly after entering and returned with a bowl of crisps nobody remembered ordering. He wore a faded hoodie beneath a civilian jacket, his brown hair visible for once, his eyes doing most of the speaking while the rest of him remained folded quietly into his chair.

Mutt had dressed as if civilian life required only slightly fewer concealed blades. Dark trousers, worn boots, rings catching the amber pub light whenever he lifted his glass, black curls already falling untidily over his forehead. Without the mask, the jagged scarring along the left side of his face was exposed to the room, and he wore that exposure with the practised hostility of someone daring strangers to find meaning in it. By the fourth drink, however, the severity had begun to loosen around the edges. His shoulders had dropped. His mouth had acquired the faintest crooked suggestion of amusement. More importantly, he had stopped pretending Gaz’s arm was not the most interesting object in the building.

Soap, meanwhile, had arrived in a fitted shirt and jeans and spent the first hour behaving as though furniture were merely a suggestion.

"Two drinks," Price had said when they entered.

"Aye," Soap had agreed with enormous sincerity. "Two each."

Price had looked at him for a long moment. "Two."

"Exactly what I said."

It was not what he had meant, and everyone knew it, but the first glasses had arrived before Price could establish terms detailed enough to withstand Scottish interpretation. After that, the evening had slipped its leash. One round became three. Three became a collection of glasses, abandoned coasters, and competing accounts of whose turn it was. Soap began stealing chips from Gaz’s plate while insisting they tasted different when stolen. Gaz informed him theft did not alter seasoning. Roach silently slid his own plate farther from Soap’s reach, waited until Soap noticed, then moved it another inch without changing expression. Ghost watched this with the air of a man observing a small animal repeatedly touching an electric fence.

By midnight, discipline had not vanished so much as become decorative.

Soap had migrated from his chair to the narrow strip of bench beside Ghost, then from the bench to an arrangement that could only generously be described as sitting adjacent to him. One thigh lay across Ghost’s. Soap’s shoulder pressed against Ghost’s chest. His arm had found its way behind the lieutenant’s neck, and he was explaining, at great volume and with the conviction of a prophet, why breaching charges possessed personalities.

"They do," Soap insisted. "You set enough of them, you know. Different temperaments."

"They’re explosives," Gaz said.

"That’s prejudice."

Ghost’s dark eyes shifted toward Gaz over Soap’s shoulder. "Been saying that for years."

Soap pointed at him triumphantly, nearly striking him in the mask. "See? Simon understands."

Ghost caught Soap’s wrist before impact and lowered it to the table. "Simon’s never met you."

"Simon loves me."

"Simon’s dead."

"That why he keeps lettin’ me sit here?"

Ghost regarded the arm around his neck, the leg draped over his thigh, and the warm Scottish weight leaning almost fully against him. "Temporary structural failure."

Soap grinned and settled more comfortably, taking the explanation as permission because alcohol had turned implication into a democratic process.

Across the table, Mutt had become shameless with a calmness far more dangerous than Soap’s obvious enthusiasm. He leaned close enough that his shoulder brushed Gaz’s whenever either moved. His fingers rested against Gaz’s forearm, tracing the seam of the jacket with idle precision, then circling the inside of Gaz’s wrist as though checking a pulse he had already found several times. Each touch could have been dismissed as incidental had Mutt not paired it with long, heavy-lidded eye contact and the faint, private curve of his mouth.

"You keep touching me," Gaz observed.

Mutt looked down at his hand as though discovering it there. "Do I?"

"You’re doing it now."

"Seems serious."

Gaz’s smile deepened. "Potentially."

Mutt’s thumb slid once over the warm skin above Gaz’s wrist. "Should report it."

"To Price?"

Mutt glanced toward the captain, who was engaged in a conversation with Roach that had departed so violently from ordinary language that neither of them could be trusted with authority. "He’s compromised."

Price had somehow entered a state of solemn, alcohol-soaked camaraderie in which every piece of slang he had overheard from the younger operators had become available for immediate and usually incorrect deployment. Roach, who normally treated words as limited ammunition, had become an enthusiastic accomplice. He spoke more slowly than Soap, more quietly than Gaz, but with the unnerving confidence of a man who knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded and had chosen to continue.

Price leaned over the table, brows drawn in grave concentration. "What I’m saying, son, is the operation was absolutely giving."

Roach considered this. "Giving what?"

"Giving tactical."

Roach nodded once. "Valid."

Gaz lowered his head into one hand.

Soap’s face lit with horrified joy. "Captain, no."

Price pointed at him. "Don’t kill the vibe."

Ghost went perfectly motionless. Mutt’s forehead dropped briefly against Gaz’s shoulder. Gaz shut his eyes as though prayer might reverse time. Roach reached for his drink with the serenity of a man watching civilisation collapse according to schedule.

"You can’t say that," Soap whispered.

"I just did."

"You said it wrong."

"Language evolves."

"Not like that."

Price sat back with the dignity of a decorated officer who had just survived a linguistic assassination attempt. "Sounds like a skill issue."

