Safehouse
Dar was still fussing with the teapot when she heard the crunch of tyres on gravel outside. She glanced at the clock—barely past five.
The front door opened with the easy familiarity of someone who didn’t need an invitation. Logan’s boots thudded against the floorboards first, the weight of him unmistakable. Rhys followed a moment later, his stride quieter but no less imposing. Both men carried the lingering scent of institutional corridors—air freshener and coffee that had stewed too long.
Dar straightened in the kitchen doorway, smoothing her sweater automatically. “Back early. I didn’t expect you.”
Logan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His sunglasses perched atop his head, showing the faint scar across his temple. He caught Dar’s glance at the clock and smirked. Always counting minutes, aren’t you? “Plans changed. Rhys here volunteered to explain why.” He jerked his chin toward Calder, stepping aside to let him pass. Let’s see how he dances around this one. His gaze swept the room—windows secure, exits clear, teapot steaming. Old habits.” Smells better than HQ’s swill, at least.”
Rhys’s eyes, sharp and tired, flicked over her. He caught the half-cleared coffee cups, the crumbs of pastry Pam had left behind. He also caught the nervous way Dar’s hand hovered near her phone on the counter. This has already touched her. Veyr wasted no time. “You look like you’ve had company.”
Dar swallowed, meeting his gaze briefly before looking down. “Pam came by. Needed… a sounding board.” She gestured vaguely at the kitchen. “She brought pastries.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them—like three chess players all waiting to see who would move first.
Logan finally pulled off his shades and hooked them onto his shirt collar. His scar caught the light, harsh against his otherwise calm face. Keep it casual. Don’t spook her. “So, tea? Or are you rationing the good stuff again?”
Dar let out a shaky breath that passed for a laugh. “There’s a pot on the table. Help yourselves.”
Rhys moved first, crossing into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup. He didn’t add milk, didn’t stir. Just drank, eyes on her over the rim. She knows more than she should. Hell, she might know everything. “We’re going to need to talk, Dar.” His tone was low, controlled. “But maybe not today.”
Dar nodded, relief and dread tangling in her chest. Not today. Fine. But soon. Too soon. “Right. Well, the house has enough rooms. If you’re planning to stay—” she hesitated, forcing herself to meet Logan’s eyes “—just don’t turn it back into a barracks without letting me know first?”
Logan snorted, grabbing a mug from the drying rack. He poured tea, black and steaming. Barracks? She’s not wrong. “Place never stopped being a safehouse, Dar. You got a spare room full of C4 I don’t know about?” He leaned against the counter, mug cradled in both hands, trying to lighten the mood. “Relax, Montgomery. We’re just here to drink your tea and steal your biscuits.”
The words landed heavier than either of them expected. Rhys set down his mug with deliberate care, as if the porcelain might shatter under the weight of what none of them were saying.
Logan’s eyes flicked to Rhys. Still brooding. Classic. “Unless Calder’s planning to redecorate. He’s got strong opinions about throw pillows.”
Before anyone could speak, a car door slammed outside. Pam breezed in as though she owned the place, balancing a bakery box and wearing heels sharp enough to count as weapons. She froze mid-step, taking in the scene—Rhys brooding over tea, Logan leaning against the counter with that infuriating smirk, Dar looking like she’d just swallowed a lemon. Christ on a cracker, the boys are already here? “Evening, darlings! Thought I’d bring sugar to soak up all this testosterone and gloom.” She set the box down with a flourish, then kicked off her shoes and padded through the kitchen like she lived there.
Dar’s shoulders relaxed a fraction at Pam’s arrival. She reached for the bakery box, peeling back the lid to reveal a dozen perfect almond croissants. “You’re an angel, Pam. And just in time—these two were about to debate the tactical advantages of floral versus geometric patterns.”
