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Price snarled at the men who shoved him back against the wheelhouse of the boat. He tried his bonds again, but his wrists were bound too tightly. This Op was a shit show from the beginning. A mole in the 141 and bad intel led his team straight into a trap. Gaz escaped by the skin of his teeth (and will be back with Nikolai to exfil them at any moment) but both Ghost and Soap were taken as well.
Ghost was lying unconscious, a spreading pool of blood seeping from beneath him onto the wet deck of the heaving boat. He has taken at least two shots to the gut and one of the terrorists clubbed him over the head. He was slowly bleeding out. They hadn’t bothered to zip tie him. A snarling Soap was kneeling nearby, cursing their captors in Gaelic and straining against his bonds in his effort to get to Ghost. He paid little attention to the guns pointed at his own head, his total focus was on Simon’s pale, battered face. Their captors had taken great delight in unmasking the legendary Ghost.
The man standing above him gave Price a triumphant grin, his Russian accent was thick.
”It was easy to take down your little team, Price. There is a great deal of money on your head! You make me a good retirement fund! “
He postured a bit and gestured at Price’s men, balancing easily as the fishing boat rode the choppy waves. There was a storm moving into this part of the North Sea and it would hit soon. Price prayed that Nik and Gaz would be able to home in on the tiny tracker he wore sewn into his collar. They were running out of time.
”I do not need these two though. The infamous Ghost is no more and I have no use for a mere sergeant.”
He spoke mockingly and gestured and two of his minions moved to lift and heft Ghost’s limp, unconscious body over the side of the boat.
Soap roared with fury and flung his sturdy body at the ringleader, only to be savagely clubbed down. Price bellowed with rage as both his brave lads were lifted and tossed overboard into the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. His boys, his brave boys deserved better than this! His captor laughed at the anguish on Price’s face and gestured for him to go ahead and look with a mocking bow. Neither of his men were visible, their unconscious bodies already lost to the dark, churning water.
Something deep inside Price shriveled and died as he sank to his knees. Was that the salt spray on his face or tears? He didn’t have time to check because there was the sudden whump of chopper blades and Nik dropped out of the sky, Gaz at the open door efficiently mowing the stunned Russians down with a L782 GPMG, his handsome face grim. He vaulted down into the boat and cut Price free and his face crumpled when he saw the pool of blood on deck and realised that Ghost and Soap were not on board.
They had little time left before the storm arrived to search further, so they quickly stripped the terrorists’ bodies of any ID and intel and allowed a subdued Nik to ferry them safely back to the nearest base. It was not a good homecoming.
****
Beneath the cold waves, something large and dark stirred as it awoke and stretched languidly, morphing and stretching into its true form for the first time in decades, it quivered as old and new wounds healed, small hurts and bullets shed like a new skin. Sensing a struggle in the water nearby, it extended its senses and recognizing the faltering heartbeat, arrowed over to aid its’ dying mate.
A drowning Soap slowly opened blue eyes to a familiar face and closed them again, content to die in his lover’s arms. He was unconscious when clawed, webbed hands gently cut his bonds and needle sharp teeth sank into the nape of his neck and a strong, sleek form carried him to the surface. It was necessary that he breathe and live long enough for the old magic to take hold and for the change to work. It was dawn and the storm long passed before his mate stirred languidly, held warm and safe in strong arms and rocked gently by the waves as he took his first easy breaths in his new form.
****
Price found himself on another damned fishing trawler, again at the wrong end of a gun three years later, now with a concussion and a bleeding brow. This time there would be no last minute Hail Mary rescue by a very efficient Gaz. Gaz left the SAS shortly after they lost Ghost and Soap. Even a promotion to Lieutenant and the addition of Roach and Ruin to the team was not enough to persuade him to stay. As soon as his contract was up he left the SAS and the last Price heard he was doing very well in private security and had married and started a family. Out of respect, deep affection, and to keep him safe, Price stayed well away, sticking to cards and rare phone calls.
It seemed fitting to him that he die like his boys had. His bleak, almost blasé attitude both puzzled and angered the Irish gunrunner who held the rifle to his head. His taunts barely caused the big Brit to blink. Was this man actually bored to be on the brink of death? Before he got frustrated enough to pull the trigger, the boat lurched and bucked beneath them, knocking both men off their feet. There was no reason for it, the sea was quite calm today.
There was a startled yell that was abruptly cut off and Price blinked as one of the gunrunner’s henchmen was abruptly yanked backwards over the side of the boat. What the hell? Price grabbed for a rail as the boat lurched in the water again, the entire aft part of the craft rising out of the water and dropping again with a great splash. The gunrunners flailed for handholds but another one slid into the water. Seconds later he screamed in terror before vanishing beneath the waves and a great film of blood bloomed on the surface of the water.
”What the fuck?”