Roach made a quiet noise into his glass that might have been laughter. Soap folded forward against Ghost, shaking helplessly. Even Ghost’s eyes narrowed at the corners. Gaz stared at Price with the slow disbelief of a son discovering his father’s secret social media account. Mutt lifted his head from Gaz’s shoulder just far enough to murmur, "Put him down."

"Can’t," Gaz said. "He signs things."

Price’s eyes narrowed. "You two done whispering about me?"

"Not yet," Mutt said.

"Thought so."

Soap looked between them. "Captain, if it helps, you look very commanding tonight."

Price’s expression flattened. "I’m going to leave you here."

Ghost’s hand tightened around Soap’s waist. "Someone’ll take him."

"Lucky bastard," Gaz murmured.

Soap pressed one hand over his heart. "Kyle. Finally."

Roach glanced at Soap, then at Ghost’s arm still secured around him. "Bit late."

"Jealous, Roachie?"

Roach reached over, plucked a crisp from the bowl, and placed it between Soap’s lips. "Quiet."

Soap bit down on it, eyes widening with delighted offence. "Buy me dinner first."

"That was dinner."

For a while, the night became harmless in the way only dangerous men could make recklessness appear harmless. Soap laughed until he lost the thread of his own stories. Ghost steadied every drink Soap reached for before it spilled, denying he was doing so even while doing it. Roach began answering Price exclusively in phrases borrowed from messages sent by people ten years younger than either of them. Mutt continued touching Gaz with increasing boldness, fingertips slipping from forearm to bicep, pausing there whenever Gaz spoke to someone else as though reclaiming his attention without the vulgarity of asking. Gaz allowed it, the warmth in his eyes deepening each time Mutt pretended there was nothing deliberate in the contact. Price drank, watched them all, and carried the burden of command with considerably less success than usual.

Then a bottle broke across the pub.

The sound cut through music, voices, and drunken laughter with the unmistakable violence of glass meeting bone. One sharp crack, followed by a chorus of startled shouts.

The change at the rear table was immediate.

Six bodies went still.

Not sober. Not entirely. But still.

Soap’s grin remained on his face while everything behind it sharpened. Ghost’s hand, which had been resting at Soap’s waist to keep him from sliding off the bench, tightened once. Gaz’s gaze lifted toward the disturbance, tracking hands, exits, distance, numbers. Mutt’s fingers stopped against Gaz’s arm. Roach turned his head by degrees, quiet attention spreading across the room like a blade drawn beneath cloth. Price set his glass down.

Across the pub, one man staggered backward with blood running from his temple. Another stood opposite him clutching the broken neck of a bottle and shouting something about cheating, money, or a woman named Claire. Around them, chairs scraped away. Their companions rose. The bartender swore and reached beneath the bar.

Price studied the scene for less than a second.

"Not our business."

Soap’s eyebrows climbed.

Price looked at him. "Not. Our. Business."

"Aye, Captain."

"That sounded dishonest."

"It was deeply honest."

Mutt’s hand left Gaz’s arm and settled on the table within easy reach of Soap. Ghost adjusted his grip at Soap’s waist. Gaz looked toward the nearest uninvolved civilians, already measuring where they would need to move if the argument spread. Roach took another crisp from the bowl.

For several astonishing seconds, the team obeyed.

The bleeding man shouted. The man with the broken bottle shouted louder. One of their friends shoved another. Someone’s pint hit the floor. The bartender ordered them out. Nobody listened. Yet the disturbance remained across the room, confined to its own ecosystem of wounded pride and cheap lager.

Price picked up his drink again.

Then the man holding the broken bottle noticed them watching.

He was broad, red-faced, and drunk enough that self-preservation had become an abstract principle. His gaze travelled over Ghost’s mask, Soap half draped across him, Mutt’s hand near Gaz’s wrist, and Price’s expression of exhausted authority. Something ugly and delighted entered his face.

"What’re you lot staring at?" he called.

No one answered.

He mistook restraint for fear, as drunk men often did shortly before learning something educational.

"Bootlicking poofs," he slurred, adding a homophobic insult with all the confidence of a man setting fire to his own trousers.

Soap began to rise.

He did not get far.

Mutt caught his forearm without looking away from the civilian, fingers closing with effortless control. Ghost’s arm locked around Soap’s middle at the same moment, holding him firmly against his chest.

"No," Mutt said.

Soap stared at him in outrage. "He just called us—"

"I heard."

"Then let go."

"No."

Soap turned toward Ghost. "Tell him."

Ghost’s eyes remained fixed across the room. "Sit down, Johnny."

"I am sitting."

"You’re hovering."

Price did not raise his voice. He did not need to. "MacTavish."

Soap froze halfway between obedience and launch, every muscle in him vibrating with indignation.

"Sit."

With Mutt still holding one arm and Ghost securing the rest of him, Soap returned fully to the bench. He did so with the offended dignity of a man betrayed by both friendship and physics.

The civilian laughed.

Mutt’s thumb pressed once against Soap’s pulse, a silent warning not to try again. "He isn’t worth the paperwork."