Pam snorted, already grabbing a croissant and tearing into it with the ferocity of someone who hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Flakes rained down onto Dar’s counter as she spoke through a mouthful of pastry. “Floral patterns? Rhys, darling, don’t tell me you’ve gone domestic in your old age.” She winked at Logan, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Though I’d pay good money to see you two argue over throw pillows. Winner gets my next batch of kale brownies.”
Logan took a slow sip of tea, watching Pam demolish the croissant. Kale brownies. That’s a war crime. “Only if Calder promises not to cry when he loses.” He nudged Rhys’s foot with his own. “Man’s got powerful feelings about paisley.” His gaze drifted to the window, scanning the street out of habit. Quiet. Too quiet? “Speaking of tactical advantages—Pam, you park that deathtrap of yours where I can see it, or did you blind the neighbours again with the bumper stickers?”
Pam rolled her eyes, licking almond cream from her thumb with exaggerated relish. “My car’s exactly where it belongs—blocking your precious Land Rover, Logan. Consider it payback for the time you ‘accidentally’ backed into my delivery van.” She leaned against the counter, hip brushing Rhys’s arm as she reached for another croissant. “And don’t knock the kale brownies till you’ve tried them, Lieutenant Grumpy. They’ll put hair on your chest. Or elsewhere.” Her grin turned wicked as she glanced between the men. “Though I suspect you two don’t need help in that department.”
Rhys snorted into his tea, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He watched Pam’s pastry carnage with the detached amusement of a man who’d seen worse messes in the field. Kale brownies. Psychological warfare. “I’ll pass on the lawn clippings, Pam. Last time I ate something green, it tried to eat me back in Borneo.” He set his mug down with a soft clink, eyes narrowing slightly as he caught Logan’s habitual street scan. Still on edge. Good.
Pam rolled her eyes at Rhys’s kale comment, swatting his shoulder with a tea towel as she passed. “Oh, don’t be such a drama queen, Calder. These’ll put hair on your chest – or keep what’s left of it from falling out.” She set the platter down with a clatter, her gaze flicking to Dar’s tense shoulders. Christ, she’s wound tighter than a violin string.
Turning to Logan, she smirked at his paisley suggestion. “Paisley? Darling, if you’re decorating kill houses, might I suggest something more… festive? Blood-red splatter patterns on eggshell white. Very avant-garde.” Her laugh was sharp, but her eyes softened as she watched Dar fuss with the plates.
Rhys’s gaze shifted to Dar, lingering on the tension in her shoulders. She’s holding it together. Barely. “Floral’s a liability,” he deadpanned, reaching for a croissant. “Too easy to blend bloodstains on paisley.”
Logan’s lips twitched at Rhys’s bloodstain comment, the dark humour landing exactly where intended. Classic Calder. Always thinking three steps ahead—even in interior design. He leaned back in his chair; the wood creaking under his weight as he stretched his legs out. “Paisley’s worse. Looks like someone bled out through a kaleidoscope.” His foot nudged Rhys’s again, this time with deliberate pressure. “But if we’re redecorating kill houses, I vote for polka dots. Confuses the hell out of snipers.” The joke was easy, but his eyes stayed sharp on Dar, noting the way her fingers tightened around her mug. She’s wound tighter than a tripwire. Veyr’s call still rattling her? He kept his tone light, baiting her into the familiar rhythm of their banter. “Dar’s place could use some livening up. Maybe neon signs. ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter.'”
Dar gathered plates, pretending she didn’t notice the way both men scanned the house with the same restless alertness they used in briefing rooms. Clearing the dining table, she made space for Pam’s pastries and the pizza. “Rhys, can you open this bottle of wine, please?” She pulled it off the sideboard and handed it to him as she passed back into the kitchen to check the pizza, not meeting his eyes. At least be useful.
