Anchor and Storm
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.”
Veyr’s pronouncement hung in the air, like smoke from a sniper’s rifle — deadly, lingering, impossible to wave away. Logan shifted, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the tension in his jaw.
Rhys sat back in his chair, knuckles drumming against the table’s edge. “You can’t just—” he started.
Veyr cut him off with a flick of her hand, efficient as a scalpel. “I can. And I did. I signed, stamped, and buried the paperwork so deep that not even Whitehall will sniff it. Task Force 983 exists. You’re its spine.”
Logan’s mouth twisted in something between a smirk and a snarl. “And what if the spine decides it’s tired of carrying the body?”
Veyr leaned forward, her gaze like steel wire. “Then the body collapses. And we both know you’d sooner break your own spine than let the mission fail.”
Rhys looked down at the folder she’d slid across the table—black, unmarked, heavier than it should be. He didn’t open it. Not yet. Already signed up. Fuck.
The conference room’s air hung heavy with the metallic tang of tension and the lingering notes of Veyr’s jasmine perfume as she continued resting her hands, not moving.
Logan leaned back in his chair, the leather protesting under his weight. His sunglasses stayed firmly in place, hiding the way his eyes flicked between Rhys and Veyr. “Task Force 983. What were ‘Operation Certain Death’ and ‘Project Cannon Fodder’ already taken by MI6? What’s the catch, Veyr? Besides the obvious.” He gestured vaguely, a smirk playing on his lips. “And does it come with dental?”
Rhys remained still. The mention of TF983 stirred something in him—a mix of old instincts and fresh irritation. Deniable ops. Off the books. The mess that gets men killed with no one to claim the bodies. His knuckles whitened where they rested on the table. He leaned in, voice low. “And if we refuse?”
Veyr’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. She tilted her head; the lamplight catching the sharp angles of her face. “Refusal is always an option, Captain Calder. You would simply fade into obscurity. But then you’d miss the chance to do what you do best—without the bureaucracy.” Her gaze shifted to Logan, unimpressed with the sunglasses. “Lieutenant Ward, you won’t get dental. But I can promise you something far more valuable: autonomy. And targets worth your bullets.”
Rhys’s chest tightened. Obscurity? After everything? He glanced at Logan, weighing the unspoken risks. “Autonomy doesn’t mean much when you’re six feet under with no flag on the coffin. What’s the real mission set here? Wetwork? Asset recovery?” His tone was flat, but the edge in it was unmistakable—the same edge that had cut through briefing rooms for decades.
Logan’s smirk didn’t waver, but his fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the table—Morse code for “bullshit.” He knew Veyr’s type: all promises and plausible deniability. But the thought of sitting idle while the world burned? That grated worse than bad intel. “You’ll need more than two old war dogs.”
Veyr’s eyes narrowed, catching the tension in Rhys’s posture and the restless energy radiating from Logan. She closed the leather folio, its magnetic catch snapping shut with a soft thud. “Wetwork is… reductive. TF983 handles problems before they become headlines. Think of it as preventive medicine for geopolitical infections.” Her gaze flicked to Logan, lingering for a beat. “And we’re not limited to two. Talent comes in many forms. I already have names. Familiar names.”
Both men went still.
Rhys’s jaw tightened at the mention of ‘preventive medicine.’ Geopolitical infections. Right. More like cleaning up messes the suits don’t want to touch. He caught the glance Veyr threw Logan’s way—familiar names? Who else is she dragging into this? Rhys watched Veyr’s face, his voice gravel deep. “Task Force 983, then. Anchors, aye?”
“Anchors, indeed. You’ll be the steady hand, Captain. The one who keeps the ship from capsizing when the storm hits.” Her gaze shifted to Logan, a flicker of something almost like approval in her eyes. “And you, Lieutenant—consider yourself the storm.”
Logan leaned back in his chair, his sunglasses fixed on Veyr while hiding the flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. Storm? She’s got that right. His jaw clenched. Another leash. Maybe this time it leads toward something worth biting. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, ma’am. Just make sure the targets are worth the mess.” He shot a sideways glance at Rhys.