"I don’t do paperwork."

"Exactly."

Gaz exhaled through his nose. "For once, he’s got a point."

Soap looked wounded. "You’re all very unsupportive when I’m being persecuted."

"You’re on Ghost’s lap," Roach said.

The table went quiet for a different reason.

Soap looked down.

Ghost looked down.

Soap’s thigh was still across Ghost’s. Ghost’s hand was still spread over Soap’s waist.

Soap lifted his chin. "And?"

Roach ate another crisp. "Nothing."

"Sounded like something."

Roach’s gaze moved over him with exaggerated care, from the arm around Ghost’s neck to the thigh across Ghost’s lap. "Looks comfortable."

"It is."

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. "You taking requests now, Sanderson?"

Roach looked at the empty portion of Ghost’s other thigh.

Soap immediately tightened his grip around Ghost’s neck. "Occupied."

Gaz made a thoughtful sound. "Possessive."

"Protective," Soap corrected.

"Greedy," Mutt said.

Soap pointed at him. "You’ve been fondling Gaz for forty minutes."

"Forty-seven," Roach supplied.

Mutt glanced at Gaz. "Time flies."

Gaz’s smile turned slow and bright. "Keep talking like that and I might let you make it an hour."

Across the pub, the bleeding man had acquired a fresh bottle. He shouted something unintelligible at his original attacker, drew his arm back, and threw.

The bottle travelled badly from the moment it left his hand.

It missed the man with the broken glass by several feet. It passed above one table, clipped the edge of a hanging lamp, altered course with the malicious creativity of an object aware of narrative timing, and flew directly toward the rear of the pub.

Gaz saw it first.

His mouth opened.

"Price—"

The bottle struck the captain in the side of the head with a hollow, magnificent thunk.

It did not shatter.

It bounced from Price’s temple, spun once in the air, struck the table, and rolled slowly through the forest of glasses before dropping onto the floor.

The pub fell silent.

Not gradually. Completely.

The music continued playing, absurdly cheerful beneath the hush. Somewhere in the building, an ice machine groaned. Beer ran from Price’s hair, down the side of his face, and beneath the collar of his shirt. His head remained turned slightly from the impact. One hand rested beside his glass. The other lay flat against the table.

Nobody moved.

Soap stared.

Gaz closed his eyes.

Mutt slowly released Soap’s arm.

Roach looked down at the bottle on the floor, then back at Price.

Ghost removed Soap from his lap. He did it with controlled efficiency, lifting him by the waist and setting him upright on both feet beside the table like a handler placing an excitable dog before opening a gate.

Soap whispered, reverent with delight, "He’s fucked."

"Johnny," Gaz murmured.

"He is."

Price turned his head.

The movement was slow enough to feel ceremonial.

He wiped beer from his cheek with two fingers and examined it as though it might provide useful intelligence. His expression did not change. That was worse. Far worse. The weathered stillness of his face became something ancient and judicial, a verdict arriving before the crime had finished introducing itself.

The man who had thrown the bottle raised both hands.

"Wasn’t aiming for you, mate."

Price looked at him.

Then at the bottle.

Then back at him.

"Appreciate the clarification."

For one breath, it seemed possible restraint might prevail after all.

Then the original attacker swung at the bleeding man. He missed, punched his own friend, and sent him stumbling into a crowded table. Someone shoved back. A woman screamed as drinks toppled. A chair went over. Another bottle flew. The bartender emerged with a broom handle and immediately struck the wrong person.

The pub exploded.

Soap laughed.

It was not a polite laugh, nor even a particularly sane one. It burst out of him bright and wild as he vaulted the bench and launched himself into the first knot of swinging bodies.

"MacTavish!" Price barked.

"Too late, Captain!"

Gaz was already moving. "That is not an excuse!"

"It’s a timeline!"

Soap ducked beneath a punch, drove his shoulder into a man’s middle, and sent them both crashing over the edge of a table. Roach appeared beside them without any visible journey between points, caught a chair before it struck Gaz, and redirected it neatly into the knees of the man holding it.

"Cheers," Gaz said.

Roach nodded. "Teamwork makes the dream work."

Gaz stared at him while blocking a wild hook. "You need to stop talking to Price."

"Low-key impossible."

A fist came toward Roach’s face. He leaned back just far enough to let it pass, then hooked the man’s ankle and deposited him into a pile of coats.

Gaz caught Roach by the front of his hoodie before the momentum could carry him into another swinging body and pulled him close enough that their noses nearly met.

"Careful," Gaz said. "Wouldn’t want anything happening to that face."

Roach blinked once, slow and unreadable. Then his hand settled briefly at Gaz’s waist as he stepped around him. "You noticed."

Gaz’s smile broke wider. "Hard not to."

Soap surfaced from behind the overturned table with someone’s hat on his head. "Roach, my son!"

"No."

"You’re cooking!"

"Stop."

"You’re flirting!"

Roach ducked beneath a bottle and looked directly at Gaz. "Maybe."

Soap clutched his chest. "During a fight? Disgusting."

A civilian lunged at him.

