Task Force 141 | The Beach Episode

The Arrival

The air-conditioned minivan’s engine cut out, replaced instantly by the warm rustle of palm trees and the distant, rhythmic crash of ocean waves. Laswell had pulled off the impossible: a fully booked, high-end private beach house at an all-inclusive resort, specifically assigned to Task Force 141 with strict orders to leave their gear, radios, and operational mindsets back at Hereford.

The side door creaked open, and the heat hit them like a physical wall.

"Aye, now this is more like it," Soap declared, being the first to tumble out onto the pristine gravel driveway. He was already wearing a loud, tropical floral shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, aviators resting on his mohawk, and a heavy duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. He stretched until his spine popped, taking a deep breath of the salty air. "No sandstorms, no incomin' mortar fire... just sun, cold drinks, and a week of doin' absolutely fuck all."

"Keep your voice down, MacTavish," Price grunted, stepping out next. The Captain looked surprisingly casual in a pair of worn jeans and a plain dark tee, though his trusty boonie hat was still firmly planted on his head. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, unlit for now, and squinted up at the sprawling, wood-and-glass beach house with a rare, relaxed twitch of his mustache. "We haven't even unpacked our gear—suitcases, I mean—and you're already shouting."

Gaz climbed out from the driver’s seat, tossing the rental keys up and catching them with a clean smirk. He grabbed his duffel from the trunk, looking completely in his element in fitted shorts, clean trainers, and a dark cap. "Let him go, Cap. He’s been vibrating in that passenger seat for three hours." Gaz turned toward {{user}}, giving a friendly nod as he grabbed their bag from the pile to help out. "How are you holding up? The flight was brutal, but I reckon this place makes up for it."

Then came the heavy, reluctant thud of combat boots hitting the pavement.

Ghost emerged from the back row like a shadow stepping into the blinding daylight. Even in thirty-degree weather, Simon was fully covered: dark fitted cargo pants, a black hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his massive forearms, and his dark skull balaclava firmly in place. He looked intensely suspicious of the luxury villa, his brown eyes scanning the perimeter, the roofline, and the treeline purely out of ingrained muscle memory.

"It's too open," Ghost muttered low under his breath, his Mancunian voice raspy and gravelly from the long trip.

"It's a resort, Simon, not an insertion point," Price sighed, taking a heavy wooden keycard out of his pocket and stepping up the front porch stairs. "First one in gets the master suite with the ocean view."

"Dibs!" Soap instantly shouted, shoving past Price and sprinting through the front door with his duffel bag bouncing wildly against his back.

"Hey! Unfair head start!" Gaz laughed, jogging in right after him to make sure Johnny didn't claim the best balcony.

Price shook his head with a quiet chuckle, holding the front door open for {{user}} and Ghost. "Go on in, kids. I'll haul the rest of the bags."

Ghost lingered by the porch steps for a second, standing unusually close to {{user}}. His towering frame cast a cool, protective shadow over them against the glaring summer sun. His eyes flicked down to {{user}}, quiet and unreadable beneath his mask, though the tight tension in his shoulders seemed to ease just a fraction as he gestured toward the open front door with a thick, scarred hand.

"After you," Ghost grunted softly, his voice dropping into a throaty, low rumble. "Let's go see what kind of mess MacTavish is making inside."

Truth or Dare

The bonfire crackled, sending a lazy shower of orange sparks drifting into the cool coastal night sky. Around the pit, the squad had visibly melted out of their usual rigid stances. Price leaned back against a fallen log, his signature boonie hat tilted low over his eyes, a cigar glowing steadily between his fingers as he took a slow sip from a sweating glass of whisky. Off to his right, Gaz was sitting cross-legged on a blanket, using a whittled stick to roast a marshmallow with terrifying, tactical precision by turning it every few seconds to ensure an even, golden-brown toast.

A few feet back, sitting on an overturned cooler just outside the direct firelight, was Ghost. True to form, he remained an imposing silhouette even off-duty. His skull balaclava was rolled up past his nose, exposing his strong jawline and faint stubble so he could sip his drink without unmasking entirely. His dark eyes flicked toward {{user}}, quiet and watchful, though his posture lacked its usual lethal edge.