Veyr’s lips twitched at Logan’s retort, a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The mess is inevitable, Lieutenant. But I assure you, the targets will be… satisfying.”
Rhys turned to Logan, voice low. “Anchor and storm. Sounds like a bad pub name.” Greece will have to wait.
Veyr’s fingers drummed once on the closed folio, her expression unreadable as she studied Rhys’s hardened features. She knew that look—the grudging acceptance of a man who’d seen too many missions go sideways under official channels. “Your team is already in motion,” she said. “I don’t build from scratch.” She pulled a single sheet of paper from her portfolio. “I collect what works.”
Rhys exchanged a quick glance with Logan. Hell, she talks like she’s shopping for wine.
Veyr’s gaze sharpened. “You’ll have Osei—Malik. You’ve worked with him before, Captain Calder. London-born, decorated, sharp as a scalpel. He’s not afraid to question orders. I trust you’ll respect that.”
The tension in Rhys’s shoulders eased a fraction at Malik’s name. A known quantity in an unknown equation. He caught Logan’s eye across the table, that subtle tilt of the chin that needed no translation after decades in the field together. Recognition. Agreement. Rhys nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, I know Malik.” The words, barely audible, meant more for the ghosts of his memories than anyone in the room. Shared history breeds trust. Or at least predictability.
Logan didn’t smile. He was already tapping a finger against the table, one slow rhythm. Good. Hawk keeps people honest. Keeps me honest.
Veyr continued. “Major Stroud, Task Force Sabre–on loan—think of him as a bridge. Between my directives and your execution. He needs no introduction. You’ve crossed paths.”
Rhys’s fingers tapped once against the table—a sharp rap. Stroud. Bridge? More like a bloody checkpoint. “Stroud’s solid,” he said, voice flat. “But if he’s your leash, Veyr, you picked a short one.” His gaze flicked to Logan, catching the minute tightening around his brother-in-arms’ eyes. Sabre’s not known for playing nice with others.
Logan’s sunglasses caught the overhead light as he leaned back, crossing his arms. Shit, the man’s a rulebook with boots. This’ll be fun. “Sabre’s Major Stroud? The one who pulled your arse out of that Helmand clusterfuck?” He shot Rhys a sideways glance, smirk sharp. “Suppose he’s earned the right to babysit.” His boot tapped the floor—once, twice. Bridge or noose? Time will tell. “Just hope he remembers which side of the sandbox we play in.”
“Babysitting implies incompetence, Lieutenant Ward,” Veyr’s voice sharpened. “I don’t tolerate incompetence.” Her gaze cut to Rhys. “Stroud’s role is coordination, not oversight. You’ll keep operational autonomy—provided your decisions align with mission parameters.” Predictable resistance. Good. Means they’re engaged. She paused, letting the words settle like dust after an explosion. “Consider him… insurance. Against the day your luck runs out.” They’ll chafe. But they’ll adapt. They always do.
Veyr looked down at the page in her hand, pausing for a beat. “And Sean Kennedy,” her eyes flicked to Logan. “Your civilian wildcard.”
That earned her two stares.
Rhys blinked once. “Kennedy?” His voice carried a hint of disbelief. “The fucking golf pro? The kid who teaches millionaires how to swing clubs.” Wildcard? More like a loose cannon.
The corner of Veyr’s mouth lifted a fraction, almost imperceptibly. “Not anymore. “Kennedy’s been under Ward’s personal training for the last six months. He’s raw, but adaptable. And people underestimate him—that makes him valuable.” Her eyes caught Rhys’s and held them, grey as spent shell casings. “Kennedy brings… unconventional access. Golf courses are where the world’s rot gathers. Networking in khaki and polos.” She continued, her gaze unwavering. “And he’s already proven he can handle pressure. If he sinks, we learn; if he floats, we exploit.” Sacrifice the pawn early, save the queen later.