Soap caught the man’s fist, twisted beneath it, and threw him shoulder-first into a pillar before looking back at Roach. "Do it again."

"You’re needy," Roach said.

"Everyone keeps telling me that. Starting to sound like interest."

Ghost entered the fight without visible enthusiasm and with devastating results. He caught one man by the wrist, turned the arm, and folded him over the bar as neatly as closing a book. Another swung from behind. Ghost bent at the waist, allowed the fist to pass above his shoulder, then drove his elbow backward into the man’s ribs.

Mutt moved with him, their backs meeting in the centre of the chaos for half a second before each trusted the other with the space behind him. Ghost blocked high. Mutt struck low. Ghost shoved one attacker into Mutt’s reach. Mutt redirected another toward Ghost. It was the sort of coordination built through gunfire, dark corridors, and years of learning how the other occupied danger.

It was now being used against a man wearing a novelty football shirt who had attempted to swing a coat rack.

"Left," Ghost said.

"I know."

"Then move."

"I was waiting for you to notice."

Ghost drove an elbow backward into an approaching body without turning. "Needy."

Mutt caught the coat rack, tore it from the civilian’s hands, and used the hooked end to drag another man away from Gaz. "You keep noticing."

"Hard not to. You’re pressed against me."

Mutt’s shoulder shifted deliberately against Ghost’s back. "Complaining?"

"Not yet."

Mutt glanced at him over one shoulder, heavy-lidded eyes bright with alcohol and violence. "Let me know when you start."

Ghost caught a man by the collar and sent him staggering into Mutt’s waiting forearm. "You’ll be the first."

"That almost sounded sweet."

"Concussion."

"Promise?"

Ghost’s gaze dropped briefly to Mutt’s mouth, then returned to the room. "Behave."

Mutt’s smile sharpened. "Make me."

Ghost struck an approaching man in the stomach hard enough to fold him over. "Queue’s long."

Soap, fighting three feet away, heard him.

His head snapped around. "Excuse me?"

Ghost did not look at him. "Busy, Johnny."

"You can’t tell him to queue!"

Mutt drove the heel of his palm into a civilian’s chin. "Jealous?"

Soap ducked a punch and swept his attacker’s leg out from beneath him. "Deeply."

"Thought you had structural failure."

"I contain multitudes."

Ghost caught Soap by the back of his shirt as he slipped in spilled beer, keeping him upright without interrupting the movement of his other hand.

Soap looked over his shoulder. "Knew you wanted me."

"Wanted you off the floor."

"Same thing when you’re shy."

Ghost released him directly into Gaz, who caught Soap around the waist with one arm while using the serving tray in his other hand to block a bottle.

Soap looked down at Gaz’s arm around him, then up at Gaz. "Kyle."

"Johnny."

"Take me somewhere nice first."

Gaz shoved him upright. "I’m taking you to hospital if you keep turning your back on people."

"Romantic."

"Efficient."

Soap grinned and hooked an arm around Gaz’s shoulders for half a second, using him as leverage to kick an approaching civilian backward. "You always know what to say."

"Wish the same were true of you."

Roach slid across the surface of an overturned table on one hip, caught another man behind the knees, and sent him sprawling before landing beside them.

Soap pointed at him. "See that? Gorgeous."

Roach straightened his hoodie. "The technique?"

"The whole situation."

Gaz blocked another fist with the serving tray. "He does clean up well."

Roach looked from Soap to Gaz, then glanced toward Ghost. "Popular tonight."

Ghost seized an attacker by the shoulder and spun him into a wall. "Don’t let it go to your head."

Roach’s mouth moved at one corner. "You watching too?"

Ghost paused just long enough for Soap to bark out a laugh.

"Caught you!" Soap crowed.

Ghost shoved the next civilian directly toward him. "Catch that."

Soap did, wrapping both arms around the man’s middle and using his momentum to send them tumbling over an overturned chair. He rose first, laughing hard enough to lose breath.

Mutt crossed behind Gaz, caught him by the upper arm, and turned him out of the path of a thrown glass. The glass struck the wall and exploded into glittering fragments. Mutt’s hand remained on Gaz’s bicep for one unnecessary second after the danger had passed.

"You all right?" he asked.

Gaz looked down at the hand, then back at Mutt. "You flirting during a riot?"

Mutt’s mouth curved. "Would you prefer I schedule it?"

"You’d be late."

"Forty-seven minutes says otherwise."

Gaz’s eyebrows lifted. "Roach has been timing you?"

Roach passed behind them, dragging a stumbling civilian away by the collar. "Everyone has."

Mutt glanced after him. "You interested too?"

Roach released the man into a chair. "Maybe."

Gaz placed the serving tray against his chest. "Now, hold on. I was enjoying the attention."

Mutt’s thumb pressed into the muscle of Gaz’s arm. "You can share."

Gaz looked toward Roach. "Can I?"

Roach’s gaze moved deliberately over him. "Could manage."

A man rushed them from the side.

Mutt sighed, released Gaz, and drove the attacker backward over a chair.

"Bit rude," Gaz said.