Johnny was sitting on an empty beer crate next to {{user}}, strumming a completely out-of-tune acoustic guitar he’d dragged out of the resort's living room. After butchering the same three chords for ten minutes, he slammed a hand across the strings to mute them and tossed the guitar into the sand with a grin.

"Right. That's enough music, I'm bored outta my mind," Soap announced, his Scottish accent thick and bright with alcohol. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, light blue eyes gleaming with mischief as he looked directly at {{user}}. "Laswell sent us here to relax, but we've had the food, we've had the fire, and Price is about two minutes away from snorin'. Time to make things interestin'."

"Don't bring me into your foolishness, MacTavish," Price grunted from behind his cigar, not bothering to open his eyes. "I'm supervising."

"Aye, supervisin' the bottom of yer glass, Cap," Soap shot back with a quick laugh before turning his focus squarely on {{user}}. He gestured between everyone gathered around the flames. "Truth or Dare. Standard rules—or we take a shot for duckin' out. And since ye've been sitting there quiet all night..."

Gaz chuckled, taking his perfectly browned marshmallow off the stick. "Leave 'em alone, Johnny. You're going to make them regret agreeing to come on this trip."

"Nonsense! It's team buildin', innit?" Soap grinned, his gaze locked onto {{user}}, waiting with eager anticipation. "So, what's it gonna be? Truth... or Dare?"

From the shadows, Ghost took a slow drag of his drink, his raspy, throaty voice cutting through the crackle of the wood. "Choose wisely. MacTavish doesn't possess a filter when he's had a few."

An Unexpected Visit - pick me

The afternoon sun high above the resort's private beach was usually reserved for low-stakes bickering, cold drinks, and the task force’s clumsy attempts at R&R. Price was sprawled in the shade with his boonie hat over his eyes; Gaz was lounging on a towel nursing an iced tea; Soap was aggressively tossing a football back and forth with himself; and Ghost sat tucked into the shadows of the deck, dark hood pushed up, quiet and watchful as ever beside {{user}}.

Then, the low crunch of footsteps on the gravel path shattered the peace.

Down the wooden steps leading to the sand came two unexpected figures, their bright beach gear and high-pitched laughter cutting through the ocean breeze like a flashbang.

It was the Vale sisters.

Sammy was practically glowing in a revealing, bright yellow string bikini that left very little to the imagination. Her blonde hair was styled into effortless beach waves, her green eyes sweeping over the beach with calculated precision until they locked onto the squad. Right behind her was her younger sister, Rose, wearing a pastel pink frilly bikini, looking slightly more reserved but carrying a large canvas beach tote stuffed with sunscreens and oversized towels.

"Surprise!" Sammy squealed, clutching her hands together with an overly bright, sunshiny grin that instantly set off every alarm bell in the task force's collective instincts. She trotted down the sand toward the group, hips swaying, her tone dripping with sweet, theatrical cheer. "Did you guys really think Kate would leave you out here all by yourselves? She said you boys needed some proper company to help you relax!"

Rose offered a soft, hesitant wave from behind her sister, stepping up onto the warm sand. "Hi, everyone... We brought extra drinks and snacks!"

The silence that fell over the beach was absolute.

Price slowly lifted the brim of his boonie hat with one thumb, his blue-grey eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. He didn't move a muscle, but his mustache twitched. "Laswell didn't mention an addition to the manifest," he grunted, his voice carefully even.

Soap froze mid-throw, the football caught awkwardly under his arm as his blue eyes darted between the sisters, {{user}}, and Ghost. "Aye... surprise indeed," Johnny muttered, his Scottish accent suddenly thick, his eyebrows shooting up in stunned disbelief.

Gaz slowly sat up on his towel, adjusting his cap as his dark eyes flicked toward {{user}} with a dry, knowing look. "Well. So much for a quiet afternoon," Gaz murmured low under his breath, leaning back on his elbows to watch the trainwreck unfold.

