The Morning After
Dar balanced two steaming mugs of coffee as she opened the cottage door, her smile easing at the sight of her best friend on the step. Pam stood there with a pastry box in one hand and her oversized handbag in the other, eyes bright with mischief.
“Delivery for anyone with a master’s in criminology,” Pam announced, elbow knocking against the doorframe.
Dar laughed, stepping aside. “Morning, Pammie. Come in before the neighbours gossip.” She led the way into the cozy living room, where a plate already waited on the coffee table. She set the mugs down—one extra strong, splash of cream, no sugar—and nodded toward the sofa.
Pam swept in like a hurricane, shedding her designer heels with a flourish and collapsing onto the cushions. “Bless you, darling. You know I run on caffeine and spite these days.” She took a long swallow, eyes flicking over Dar’s tired face. Crap, she looks like she hasn’t slept since the Thatcher administration. “So. Spill. You look like you’ve been decoding Dead Sea Scrolls all night.”
Dar hesitated, twisting her fingers in her lap. Where to start? “It’s… Logan. And Rhys. They’re retiring. And there’s a new task force. And,” — Her throat tightened. “They want me to be part of it. As a civilian consultant.”
Pam’s mug froze halfway to her lips, coffee sloshing dangerously. “Retiring? Those two adrenaline junkies? Bollocks.” She set the mug down carefully, her expression sharp. “Darling, start from the beginning. Logan and Rhys have hung up their boots, and they want you to… consult? What aren’t you telling me?”
Dar shook her head, blinking back sudden tears. “No. Not them. It’s a woman. Name is Veyr. I don’t even know how she got my number. But she knew everything. Said they were forming a task force to go after the ones who slip through the cracks. And she wants my analytical skills. I’d be working from here. Where its safe. It’s just data. Patterns.”
Pam narrowed her eyes like a chef spotting a flawed croissant. Safe? Rubbish. These spooks never mean safe. She leaned forward and caught Dar’s hand. “Listen to me, darling. These types always undersell the danger. Remember when Logan ‘just popped over’ to Damascus for a ‘quick consult’ and came back with that ghastly scar?” She releases Dar’s hand to rearrange the pastries aggressively on the plate. “But if you’re set on this… if your gut says, do it…” A slow grin tugged at her mouth. “Just promise me two things: I get to install a panic button disguised as a biscuit tin. And if you need to leak anything scandalous, my sourdough starter makes an excellent dead drop.”
Dar chuckled despite herself. “A panic button in a biscuit tin? Genius. And I’ll keep the starter in mind.” She exhaled, the weight on her chest easing slightly. “You know… this could be good for me. A fresh start.” Like Greece, it could’ve been a fresh start.
Pam reached for a pain au chocolat, tearing it apart with more force than necessary. Bloody Logan and his bloody instincts. “So, when do you start this cloak-and-dagger nonsense? And more importantly,” She pointed a buttery finger at Dar “- what’s your extraction plan when you inevitably uncover some parliamentary scandal and need to flee the country?”
Dar chuckled, the sound rusty but genuine. “Extraction plan? I was counting on you to hide me in your bakery’s walk-in freezer.” She took a bite of pastry, savouring the buttery layers. “Veyr is meeting with Rhys and Logan this morning.” Taking another sip of coffee, Dar’s eyes scanned the living room too small for a desk. “I’ll need to set up a proper ‘work’ office. Can’t be doing this off the kitchen table.”
Pam squeezed her hand. “Darling, you’ve always found light in dark corners. Just remember to bill them for emotional labour when their classified bullshit gives you nightmares.”
Elsewhere in Herefordshire, the morning light filtered through the narrow windows of a secure government building. Rhys Calder sat across from Logan Ward in a spartan conference room, both men waiting as the air grew heavier by the second.
The door opened, and Veyr entered. Not a flourish, not a word wasted—just presence. Her suit was pristine, her hair styled simply, and her eyes were impossible to decipher. She didn’t sit right away, letting the silence stretch.
Logan shifted in his chair. Fucking hell, she’s good at this. Could freeze a room just by breathing.
“Captain Calder. Lieutenant Ward.” Her voice was calm, precise. “Officially, you’re both retired as of this morning.”
Rhys felt the word land like a blade. Retired. Past tense. Forty-eight and suddenly obsolete. He kept his face still, although his knuckles tightened around the glass of water. “That’s it, then? Just like that?”
Logan leaned back, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his smirk was sharp. “What’s the catch? No one calls us in here just to hand out gold watches.”
Veyr allowed the faintest curve of her lips. “Correct. Task Force 983. Off-book. Denied existence. You’ll answer only to me. The mandate is simple: pursue threats too slippery for conventional channels. The criminals who write the rules instead of breaking them.”
Rhys glanced at Logan, reading the shift in his posture. He’s already in. Bastard is always half in. Aloud, he said, “And why us? You’ve got younger operators, hungrier, faster.”
“Because,” Veyr replied evenly, “experience wins wars. And because you already trust each other. That is not something you can manufacture.” She let the silence sharpen again before she continued. “You’ll have support. You’ll also have a civilian consultant—Dar Montgomery.”
Logan’s head snapped toward her. Dar. She’s in it then. Official. Behind the shades, his thoughts burned. “She’s not field.” His voice was flat, almost dangerous.
“No,” Veyr agreed. “She’s in analysis. She’ll stay where she is. You’ll use what she sees.”
Rhys felt something shift under his ribs, something dangerously close to relief. She’ll be close, but not in the fire. Good. Keep her safe, and maybe—just maybe—tell her about Greece later. He nodded once. “When do we start?”
Veyr finally sat down, opened her leather folio and slid a black folder across the polished surface toward Rhys. Her hands interlaced atop the table. “You already have.”
While Pam breezed out of Dar’s cottage, now empty pastry box under her arm and Queen humming from her lips, Veyr’s words still echoed in the sterile conference room. The same gravity pulled both houses—one warm and messy with crumbs, the other cold and steel-edged—into it.
Task Force 983 was no longer a secret. It was their future.