"I was busy."

"Clearly."

Soap vaulted the fallen man, stole Gaz’s tray for half a second, and struck it against another bottle with a metallic clang. "You two finished courting?"

"Jealous again?" Mutt asked.

"Always."

Gaz retrieved the tray from Soap. "You’ve been passed around half the team in the last five minutes."

"And yet nobody’s committed."

Ghost caught Soap around the back of his neck and pulled him out of the path of a fist. "Tragic."

Soap stumbled against Ghost’s chest, looked up at him, and smiled with intoxicated brilliance. "There he is."

"There who is?"

"My favourite."

Mutt made an offended sound.

Gaz raised the tray. "I thought I was your favourite."

Soap twisted enough to point at each of them in turn. "You’re all my favourite. Different categories."

Roach ducked past him. "Coward."

"Efficient," Soap corrected.

Price, still attempting to keep the fight from swallowing the entire pub, caught the declaration.

"MacTavish, less flirting, more leaving."

Soap looked across the chaos at him. "You jealous too, Captain?"

Price seized a civilian by the collar and pushed him firmly toward the door. "Of your judgment? Never."

"Could put you in a category."

"Could put you through a wall."

Soap’s smile widened. "See? That tone."

Price pointed at him. "Don’t."

Gaz used the tray to block a wild hook and looked toward Price. "He’s got a point, sir."

Price stared at him in betrayal. "You as well?"

Gaz’s eyes moved over Price’s damp shirt, rolled sleeves, and increasingly murderous expression. "Bottle improves the look."

Roach glanced over. "Rugged."

Mutt caught a fist and twisted the attached arm behind its owner’s back. "Very commanding."

Ghost folded another civilian across the bar. "Giving tactical."

Price’s face went still.

Soap made a sound like a delighted seal.

"You’re all getting written up," Price said.

"Put something nice in mine," Mutt replied.

"Spell my name right," Roach added.

Gaz smiled. "Mention the tray."

Soap spread his arms. "Mention I looked handsome."

Ghost looked at him. "That would compromise the report."

Soap went so still that another punch passed harmlessly in front of his face.

"Simon."

"Johnny."

"You wound me."

"Not yet."

Soap’s grin returned, slower this time. "Promises."

The distraction cost him. Someone caught him around the middle and drove him backward into the bar.

Ghost’s head snapped toward the impact.

Before he could move, Soap drove his forehead into the man’s nose, twisted free, and shouted across the room, "Still handsome!"

"Debatable," Ghost replied.

"Fuck you!"

"Buy me dinner."

Soap froze again.

Roach looked between them. "Skill issue."

Gaz struck the serving tray against the bar with a ringing clang. "None of you are allowed on the internet again."

Soap pointed at Ghost with wonder. "He flirted first."

"He did," Mutt agreed.

Ghost caught Mutt by the front of his shirt and yanked him down beneath a swinging bottle. Their faces ended up close, Mutt’s curls brushing the edge of Ghost’s mask.

Mutt’s eyes flicked down to Ghost’s mouth beneath the fabric. "You always this attentive?"

"Only when someone’s about to get hit."

"Could arrange that."

Ghost released him. "Already surrounded by volunteers."

Roach appeared at Ghost’s shoulder, placed one hand briefly between his shoulder blades, and guided him half a step aside before a chair smashed into the bar where he had been standing.

Ghost glanced at him.

Roach’s hand dropped. "You’re welcome."

"Thought you liked watching."

"Prefer you intact."

Ghost tilted his head. "Sweet."

Roach blinked. "Concussion."

Mutt laughed, low and brief, before catching Roach by the waist and pulling him backward from another attacker. Roach landed against Mutt’s chest with none of the surprise the movement deserved.

"You’re light," Mutt observed.

"You’re handsy."

"Complaining?"

Roach considered the arm around his middle. "Not yet."

Gaz looked over while pinning a man’s wrist against the bar with the tray. "That’s my line."

"You can both use it," Mutt said.

Soap threw both hands up. "See? Sharing. Healthy team culture."

A fist connected with Soap’s shoulder.

He turned slowly toward the man responsible. "We’re having a moment."

The man swung again.

Soap ducked, drove a fist into his stomach, and guided him face-first into a stack of empty cardboard beer boxes.

"Rude," Soap said.

Gaz stepped beside him. "You all right?"

Soap rolled his shoulder. "Kiss it better?"

Gaz looked at the bruise beginning beneath Soap’s shirt. "Ask Ghost."

Ghost caught the exchange from across the room. "Ask Roach."

Roach leaned around Mutt. "Ask Price."

Price’s voice carried over the brawl. "Ask the bloody paramedic."

Soap pressed a hand to his chest. "Nobody loves me."

Five voices answered at once.

"Unfortunately," Ghost said.

"Tragic," Gaz said.

"Debatable," Roach said.

"Needy," Mutt said.

"Move," Price ordered.

Soap beamed. "There it is."

Near the centre of the pub, Price was still attempting to stop the fight.