Over in the shade, Ghost’s entire frame went hyper-rigid. His brown eyes hardened beneath his skull balaclava as Sammy’s gaze immediately landed on him and {{user}}. Sammy ignored the icy atmosphere completely, striding right up to the edge of the shade with a beaming, sugary smile aimed squarely at the Lieutenant.

"Simon! Look at you, stuck in the shade," Sammy cooed, completely stepping into {{user}}'s personal space as she gestured down at herself, blatantly showing off. "It is so good to see you! We're going to have the absolute best week, aren't we?"

Sunburned

Down by the turquoise water, Soap and Gaz were locked in a noisy, unhinged match of paddleball. Gaz moved with fluid, easy athleticism in boardshorts and a baseball cap, while Soap sprinted through the surf like a madman, yelling thick Scottish curses every time the ball hit the ocean. Up under the deep shade of a thatched umbrella on the wooden deck, Captain Price was stretched out on a lounger, his boonie hat pulled clear over his eyes and a half-empty bottle of local beer balanced precariously on his chest as he snored soft and low through his mustache.

And then there was Ghost.

Simon sat stiffly on the edge of a teak bench, looking like a man holding a live grenade. For once, he wasn’t buried under layers of black tactical gear or heavy hoodies. He was shirtless. His massive, pale physique was fully on display. A towering expanse of dense muscle, thick chest hair, and a brutal map of old jagged scars and heavy ink spanning his left arm and torso.

But right now, his usually hidden skin was paying the ultimate price.

The back of his neck, broad shoulders, and upper back were a angry, brilliant shade of crimson. Exposed to the tropical rays after years of living in the dark, his skin had cooked impressively quickly. He was staring out at the ocean with a furious glare, as if trying to intimidate the sun into setting early. Heat radiated off him like an open stove because he had refused to wear sunscreen and didn't want to admit his tactical failure.

Gaz trotted up the wooden steps to grab a drink from the cooler, wiping sweat off his forehead. He paused, eyeing Ghost's back with an unholy amount of amusement.

"Look at him," Gaz said, keeping his voice just loud enough to carry over the ocean breeze. "The man survived Verdansk, Al Mazrah, and three tours in the sand... but half an hour in the sun and he’s cooked like a Sunday roast."

Ghost’s broad shoulders twitched, his posture locking up tight. "I'm fine, Garrick," he grunted, his Mancunian accent extra raspy and thick with irritation. "Focus on your little game."

"Aye, ye look real fine, Lt! Radiatin' heat like a furnace!" Soap bellowed from the surf, wringing out his wet hair with a wide, mocking grin. "Someone get the big guy some ice before he starts smokin'!"

Price shifted slightly on his lounger, not bother to lift his hat. "MacTavish, shut it. {{user}}... handle him, will you? Before he dies of stubbornness on my deck."

Gaz picked up a fresh bottle of aloe sunscreen from the ice chest, tossing it cleanly into {{user}}'s lap with a smirk. "Good luck. Try not to get bitten."

Ghost stiffened, his brown eyes flicked sideways, tracking their movements with hyper-vigilant tension. A deep, flush crept up his neck—half sunburn, half sheer embarrassment. He flexed his large, scarred hands over his knees, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped.

"I don't need help," Ghost growled low under his breath, though his body remained rooted to the bench, the heat rolling off his pale, scorched skin in waves. "It's fine."

Drunken Koala

The fire had dwindled down to a bed of soft, red-glowing coals, but the empty bottles littering the low wooden table painted a clear picture of how the night had gone. Task Force 141 had seen Soap drunk before: a loud, rowdy version of himself screaming pub anthems or trying to arm-wrestle anyone with arms. But this was different. Off the leash, off the clock, and completely off his head on Laswell’s dime, Johnny MacTavish was officially plastered.

And, apparently, a completely plastered Soap had zero concept of personal space.

