Once Upon A Mashup

Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the Hereford driving range, gilding the new spring grass and tracing the arcs of sliced golf balls. Dar Montgomery planted her feet, jaw locked, gripping her driver like it had offended her. She swung—and the ball shot left, knocking against the practice fence.
“Cripes, Dar,” Sean Kennedy grinned, plucking the next ball from the bucket. “That’s not a slice; that’s a war crime.”
Dar rolled her eyes and leaned on her club. “Careful, or I’ll ‘accidentally’ let this club slip out of my hands. See how fast you duck.”
Sean smirked and teed up another ball. He was all effortless charm—designer stubble, casual polo, the confidence born of too much money and too many summers at country clubs. But under the grin was that telltale edge. Don’t let her see. Just play it cool.
She swung again. Better. Not great. Sean gave an approving nod, though his gaze drifted past her. Someone was watching.
Dar followed his eyes to the range entrance. Leaning against the gate, arms folded, sunglasses glinting in the slanting sun, stood Logan Ward—her stepbrother, her shadow, her self-appointed bodyguard and as welcome as a thunderstorm. Shit.
Sean straightened, trying not to flinch as Logan strode over. Fuck me. It’s the Terminator. And he’s wearing Ray-Bans.
“Lo,” Dar called, forcing brightness into her voice. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Didn’t know you’d be here either. Saw your car in the lot.” Logan’s voice was low, clipped. He stopped a foot too close, staring at Sean as though memorizing his dental records.
Sean stuck out a hand. “Sean Kennedy. Golf instructor. Occasional miracle worker.”
Logan’s gaze flicked down at the offered hand, then back up without moving. “Ward.” No handshake. Just a slow, deliberate glance at the bucket of balls. “You comped her a bucket?”
Sean shrugged. “Professional courtesy.”
Logan’s mouth curved, though it wasn’t a smile. “Dar’s got a habit of attracting strays. You housebroke?”
“He’s my instructor,” Dar shot back. Logan lifted an eyebrow.
 Sean swallowed. “Don’t worry. Had all my shots. Even the rabies one.”
“Uh-huh.” Logan shifted his sunglasses. Not convinced. Not for a bloody second.
Dar stifled a laugh as Logan’s eyebrow twitched. Sean Kennedy, still breathing. Impressive.

Later at the pub, the three of them sat cramped around a corner table. Dar tucked away her visor, allowing her hair to fall loose around her shoulders. Sean had swapped his instructor banter for something a little sharper, a little more defensive. Logan hadn’t blinked once in twenty minutes. Not since he got the message that Rhys was still in Cyprus.
“So,” Sean said, raising his pint in Dar’s direction. “Cyprus, eh? Your friend military, or just really into souvlaki?”
Dar choked on her drink, laughed despite herself. “Rhys’s military. Logan too. And yes, they like souvlaki.”
Logan’s gaze flicked from Dar to Sean. Crikey, he’s got a crush on her. Wonder if he knows she’s old enough to be his mother?
 Sean grinned, but his pulse spiked. Fuck. She’s got military ties. No wonder Ward looks like he wants to waterboard me.

Pizza at Dar’s cottage later started warm. Pam was already there, breezing around the kitchen like a domestic hurricane, dropping sarcastic barbs while Sean tried to look useful opening wine. For a moment, it almost felt like any other evening.
Then Logan’s phone buzzed.
He read the message once. Twice. His jaw clenched. “FUBAR.”
Dar froze mid-laugh, her slice of pizza slipping back onto the plate. Her voice stayed calm, but her knuckles whitened around her glass. “Rhys?”
Logan nodded once. “Cyprus extraction. Radio silence.”
Sean blinked, setting down his drink. He glanced at Dar—her face pale, but steady. Not a breakdown. Just… bracing herself. What the fuck did I just step into?
Pam narrowed her eyes, taking in the scene. “Well, that’s bloody marvellous. Who wants dessert before we all spiral into existential dread?”
Sean let out a nervous laugh, though his chest was tight. Stay. Don’t bolt. If she can hold it together, so can you.
Dar exhaled, shoulders stiff but unbowed. “We wait then.”
Logan pocketed his phone, scanning the room. Sean was still there. Still sitting. Not running. Interesting.
Then they waited together as the night unfolded in slow motion. They orbited each other in the living room like planets, sometimes silent for stretches that felt eternal, sometimes erupting in amusement over Pam’s acid-tongued observations. Sean and Logan discovered common ground in gallows humour, their laughter sharp and brief. Whisky levels dropped in bottles as the hours ticked by, glasses meeting in grim toasts to nothing. Twigs the cat glared at Sean as if he were an intruder. By dawn, nothing had changed. But Sean Kennedy had crossed some invisible line—from golf pro to… something else.
 The message from Cyprus hung in the air like smoke. FUBAR. Radio silence. Rhys Calder, out there with no comms, no extraction, and no backup.
Dar’s fingers tightened around her glass, her face steady but pale. Pam fussed with the dessert tray as if rearranging eclairs could stop the world from burning.
Sean glanced from one to the other, heart thumping. Bloody hell, these people are serious. This isn’t bar banter. This is life-and-death. And I’m sitting here with pizza grease on my shirt.