This effort had survived longer than anyone had any right to expect. He had already hauled one civilian backward by the collar, shoved another away from an overturned table, and planted himself between two men who seemed determined to settle a disagreement neither could still remember. Beer ran from his hair into the collar of his shirt. A red mark had begun to rise against his temple where the bottle had struck him, lending his expression the grave, weathered quality of a saint painted moments before martyrdom, except most saints had not been forced to supervise five intoxicated special forces operators flirting with each other while a football chant played through a blown speaker.

"Enough," Price barked, catching one man by the chest and driving him back a step. "Pack it in."

The man blinked at him, swaying.

Price pointed toward the door. "Out."

For one brief, astonishing instant, the civilian appeared ready to obey.

Then someone behind Price shouted, "Oi, grandad!"

Price closed his eyes.

The fist caught Price across the cheek before he could turn.

His head snapped sideways.

The pub seemed to pause around him, though only because five members of Task Force 141 had seen it happen and were collectively waiting to learn whether the man had merely made a mistake or composed his own obituary.

Price straightened slowly.

The civilian who had struck him looked pleased with himself for roughly half a second then swung again.

Price caught the fist this time.

He stared down at the man’s hand enclosed inside his own, jaw tightening with the final death of restraint. Then he looked toward the nearest wooden stool.

Price seized it by one leg.

For a heartbeat, he merely stood there with it in his hand, broad shoulders rigid, beer dripping from his beard and hair, the surviving remnants of his patience leaving his body in almost visible form.

The man tried to pull his trapped fist free.

Price released it.

The civilian stumbled backward, regained his balance, and charged.

Price swung.

The stool struck the man squarely across the back with a crack loud enough to rise above the music, the shouting, and Soap’s immediate howl of approval. Two legs splintered on impact. The seat broke free, sailed through the air in a slow, almost graceful arc, and landed in the remains of a bowl of peanuts.

The civilian folded over an overturned table with a strangled wheeze.

Price remained standing with one surviving stool leg in his hand.

Silence gathered around him in a small, reverent circle.

Soap stared as though he had just witnessed the invention of fire.

Gaz lowered the serving tray.

Roach’s mouth had opened by perhaps half an inch.

Ghost crossed his arms.

Mutt looked Price over from boots to wet hair, openly appreciative.

Price looked at the broken stool leg.

Then at the man.

Then at the shattered remains scattered across the floor.

"Right," he said, breathing hard through his nose. "Now I’m involved."

(Too long, Didn't read intro)

Leave had always sounded better in theory, as most mercies did before men were asked to inhabit them. In theory, leave was rest: the temporary surrender of weapons, timetables, encrypted briefings, sleepless flights, and that particular silence which settled into the bones of men who had spent too long listening for footsteps beyond closed doors. It was civilian clothing, food eaten before it cooled, sleep without boots beside the bed, perhaps one entire evening in which nobody bled on anything important. In theory, six members of Task Force 141 could enter a pub as ordinary men, drink as ordinary men drank, and depart before the night acquired witnesses, property damage, or a report requiring Price’s signature beneath a carefully sanitised account of events. In practice, the first mistake had been allowing Soap to choose the pub. The second had been permitting him to order the first round. The remaining mistakes followed so closely that Price stopped counting, which was unlike him and therefore should have been regarded as a warning. The pub crouched between a betting shop and a shuttered takeaway beneath a sign whose painted gold lettering had surrendered long ago to rain, tobacco, and neglect. Inside, the air was dense with old wood, spilled lager, fried onions, damp wool, and the scorched electric breath of speakers forced to labour beyond their design. A football match flickered soundlessly above the bar while men beneath it shouted advice at players who could neither hear nor benefit from it. Glass struck glass. Chairs complained across blackened floorboards. Someone near the dartboard laughed like an engine refusing to turn over.

Task Force 141 took the rear table without discussion. It offered a clear view of the entrance, the bar, both corridors leading toward the toilets, and a narrow service door Price identified as a secondary exit before removing his jacket. Even stripped of armour and insignia, they arranged themselves like men expecting trouble. Price sat with his back protected and the room spread before him, dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal shirt with the sleeves pushed back from weathered forearms. He had made a sincere effort to appear off duty. The effort had failed. He still looked as though the pub belonged to him and everyone inside had disappointed him personally. Ghost occupied the darkest corner in black jeans, a heavy hoodie, and a plain fabric mask over the lower half of his face. The bartender had stared at it. Ghost had stared back. The matter resolved itself without words. Gaz sat beside Mutt in a jacket that remained improbably clean through the first three rounds, his posture loose, his smile measured, his eyes warm with the dangerous patience of a man watching an evening become a story he intended to deny later. Roach vanished soon after entering and returned with a bowl of crisps nobody remembered ordering, his brown hair visible for once, his quiet gaze carrying more expression than the rest of him appeared willing to spend. Mutt had dressed as though civilian life required only slightly fewer concealed blades: dark trousers, worn boots, rings catching amber light whenever he lifted his glass, black curls already falling untidily over his forehead. Without his mask, the jagged scarring along the left side of his face lay open to the room, and he wore that exposure with the practised hostility of someone daring strangers to make meaning of it. By his fourth drink, however, the severity around him had loosened. His shoulders had dropped. His mouth had acquired the faintest crooked suggestion of amusement. His forearm rested against Gaz’s with a consistency neither man acknowledged. Soap, meanwhile, had arrived in a fitted shirt and jeans and spent the first hour behaving as though furniture were merely a suggestion.

