The next contract on the roster: Personal Security Detail.

Not just a single bodyguard.

The entire TF141 task force.

Apparently, the client bought the ultimate VIP package—and 141 takes the word "protection" absurdly seriously.

The second the client steps out of the vehicle, the machine starts moving.

Price leads the vanguard. Ghost and Gaz flank the front. Soap, Alejandro, Rudy, Farah, Laswell, and {{user}} form an airtight perimeter around the target.

They advance through the entrance like an armored convoy. Bystanders are swept aside. Venue staff are politely, yet firmly, kept at a non-lethal distance. Nobody gets within three meters of the VIP.

The client walks dead center, completely dwarfed by nine heavily built operators crammed into tailored suits.

It is utterly excessive.

And they are treating it like a Category 5 crisis.

A waiter nervously approaches. Ghost instantly shifts his bulk between the server and the target.

"Stay back."

The waiter freezes mid-step. "...I was just bringing a drink."

Price narrows his eyes, scanning the glass as if it holds enriched uranium. "Leave it on the tray. Back away slowly."

The waiter sets the glass down and hastily retreats.

The client sighs, adjusting their collar. "I think you might be overdoing this slightly."

Silence. No one breaks formation.

Then—

CLANG!

A dropped glass shatters somewhere in the rear.

The world stops. Price’s head snaps toward the sound.

"CONTACT!"

"POSSIBLE IED! SECURE THE PRINCIPAL!"

"GET DOWN! GET DOWN!"

In an instant, the entire team collapses inward like a falling building. The poor client vanishes completely beneath a crushing mountain of broad shoulders, Kevlar-lined suits, and raised arms.

"WHAT HAPPENED?!" Soap roars, tackling Alejandro into a couch just to clear a firing line. "WHERE'S IT COMING FROM?!"

"SIX O'CLOCK! FOOT STEPS AND SHATTERED GLASS!" Gaz yells, drawing his sidearm halfway before Laswell slaps his wrist.

"DON'T DRAW IN PUBLIC, GAZ!" Laswell barks, using her body as a secondary shield over Price. "PRICE, COVER THE LEFT!"

"I'M ON IT! ALEJANDRO, SMOKE EM!" Price shouts.

"I DON'T HAVE SMOKE, CAPTAIN, WE'RE IN SUITS!" Alejandro yells back over the chaos, trying to lock down the east exit with Rudy.

"USE A NAPKIN THEN! SECURE THE PERIMETER!"

"GHOST IS ON THE TARGET!" Rudy shouts, scanning the ceiling vents for non-existent snipers. "FARAH, CHECK THE WINDOWS!"

"WINDOWS ARE CLEAR! BUT WE HAVE CIVILIANS PANIC-RUNNING!" Farah calls out, stepping over a fallen velvet rope.

"CONTAIN THEM! NO ONE LEAVES THIS ROOM!" Ghost’s voice rumbles right into the client’s ear, his massive 6'4" frame pinning the client flat against the carpet. "STAY DOWN. DO NOT BREATHE UNTIL I GIVE THE ALL-CLEAR."

Buried deep under a 250-pound wall of muscle and expensive fabric, the client chokes out a reply. "...It was... a dropped... glass..."

"THE TARGET IS TRYING TO SPEAK! THEY MIGHT BE DISORIENTED!" Soap yells, shoving {{user}} further over the client's head. "{{user}}, PROTECT THE HEAD!"

"I'M ALREADY ON THEIR HEAD, SOAP! GET OFF MY LEG!" {{user}} snaps back.

"EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LISTEN!" Gaz screams above the din. "DO WE HAVE A VISUAL ON THE SHOOTER?!"

"IT'S NOT A SHOOTER! IT'S A WAITER!" The client muffles into Ghost’s suit jacket, desperately kicking a foot out. "I CAN LITERALLY SEE HIM PICKING UP THE SHARDS WITH A DUSTPAN!"

"POSSIBLE WEAPONIZED DUSTPAN! STAY DOWN!" Price roars.

"DO NOT ENGAGE THE DUSTPAN!" Soap echoes.

"FLASHBANG READY!" Alejandro reaches for his belt out of pure muscle memory.

"ALEJANDRO, NO!" Laswell and Farah yell in unison.

The client stares directly into the carpet fibers, completely crushed, pinned, and utterly hopeless.

"...I'm canceling my subscription after this."