Rhys caught the wine bottle mid-air without looking up, his fingers finding the corkscrew in the drawer by muscle memory. The twist-and-pull motion was automatic, born from a thousand mess hall nights. She’s using busywork as armour. Classic Dar. He went into the dining room and poured four glasses with the precision of a man who’d rationed water in deserts, sliding one toward each place setting, claiming the last and taking a sip. The rich Bordeaux scent cut through the pastry sweetness like a knife. “Neon’s a fire hazard,” he grunted, watching Logan head down the back hallway. He put the bottle on the table and followed him, still talking about decorating. “And polka dots make me dizzy. Stick to camo patterns. Practical.” He called back toward the kitchen as he caught up with Logan. “Logan’s right about one thing—your walls are depressing, Dar. Looks like a bloody museum exhibit.” Push a little. See if she bites.
Logan moved down the hallway, his feet silent on the hardwood. He paused at the framed photo of Zoe—and touched the edge of the frame with two fingers. Still hurts like hell. Always will. He turned as Rhys followed him in, catching the tail end of his comment about the walls. “Camo’s practical until you need to find the bloody sofa.” His voice low, meant only for Rhys. “She’s rattled. More than usual.” He glanced back toward the kitchen, catching Pam’s laugh. “Adams is keeping her distracted. For now.” He moved to the window, checking the latch out of habit. “Maybe don’t talk to her yet. About Veyr.” Don’t push her. Not tonight. “Let her breathe first. Pizza, wine—before we have to drop the bomb.” Logan prowled at the edge of the hallway, testing the old lock on the door to the disused comms room. “Bloody relic,” he muttered. “I should’ve gutted this place years ago.”
Pam watched Logan and Rhys disappear down the hallway, her fingers drumming restlessly on the railing to the stairs. Those two are worse than the bloody cat – always poking into corners they shouldn’t. She heard Logan’s comment. “Don’t you dare,” Pam shot to them, “This ‘bloody relic’ kept Dar and Zoe alive when your lot were off playing soldier!” She turned back toward the kitchen. “If those lads measure for curtains, I’m confiscating their wine,” she said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe with a smirk. Her gaze dropped to the oven timer, then flicked back to Dar’s tense posture. “Pizza’s got twenty minutes. Need me to set the table properly or are we eating straight from the box like heathens tonight?” She kept her tone light, but reached out to still Dar’s nervous rearranging of already-perfectly aligned cutlery. “Sit. Before you wear a hole in that lovely tile.” She guided Dar to the dining room, pulled out a chair, and gave her the untouched tea.
Rhys followed Logan down the hallway, paused beside the photo of Zoe, his jaw tightening briefly before he looked away. Never gets easier. He turned and went back to the living room, settling on the sofa, the glass of wine still in hand. Twigs leapt onto his lap as though declaring ownership, curling into a ball and glaring at Logan when he came to the doorway, like a furry sentinel. Rhys stroked her absently, stealing glances at Dar over the rim of his glass. She was sitting on a dining room chair, one knee tucked under her, eyes shadowed but trying—always trying—to look unbothered. Retired. Useless. But not done, not yet. His thoughts tangled in the haze of Veyr’s voice echoing from earlier. And now Dar—her presence here, steady, domestic, almost normal—only twisted the knife further.
Pam broke the tension with a wicked grin. “Well, look at us. A brooding Scot, a sulky bastard, and an emotionally constipated criminologist. Who needs Netflix when I have front-row seats?” She plucked one of the glasses of wine off the table.
Dar chuckled, shaking her head. “You forgot the pastry witch.”
“Ah, but I bring carbs, darling. I’m indispensable.” Pam raised her glass in a mock toast, the ruby liquid catching the light. “Pastry witch at your service, darling. Though I prefer ‘artisanal enchantress’ – it’s better for the branding.” She took a slow sip, her eyes narrowing playfully at Dar.
Logan leaned against the doorframe of the dining room, arms crossed, watching Pam with a smirk. Artisanal enchantress? Shit, she’s been reading too many hipster menus. Having finally abandoned the comms room door, muttering something about hinges, he flopped into a chair at the table. “This house…” He gestured vaguely at the beams above, the creak of the floorboards. “Never meant to be permanent. Just a bolt-hole.”