"Two drinks," Price had said upon entering.

"Aye," Soap had replied with enormous sincerity. "Two each."

Price had studied him. "Two."

"Exactly what I said."

It was not what he had meant, and everyone knew it, but the first glasses arrived before Price could establish terms detailed enough to withstand Scottish interpretation. After that, the evening slipped its leash. One round became three. Three became a forest of glasses, abandoned coasters, and competing accounts of whose turn it was. Soap stole chips from Gaz’s plate while insisting they tasted different when stolen. Gaz informed him theft did not alter seasoning. Roach slid his own plate farther from Soap’s reach, waited until Soap noticed, then moved it another inch without changing expression. Ghost watched with the weary focus of a man observing a small animal repeatedly touch an electric fence. By midnight, discipline had not vanished so much as become decorative. Soap migrated from his chair to the bench beside Ghost, then from the bench to an arrangement that could only generously be described as sitting adjacent to him. One thigh lay across Ghost’s. Soap’s shoulder rested against Ghost’s chest. His arm had found its way behind the lieutenant’s neck, and he was explaining, with the conviction of a prophet and the volume of a man addressing artillery crews, why breaching charges possessed personalities.

"They do," Soap insisted. "You set enough of them, you know. Different temperaments."

"They’re explosives," Gaz said.

"That’s prejudice."

Ghost looked toward him over Soap’s shoulder. "Been saying that for years."

Soap pointed triumphantly and nearly struck him in the mask. Ghost caught his wrist and lowered it to the table.

"See?" Soap said. "Simon understands."

"Simon’s never met you."

"Simon loves me."

"Simon’s dead."

"That why he keeps lettin’ me sit here?"

Ghost regarded the arm around his neck, the leg across his thigh, and the warm Scottish weight leaning almost fully into him. "Temporary structural failure."

Soap grinned and settled more comfortably, taking the explanation as permission because alcohol had turned implication into a democratic process. Across the table, Mutt’s fingers traced the seam of Gaz’s sleeve with idle precision.

"You keep touching me," Gaz observed.

Mutt looked down at his own hand as though discovering it there. "Do I?"

"You’re doing it now."

"Seems serious."

"Potentially."

Mutt’s thumb passed once over the inside of Gaz’s wrist. "Should report it."

"To Price?"

They looked toward the captain, who was engaged in a conversation with Roach that had departed so violently from ordinary language that neither man could presently be trusted with authority.

"What I’m saying," Price explained with solemn conviction, "is the operation was absolutely giving."

Roach considered this. "Giving what?"

"Giving tactical."

Roach nodded once. "Valid."

Gaz lowered his head into one hand. Soap stared in horrified delight.

"Captain, no."

Price pointed at him. "Don’t kill the vibe."

Ghost went perfectly still. Mutt’s forehead dipped briefly toward Gaz’s shoulder. Roach reached for his drink with the serenity of a man observing civilisation collapse according to schedule.

"You can’t say that," Soap whispered.

"I just did."

"You said it wrong."

"Language evolves."

"Not like that."

Price sat back with the dignity of a decorated officer who had survived a linguistic assassination attempt. "Sounds like a skill issue."

For a while, the night remained harmless in the way only dangerous men could make recklessness appear harmless. Soap laughed until he lost the thread of his own stories. Ghost steadied every drink he nearly spilled, denying it even while doing it. Roach answered Price in phrases borrowed from people ten years younger than either of them. Mutt remained angled toward Gaz, close enough that their shoulders touched whenever either moved. Gaz never shifted away. Then a bottle broke across the room. The sound cut through the music with the unmistakable violence of glass meeting bone, and six drunken bodies went still. Not sober. Not entirely. But still. Soap’s grin remained while everything behind it sharpened. Ghost’s hand tightened once at his waist. Gaz tracked hands, exits, distance, numbers. Mutt’s fingers stopped against Gaz’s sleeve. Roach turned his head by degrees. Price set down his glass. Across the pub, one man staggered backward with blood running from his temple while another clutched the broken neck of a bottle and shouted something about money, cheating, or a woman named Claire. Chairs scraped away. Companions rose. The bartender swore and reached beneath the bar.

"Not our business," Price said.

Soap’s eyebrows climbed.

Price looked at him. "Not. Our. Business."

"Aye, Captain."

"That sounded dishonest."

"It was deeply honest."

For several astonishing seconds, they obeyed. Then the man holding the broken bottle noticed them watching. His gaze travelled over Ghost’s mask, Soap draped across him, Mutt seated too close to Gaz, and Price’s exhausted authority. Something ugly and delighted entered his face.

"What’re you lot staring at?"

No one answered.