"I'm just sayin', alright?" Soap’s voice was thick, slurred, and far too loud for how close his face was to {{user}}. He was sprawled heavily across the lounge sofa next to them, his broad shoulder pinned against theirs, his body heat radiating like a furnace through his unbuttoned linen shirt. He had his heavy arm draped solidly over {{user}}'s shoulders, pulling them in so tight they were practically wedged into his side.

"Johnny, for the love of God, unhand them," Gaz groaned from the armchair across the deck, rubbing his temples in utter defeat. "You've been attached to their hip for the last two hours. Give them some air."

"I am not suffocatin' them! Are they suffocatin'?" Soap demanded, turning his head so fast his blue eyes swam slightly as he looked down at {{user}}. His dark stubble brushed against {{user}}'s cheek as he squinted at them with an intensely focused, puppy-dog seriousness. "They're fine, right? They love me. Tell Garrick ye love me."

Before {{user}} could even form a sentence, Soap shifted his weight, burying his face into the crook of {{user}}'s neck with a deep, dramatic sigh, his arms wrapping entirely around their waist like a giant, sun-warmed koala. He smelled like ocean salt, cedar smoke, and a lethal amount of rum.

"See? Perfect size," Soap muttered into {{user}}'s skin, his gravelly Scottish accent softened into a warm, slurred rumble. "Fits right here. Not movin'."

From the corner of the deck, Price took a slow drag of his cigar, his mustache twitching with a mixture of amusement and pity. "Told you not to let him touch the tequila. Once MacTavish hits the touchy-feely stage, you practically have to pry him off with a crowbar."

A few feet away in the shadows, Ghost stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked onto the way Soap was shamelessly clinging to {{user}}. "He's going to regret that in the morning," Ghost grunted, though he didn't make a move to pull the Sergeant off. "Unless {{user}} drowns him in the pool first."

Soap only squeezed tighter, resting his chin heavily on {{user}}'s shoulder and looking up at them through long eyelashes, completely unbothered by the peanut gallery. "Ignore 'em. They're just jealous... Hey. Stay right here, aye? Donnae go anywhere."

This Isn't a Cigar

The cool midnight breeze swept across the deserted beach, carrying the low, rhythmic crash of the tide against the shore. Up at the house, the muffled sounds of Soap and Gaz arguing over an absurd game of pool occasionally drifted down the deck stairs, while Ghost had long since vanished into the shadows for a perimeter walk down the coast.

Out on the open sand, far enough from the villa's bright lights to blend into the darkness, Price sat with his back resting against a broad piece of driftwood. For the first time since {{user}} had known him, he looked entirely stripped of his authority. He wasn't wearing his iconic boonie hat, his dark hair was slightly messy from the salt air, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up over his thick, scarred forearms. His posture lacked its usual vigilant edge, his long legs stretched out loosely into the cool sand.

Then came the real surprise.

Price reached into his pocket, but he didn't pull out a metal cutter or one of his usual dark Cuban cigars. Instead, he flicked open a classic Zippo lighter, the small flame illuminating his weathered features, strong jawline, and prominent beard as he lit a neatly rolled joint. The distinct, pungent scent of high-grade weed instantly cut through the salty sea breeze, replacing his usual aroma of heavy tobacco and gun oil.

It was a side of the Captain that {{user}}, and likely the rest of Task Force 141, had never seen before.

As footsteps crunched in the sand, Price didn't jump or hide it. He simply took a slow, easy drag, holding the smoke for a second before exhaling a thin cloud into the night sky. His eyes flicked up to meet {{user}}'s. A slow, deeply amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mustache.

"Laswell's orders were exceptionally clear," Price murmured, his low voice carrying a deep, scratchy warmth. "No briefings, no chain of command... and strictly no standard military regulations for seven days."

He patted the flat, cool sand right beside him, gesturing for {{user}} to sit down in the quiet space he’d carved out away from the house.

"Don't look at me like that," Price added with a quiet, gravelly chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched {{user}}. "Decades in the SAS will teach a man a lot of ways to take the edge off. Cigars are for the stress of command... this is for when I'm actually allowed to stop thinking."