Rhys frowned, leaning back. Bloody hell, Logan. You’ve been training him behind my back. “Unconventional access cuts both ways. If he’s compromised—” A sharp glance at Logan. “—your pet project becomes our liability.”
Logan’s jaw flexed. He could still smell the damp night air of that rescue extraction in Cyprus, Sean’s panicked grin when the rotor wash hit them. Tossed him in the deep end, and the bastard swam. “Kennedy’s got more spine than half the rookies we’ve seen fresh out of Sandhurst,” he shot back. “And unlike some, he doesn’t freeze when shit hits the fan.” His fingers drummed the table—rhythmic, controlled. “Trained him myself. He’ll hold the line.” Or I’ll bury him myself.
Rhys’s expression hardened at Logan’s defence of Kennedy, then softened, grudging respect threading through worry. “Holding the line’s not the issue,” his voice low and edged. “It’s knowing which line to hold.” He rubbed his temple, the memory of Kennedy diving headlong into fusillades in Cyprus stirring doubt. Six months of training. The kid could be brilliant or suicidal—sometimes Rhys couldn’t tell the difference. “He’s green,” he admitted, surprising himself. “But he’s got fight in him. Sometimes that’s…enough.”
Veyr’s gaze flicked between the two men, the faintest crease forming between her brows. Like dogs circling the same bone. She tapped her wedding band against the steel edge of the table—three sharp clicks. “Enough.” Her voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Kennedy’s in. That’s not a debate.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’ve noted your concern, Captain. But we’re not running a democracy here. He brings assets we need.” Let them think it’s about golf courses. The actual play is deeper. “Focus on the mission parameters. The rest is my problem to manage.” Her eyes locked on Rhys again, unblinking and cold with the practiced stillness of a predator assessing whether to strike or retreat. “Or do you fancy my job?”
Rhys met Veyr’s stare, unflinching. Not your job I want, just your intel. His knuckles whitened around the chair’s armrest before he forced them to relax. “Understood.” The word came out clipped, professional. He shifted his gaze to Logan, a silent warning in the tilt of his chin. Your boy. Your responsibility.
Veyr nodded at the folder she had earlier placed on the table. “Task Force 983: Calder, Ward, Stroud, Osei, Kennedy. Six of you if Montgomery signs on.” Her eyes glittered. “But she will. You’ve been fighting this war long before I called you into this room.” She paused. “983—You either lead it or get left behind.” Veyr stood up, tucking her leather portfolio under her arm. “You’ve got forty-eight hours to read yourselves in. Operational security protocols are non-negotiable. Burn phones only. No paper trails.” She turned and walked out. The door clicked shut before either man could respond.
With her back to the reinforced steel, she caught the faint murmur of Calder and Ward’s voices seeping through—just enough to catch the edges of their tension. Her thumb traced the outline of the secure device nestled in her pocket, mental bullet points already forming like soldiers in formation. Proceeding toward the stairs, she tapped a code into her encrypted phone, the briefest of messages flashing across the screen: TF983 active. Stand by for coordinates. The game was in motion now. Let them chew on it. Pressure reveals fractures—or forges steel.
Rhys tracked the door long after it closed, the muscles in his jaw flexing beneath stubble like gears grinding without purchase. Forty-eight hours. Damn, she moves fast.
Logan’s gaze stayed fixed on the door Veyr had exited through, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the table—three taps, pause, two. She always loved tight deadlines. He turned to Rhys. “You going to call a meet?” paused and then “Dar’s going to hate this. You want me to prep her, or you taking that bullet?”
“I’ll handle it.” Rhys shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor. He strode out into the corridor, where Veyr’s perfume still lingered — jasmine and gun oil. His boots echoed too in the empty hall. How do you tell someone you’re dragging them back into hell?
Very’s heels struck a military cadence against the cold floor as she ascended to the next level. She rounded the corner and paused fractionally before entering her temporary office. Inside, Dar Montgomery waited in the visitor’s chair, fingers laced as though bracing for impact—a civilian academic caught between curiosity and dread. The civilian academic. Let’s see if her mind bites.