Dar’s hand tightened on her mug. The thought had haunted her before, but hearing him say it aloud cut deep. Not mine. Never really mine. Just borrowed time in borrowed walls.
Pam’s eyes snapped to Logan, her wine glass freezing halfway to her lips. Bolt-hole? The absolute nerve—after all the love she’s poured into this place. She set the glass down with deliberate care, the crystal clinking sharply against the table. “Bolt-hole?” Her voice was dangerously sweet, the tone that made her daughters scurry for cover as teenagers. “Funny, that. Because I seem to recall someone spending three weekends helping Dar sand these floors. And another two painting Zoe’s mural in her bedroom.” She leaned forward, her gaze locking onto Logan’s. “Or did you think that was just temporary art?” Her knuckles whitened around the stem of her glass. Bloody hell, he’d better tread carefully or I’ll shove this merlot where the sun doesn’t shine.
Logan met Pam’s glare, the scar on his temple tightening as he clenched his jaw. Shit. Should’ve phrased that better. He held up a hand, palm out—not quite surrender, but ceasefire. “Didn’t mean it like that, Pam. Just…” His gaze flicked to Dar, then away. “Place was always hers. But walls don’t keep ghosts out.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the old Damascus shrapnel scar itching under his collar.
Rhys had been relatively quiet, nursing his wine while Twigs purred in his lap like a furry landmine. The cat’s claws dug into his thigh through his jeans, but he didn’t flinch—pain was an old friend. He watched Dar’s knuckles around her mug, Logan’s defensive posture, Pam’s barely contained fury. Fuck, we’re a right mess tonight. He set his empty glass down on the end table with a soft thud, the sound deliberate in the charged silence. “Logan’s got the tact of a sledgehammer,” he said, his voice low but cutting through the tension like a blade. “But he’s not wrong. Houses hold memories, good and bad. Question is—” His gaze settled on Dar, steady, unflinching. “—do they help you stand or keep you kneeling?” Twigs chose that moment to sink her claws deeper, and Rhys didn’t so much as blink.
Dar’s breath caught. She looked down at her mug, the tea long cold. Stand or kneel. Always the soldier’s choice. She set the mug aside, the ceramic clacking too loudly in the sudden quiet. “It’s just walls,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “And ghosts don’t need doors.” She stood abruptly, needing to move, to escape the weight of their stares. “Pizza’s burning.” The lie was obvious—the timer hadn’t dinged—but she fled to the kitchen anyway, the swing door flapping behind her like a wounded bird.
Pam’s chair scraped back with a violence that made Twigs leap off Rhys’ lap. She shot Logan a look that could curdle milk before striding toward the kitchen, heels pounding hard on the hardwood. Right. Time for damage control before Dar drowns in her own tea. She pushed through the swinging door to find Dar staring blankly at the oven timer—still showing six minutes. Without a word, Pam yanked open the freezer, pulled out a tub of salted caramel ice cream, and slammed two spoons onto the counter. “Screw pizza,” she declared, popping the lid with a flourish. “Emergency protocol. Article 4, subsection B: when men say stupid shit, we eat our feelings.” She jabbed a spoon toward the dining room. “Those two muppets out there couldn’t find tact with a map and a flashlight.” Her voice softened as she nudged the tub toward Dar. “Talk. Or don’t. But don’t you dare let Logan’s artillery mouth make you doubt what you built here.”
Dar stared at the ice cream, then at Pam’s outstretched spoon. A laugh bubbled up—sharp, unexpected—and she took the utensil, digging into the caramel swirls with more force than necessary. “He’s not wrong, though,” she said around a mouthful of cold sweetness. “This place… it’s full of her. Every corner. Sometimes I think if I turn around fast enough, I’ll see her sitting at the table doing homework.” She leaned back against the counter, the cold of the marble seeping through her thin sweater. “But if I leave…” She trailed off, the unspoken fear hanging between them—that without these walls, without the physical proof of Zoe’s existence, she might forget. I might lose her all over again.