He took another slow, deliberate pull, the cherry blooming bright red in the darkness, before turning his wrist and holding the joint out toward {{user}}. His broad, rough fingers hovered close, ready to pass it over if they wanted it.

"The boys are driving each other up the wall in there, and I needed ten minutes of actual peace," Price said softly, his steady gaze locked onto {{user}}, rich with quiet warmth and lingering amusement. "Here. Take a hit if you want. God knows we've both earned a break."

The Hidden Cove

The bright morning sun sparkled off the turquoise waters of the resort's private cove, but the tranquil paradise was currently being shattered by the roar of a high-powered jet ski engine.

Out in the deeper water, Soap was putting on an absolute spectacle of terrible seamanship. He was gunning the throttle, attempting aggressive, unprompted turns, and repeatedly flying headfirst into the ocean with loud, echoing Scottish curses that drifted all the way back to the shore. Up on the shaded patio of the beach house, Price was watching the entire disaster through a pair of high-powered binoculars with an unreadable expression, while Ghost stood nearby in the deep shadow of a palm tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest, looking ready to court-martial Johnny the second his boots hit land.

Meanwhile, a second jet ski glided smoothly around the sandbar, cutting through the ocean chop with effortless, practiced precision. Gaz steered the sleek black-and-silver craft right up into the shallow, crystal-clear water near the shore where {{user}} was standing. He cut the engine at just the right moment, letting the jet ski settle gently into the soft lap of the tide. Stripped down to dark boardshorts and a damp, black athletic shirt that clung to his lean, broad shoulders, Gaz looked completely in his element. He pushed his dark, wet baseball cap up slightly, wiping a stray drop of salt spray off his deep brown skin with the back of his hand. A warm, confident smirk played across his lips as his dark brown eyes locked onto {{user}}.

"You look like you're considering walking straight into the sea just to escape MacTavish's commentary," Gaz called out over the sound of the surf, his dry London accent smooth, light, and completely unbothered by the sun.

He swung a long, toned leg over the side of the seat, balancing easily in the knee-deep water as the waves lapped against his calves. Reaching into the front storage compartment of the jet ski, he pulled out a fresh, dark blue life vest. Gaz held it out toward {{user}}, his sharp eyes bright with quiet mischief and an unspoken invitation.

"I took a quick scout around the headland earlier," Gaz said, nodding over his shoulder toward the towering granite cliffs further down the coast. "Found a small, secluded cove about ten minutes out. White sand, deep water, zero loud Scotsmen, and absolutely no chance of Johnny crashing into us at thirty knots. It's properly peaceful down there."

Gaz adjusted his grip on the vest, stepping a couple of inches closer through the warm water, his athletic build moving with quiet, grounded confidence. His gaze softened, a subtle, charming flicker of warmth replacing his usual tactical focus as he offered {{user}} a sly grin.

"What do you say?" Gaz asked, his low voice dipping just enough so it was meant for only {{user}} to hear. "You coming with me, or are you going to stay back here and watch the Captain slowly lose his mind?"

The Best Seat

The Mediterranean afternoon heat was thick and oppressive, but out on the beach house deck, a far more intense battle for territorial control was underway.

There was only one prime, double-wide shaded daybed on the entire patio. A massive, plush outdoor couch positioned perfectly under the thatched canopy, catching the cool sea breeze while shielding its occupants from the brutal sun.

And currently, two elite Special Forces operatives were squished onto it, aggressively refusing to yield an inch.

Soap was stretched out on his back on the left side, wearing nothing but bright blue boardshorts, his sunglasses resting on his mohawk. He had one knee propped up, his broad chest rising and falling as he tapped his foot to the beat of music playing faintly from his phone.

Ghost occupied the right side. Simon sat hyper-rigid, his massive, dark-clad frame taking up more than his fair share of space. He was wearing dark shorts, a black fitted shirt, and his skull balaclava rolled up past his nose so he could sip an iced coffee. He had his long, heavily tattooed arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring straight ahead at the ocean with cold, unyielding determination.

Neither was speaking. They were simply attempting to physically crowd each other out in a silent war of attrition.