Just before dawn, Logan’s phone buzzed again. He read it, jaw tightening. Then he looked up at Sean. “You drive stick?”
Sean blinked. “Manual? Yeah, I can—”
Logan was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket. “Good. You’re coming.”
Sean gaped. “Coming where?”
Dar’s eyes widened. “Lo. Don’t.”
But Logan was already moving, every line of his body coiled with purpose. “We’re short. Calder’s hanging by a thread. I need a wheelman who won’t freeze up. Kennedy’s breathing, he’s in.”
Sean laughed, disbelief and adrenaline rushing in equal measure. “That’s your criteria? Breathing?”
Logan leaned in, shades glinting even in the dim kitchen light. “It’s a short list.”
Pam snorted from the table. “Christ, Logan, he’s a golf pro, not James bloody Bond.”
Logan didn’t even look back. “Golf’s just sniping with grass. He’ll adapt.”
Sean’s pulse spiked—terror, disbelief, and something else. Something electric. Holy shit. I’m going on an op. This is insane. This is… exhilarating.
Dar caught his arm. “Sean. You don’t have to—”
But Sean was already on his feet, adrenaline burning through the hesitation. “Nah. I’m in. Somebody’s gotta make sure Captain Sunglasses here doesn’t drive us into a ditch.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. Cocky. Suicidal. So maybe not useless.

Having never been in a military vehicle before, seven hours later, Sean was in Cyprus. The roar of the engine, the rattle of loose kit, the smell of sweat and gun oil—it was nothing like his BMW back home. He gripped the wheel like a lifeline, knuckles white, trying to remember to breathe. Bullets pinged off the frame. Actual bullets. “Oh my God—.”
“Eyes forward, Kennedy!” Logan barked, bracing himself against the dash. Calm. Controlled. Like gunfire was just bad weather. “Keep it steady. Rhys is moving to the pickup zone.”
Sean gritted his teeth, heart hammering. “Steady? Mate, I’ve got bloody Kalashnikovs serenading me!”
“Welcome to Tuesday.” Logan shouted.
Rhys appeared out of the smoke, battered but upright, hauling a rookie over one shoulder like a sack of grain. Sean slammed on the brakes, tires screeching.
Logan opened the door. “Get in!  Get in!”
Rhys shoved the wounded man inside, then swung in after him, eyes wide but steady. “Drive!”
Sean floored it. The vehicle lurched forward, bouncing over rocks, bullets whining past. And in that moment—heart in his throat, sweat stinging his eyes, the roar of chaos behind them—Sean felt it. Not fear. Not exactly. Exhilaration. Fuck. That’s how it feels to be alive.

Back in Herefordshire, with Rhys secure and tranquillity restored, Sean gazed blankly into the hangar.
Logan approached. “You did alright, Kennedy.”
Sean turned, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tremor in his hands. “Alright? Mate, I’m a bloody natural. Just need to work on the whole not-pissing-myself bit.”
Logan studied him, head tilting. He’s hooked. Poor bastard doesn’t even realize it yet. “Six months,” Logan levelled his eyes at Sean, voice like gravel under tires. “You train with me. You shut up, you listen, and you do the work. Then maybe—maybe—you’ll be useful.”
Sean’s grin widened. Six months. Fuck. This is mad. But I’m in. “Deal!”

To be continued …