Rhys watched the kitchen door swing shut behind Pam. The silence left in her wake was thicker than smoke from one of Logan’s abandoned cigarettes. Twigs had retreated to the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome counting down to disaster. He glanced at Logan, who was staring at his boots in the hall as though they held the secrets of the universe. Hell, we’re worse than a bomb squad with butter knives. He pushed himself off the sofa, joints protesting like rusty hinges, and grabbed a whisky bottle from the bar cart along with two fresh glasses—before he jerked his chin toward the garden. “Outside. Now.” The order was quiet, but it carried the weight of a man used to being obeyed. He didn’t wait to see if Logan followed. The night air bit through his shirt as he leaned against the fence at the side of the house, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into each glass. He handed Logan a glass without looking at him. “You’re stomping through her minefield like a recruit on his first patrol.” A pause, then the whisky burned its way down his throat. “Ease off. Or I’ll bench you.”
Logan had followed Rhys outside, not bothering to put his boots on, the cold brick sharp against his socked feet after the stifling warmth of Dar’s living room. He took the offered glass, fingers brushing Rhys’s—a silent acknowledgment of the tension between them. The whisky burned his throat, a familiar comfort. He leaned against the fence, staring at Zoe’s old swing set rusting quietly in the corner of the overgrown lawn. Should’ve taken that down years ago. “Bench me?” A dry chuckle escaped him. “You’d have to catch me first, old man.” He took another sip, the alcohol warming his chest. “But point taken. Just… seeing her like this. It’s worse than Damascus.” His grip tightened on the glass. Two tours in hell, and this is what breaks me. “She’s holding onto that house like it’s a fucking lifeline. And Veyr’s about to yank it away.” He glanced toward the kitchen window as it cast fingers of light on the lawn. “Tell me you’ve got a play here, Rhys. Because right now, all I see are tripwires.”
Rhys snorted, swirling the whisky in his glass. The moonlight caught the scar running along his knuckles—a souvenir from a Kandahar market stall that hadn’t appreciated his haggling. “Old man? I’ll remind you who carried your arse down that mountain in Damascus.” He followed Logan’s gaze to the side yard, where Dar’s silhouette in the kitchen window flickered like a candle fighting the wind. The swing set creaked in the breeze, chains groaning like ghosts. “Tripwires are my specialty, Ward. You know that.” He drained the rest of his drink, the burn settling low in his gut. “Veyr’s not pulling her out of that house. And neither are we.” A beat of silence, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. “She’s the only one going to choose the door herself. We just make sure it’s open when she’s ready to walk through it.”
“Carried me? You dragged me by my vest straps like a sack of spuds.” A smirk flickered, brief and bitter, on Logan’s lips. “And I still owe you for the bruising.” Glass empty, he turned fully toward Rhys, voice dropping to a tactical growl. “So what’s the exfil plan when Veyr’s clock runs out? Because that woman doesn’t strike me as the patient type.”
Rhys looked at Logan and to the window. “Let’s have tonight before we worry about Veyr.” He turned and headed back in.
The night wore on in waves of laughter and jabs. Logan complained about Sean Kennedy’s golf swing—”worst grip I’ve ever seen outside of a toddler”—which set Pam off about Logan’s own “approach to women.” Rhys, quietly amused, tried to referee with dry wit that only made them laugh harder. Dar, watching it unfold, felt the ache in her chest ease for the first time since Veyr’s call.
For a fragile span of hours, the safehouse was just that—safe. Not a staging ground, not a secret, not a burden waiting to be reclaimed by shadowed hands. Just a house full of voices, wine, and too many carbs.
Pam raised her glass once more, crumbs on her lap, eyes glittering. “To retirement that isn’t retirement. And to nights like these—when we forget the world’s ending outside.”
They clinked glasses, laughter spilling into the rafters. And though none of them said it aloud, every thought circled the same truth: this wouldn’t last.
(to be continued ….)