The leader Ryan, snarled, unable to disguise the fear on his narrow, pale face, as he stared at the water, which churned for a bit, bits of clothing, flesh and viscera floating about as whatever preyed on them tore the unfortunate men apart.
”Get to the wheelhouse! Start the engine and get us to land!”
The order came too late, as there was a grating screech of torn metal and the bronze rudder was torn off the aft end of the boat. There was a clang as the propeller was abruptly tossed up on deck, narrowly missing a cowering man. There was something in the water. Something deadly, hunting them. The men clung tight to handholds, ignoring Price, who held tight as well to the side of the cabin, face grim. There was a sudden high pitched screech as something raked along the starboard side of the craft and Price couldn’t help but find it mocking.
The boat lurched again as something beneath it seemingly raised it and gave it a casual shake. This time the prow rose high, only to be dropped as another terrified, unlucky gunrunner lost his hold and slid down the deck. His scream abruptly cut off as again, something unseen yanked the man overboard and once again, blood bloomed in the water. One of the other men was muttering a Hail Mary under his breath and Price knew if he could he would have pulled a rosary out as well. There were only three gunrunners left now and Price. They were too busy trying to survive to worry about him.
The boat crashed back down with a great splash and again, something raked sharp claws along the port side of the boat. Price had a feeling that if anyone dared look, they would find deep marks marring the crisp, white paint. Whatever this thing was, it was toying with them, like a cat would a mouse. It was suddenly very quiet and he felt the hair on his nape rise as a deep, rich chuckle sounded from the prow of the boat and suddenly there was the soft sound of singing.
My heart is pierced by Cupid
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold
Price swallowed hard because he recognized that rich tenor with a hint of Scottish accent. It couldn’t be, but somehow it was. He had heard it before in pubs when MacTavish was deep in his cups and Gaz dared him to sing. He watched in horror as the gunrunners froze in place, faces gone slack as the old song continued. They were enchanted, he realised, caught under the spell of the ocean siren who was lazily singing them to their deaths. He wished he was a braver man, but instead he huddled, holding fast, his grip white knuckled on the rail of the wheelhouse.
One by one, the gunrunners jerked and stumbled their way to the side of the boat, carelessly discarding their guns as they went. The last of Ryan’s henchmen eagerly jumped in and disappeared beneath the calm sea without a murmur, and again hot blood foamed in the water, but when Ryan reached the rail, something rose up to meet him.
Price watched as a creature he thought dwelt in legends alone rose and draped its sleek black and white body across the prow, it's great weight causing the boat to nearly keel over. Price stared at the pale calm, scarred face that regarded him. This thing wore Simon Riley’s face, even as one huge webbed, clawed hand held a mute, docile Ryan casually by the throat.
This was no dainty cartoon mermaid. This creature was clearly related more to a huge Orca. Before Price could speak, there was a splash and strong bronzed hands clasped the side of the boat and the creature that was once Soap MacTavish joined his companion, pulling himself easily aboard.
Bright blue eyes and a familiar devilish grin flashed at a stunned Price as he stood nude and bronzed on the wet deck. He wore a spotted gray seal skin like a hooded cloak over his broad shoulders. His long sable hair was braided with pearls and gold coins and bits of abalone shell and his strong throat, arms and broad torso were draped with gold chains and jewels. He regarded Ryan with great satisfaction and this time Price noted that the white smile he flashed was edged with sharp canines. He watched as his former lieutenant bent and lazily nuzzled his lost sergeant and chuffed affectionately as Soap ran a big hand through his white hair and nipped his chin.
Price could only stare in mute wonder as Soap quickly trussed Ryan up in a coil of rope and tossed him carelessly onto a bundle of fishing net. Even then, the Irishman turned his longing face towards the Siren who enchanted him so, or was he a Selkie now? Before Price could gather his wits and words to speak or reach out a hand towards his men, his lost boys, he heard the sound of a helicopter approaching on the horizon.
Ghost rumbled something, head turned alertly to watch it approach, and Soap gave Price one last wistful smile and respectful salute, before his huge mate wrapped him possessively in big arms and slid soundlessly back into the depths of the North sea. They barely left a ripple behind them as the Royal Navy helicopter approached, hovered overhead and hailed the boat.
The crewmen took note of Price’s bad concussion and took Ryan into brisk custody. They ignored the Irishman’s thrashing and daft babble about the mermaid that called his name. Clearly the small fishing boat had been rammed by a whale. Price got off easy with his report, stating that he had only regained consciousness shortly before the helo arrived, but he never forgot what he saw that day, nor did he believe it was a hallucination.
When he finally retired it was to a small seaside cottage bordering the North Sea. He walked the shoreline each day, eyes out to sea and sometimes at night as he sat on his small porch with his evening cigar and glass of port, he thought he heard the haunting notes of an old sea chantey, or deep laughter far out on the waves and sometimes caught a brief glimpse of a sleek muscled black and white form breaching the waves in an exaltant leap.
FINI
05.21.2025