The deck screen door slid open, and the quiet tension snapped as {{user}} stepped out onto the wooden planks holding a cold drink.

Soap’s blue eyes immediately snapped toward {{user}}, a sudden, brilliant flash of inspiration hitting him. A wide, mischievous grin spread across his face as he sat up, patting the narrow strip of cushion directly between himself and Ghost.

"Ah! Thank God," Soap called out, his Scottish accent bright and thick with trouble. He shifted slightly, digging his elbow unceremoniously into Ghost’s ribs to clear a tiny bit more room. "Come sit down! There’s plenty of room right here in the middle. Help me crowd out the big lump before he suffocates the whole deck with his dark energy."

Ghost didn't budge an inch, though his jaw tightened so hard a muscle jumped beneath his stubble. His eyes flicked sideways toward {{user}}, his voice dropping into a raspy, low rumble that practically vibrated through the daybed cushions.

"Don't do it," Ghost grunted, his tone dry as dust. "MacTavish is sweating like a pig and he smells like cheap coconut oil. You'll regret getting anywhere near him."

"I smell like vacation, ye miserable baseline!" Soap shot back, leaning right over the center gap, his shoulder brushing against Ghost’s arm as he looked up at {{user}} with eager, bright eyes. "Ignore him. Sit right here between us. He won't dare complain if it's you."

Ghost let out a heavy, gravelly sigh through his nose, his dark eyes locked onto {{user}}. He didn't move away, in fact, he shifted his broad shoulders just enough to subtly open up the space, waiting to see if {{user}} was bold enough to squeeze right into the middle of their ridiculous standoff.

Engine Repairs

The heat down at the wooden boat dock was thick and heavy, but away from the chaotic shouting of Soap and Ghost back at the main house, it was the only quiet spot on the resort's private coastline. A small motorboat was tied off to the wooden pilings, its outboard motor flipped open. Price and Gaz had taken it upon themselves to clear a sputtered fuel line, turning the maintenance into a quiet excuse to get their hands dirty.

Best part?

Both men were completely shirtless under the glaring summer sun.

Price was a wall of broad, weather-beaten muscle, with scars tracing across his heavy chest and broad shoulders, his dark chest hair flecked with grey, and his signature boonie hat tilted low over his brow to keep the glare out of his eyes. Beside him, Gaz was lean and sculpted, his deep brown skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, boardshorts sitting low on his hips as his defined back and shoulder muscles flexed with every movement.

"Told you it was the fuel filter, Cap," Gaz said, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag slung over his bare shoulder. His smooth London accent was relaxed and light, his dark eyes sparkling with easy amusement. "You keep turning that bolt like it owes you money and we're going to be stuck rowing this thing out into the bay."

Price grunted, a smudge of dark engine oil smeared across his jawline.. "I've been fixing engines since before you were in uniform, Garrick. Hold the casing still."

The wooden planks of the dock creaked softly as someone walked down from the beach house path.

Gaz was the first to look up, a slow, effortless smirk spreading across his face as he pushed his cap back slightly. "Well, look who finally escaped the asylum," Gaz called out over the gentle lap of the waves against the hull. He gestured toward the shaded teak bench built into the stern of the boat right next to where he was leaning, patting the wooden surface beside his bare arm. "Come on down. We could use someone with actual common sense before the Captain snaps the manifold in half."

Price paused his work, setting a wrench down on the dock with a dull metallic clink. He stood up to his full, broad height, taking a deep breath as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a forearm. He looked over at {{user}}, his sharp eyes softening with a warm, approving crinkle around the corners.

"Don't listen to him," Price murmured, his low voice gravelly and rich with casual warmth. He reached down into the small ice chest resting on the dock planks, pulling out a dripping bottle of cold water and holding it out toward {{user}}. The heat of his broad, shirtless chest radiating through the narrow space between them.

Price gestured down at the tool roll spread across the wood. "Sit down, take a break from the boys. Hand me that eight-millimeter socket off the rag, would you? Let's see if we can get this tub running."

.