He mistook restraint for fear, as drunk men often did shortly before learning something educational.

"Bootlicking poofs."

Soap began to rise. He did not get far. Mutt caught his forearm while Ghost locked an arm around his middle, holding him firmly against his chest.

"No," Mutt said.

"He just called us—"

"I heard."

"Then let go."

"No."

Soap turned toward Ghost. "Tell him."

"Sit down, Johnny."

"I am sitting."

"You’re hovering."

"MacTavish," Price said.

Soap froze.

"Sit."

With Mutt holding one arm and Ghost securing the rest of him, Soap returned to the bench with the offended dignity of a man betrayed by friendship and physics.

"He isn’t worth the paperwork," Mutt told him.

"I don’t do paperwork."

"Exactly."

"You’re on Ghost’s lap," Roach added.

Soap looked down at Ghost’s hand spread across his waist. "And?"

Roach ate another crisp. "Nothing."

Across the room, the bleeding man acquired a fresh bottle and threw it. It missed its intended target, clipped a hanging lamp, changed course with the malicious creativity of an object aware of narrative timing, and struck Price in the side of the head with a hollow, magnificent thunk. It did not shatter. It bounced across the table and rolled onto the floor. The pub fell silent. Beer ran from Price’s hair, down his cheek, and into the collar of his shirt. Soap stared. Gaz closed his eyes. Roach looked from the bottle to Price. Ghost lifted Soap from his lap and set him upright like a handler preparing to release an excitable animal.

Soap whispered, reverent with delight, "He’s fucked."

"Johnny," Gaz murmured.

"He is."

Price turned slowly. The man who had thrown the bottle raised both hands.

"Wasn’t aiming for you, mate."

Price wiped beer from his face. "Appreciate the clarification."

For one breath, restraint appeared possible. Then the original attacker swung again, missed, and punched his own friend. Someone shoved back. Drinks toppled. A chair overturned. The bartender emerged with a broom handle and struck the wrong person. The pub exploded. Soap laughed and vaulted the bench.

"MacTavish!" Price barked.

"Too late, Captain!"

Gaz moved after him. "That is not an excuse!"

"It’s a timeline!"

Soap drove a man across a table. Roach appeared beside Gaz, caught a chair aimed at him, and redirected it into its owner’s knees.

"Cheers," Gaz said.

"Teamwork makes the dream work."

"You need to stop talking to Price."

"Low-key impossible."

A fist passed Roach’s face. He hooked the attacker’s ankle and dropped him into a pile of coats. Gaz caught Roach by the hoodie before his momentum carried him backward.

"Careful," Gaz said, steadying him at the waist. "Wouldn’t want anything happening to that face."

Roach blinked. "You noticed."

"Hard not to."

Ghost entered the fight without enthusiasm and with devastating efficiency, folding one man over the bar while Mutt moved behind him. Their backs met, each trusting the other with the space he could not see.

"Left," Ghost said.

"I know."

"Then move."

"I was waiting for you to notice."

"You’re pressed against me."

Mutt shifted deliberately closer. "Complaining?"

"Not yet."

Soap heard them while ducking a punch. "You can’t flirt with him while I’m right here."

Mutt glanced over. "Jealous?"

"Deeply."

Ghost caught Soap by the shirt and pulled him clear of another fist. Soap stumbled against his chest.

"Knew you wanted me."

"Wanted you conscious."

"Same thing when you’re shy."

Ghost released him into Gaz, who caught Soap around the waist while blocking a bottle with a metal tray.

"Take me somewhere nice first," Soap said.

"Hospital, if you keep turning your back on people."

"Romantic."

Near the centre of the pub, Price was still attempting to stop the fight, because apparently optimism survived even repeated blunt-force trauma.

"Enough!" he roared, hauling one civilian backward. "Pack it in!"

Someone behind him shouted, "Oi, grandad!"

Price closed his eyes.

The fist struck him across the cheek. His head snapped sideways. The five members of 141 who saw it paused together, waiting to learn whether the civilian had merely made a mistake or composed his own obituary. Price straightened. The man swung again. Price caught his fist, looked at him, then looked toward the nearest wooden stool.

Soap inhaled sharply. "Gaz."

"I see it."

"He’s going for the stool."

"Pay up."

Price seized it by one leg. For a heartbeat, he stood with it in his hand, broad shoulders rigid, beer dripping from his beard and hair, the last remnants of his patience leaving his body in almost visible form. The civilian charged. Price swung. The stool struck him across the back with a crack loud enough to rise above the music and Soap’s howl of approval. Two legs splintered. The seat sailed through the air and landed among the peanuts. The civilian folded over a table. Price remained standing with one surviving stool leg in his hand. Silence gathered around him in a small, reverent circle. Soap stared as though he had witnessed the invention of fire. Gaz lowered the tray. Roach’s mouth opened by perhaps half an inch. Ghost crossed his arms. Mutt looked Price over from boots to wet hair with open appreciation. Price examined the broken stool, then the man, then the wreckage around them.

"Right," he said, breathing hard through his nose. "Now I’m involved."