Retirement and Greece?
The pub was quiet in the Hereford way—stone walls, dark wood beams, and a low hum of locals at the far end nursing pints. Rhys sat in the corner booth, shoulders hunched, a half-empty glass of bitter in front of him. He looked up when Dar slipped inside, brushing the drizzle from her coat. His face softened, but the heaviness in his eyes didn’t lift.
She slid into the seat opposite him. “You look like someone stole your dog.”
Rhys gave a humourless huff. “HQ wants me to retire.” He lifted the pint and set it down again without drinking. “Ward too. ‘End of the line, Captain Calder.’ Just like that. Thirty years, and suddenly I’m old kit they want off the shelf.”
Dar’s chest tightened. She tried to smile, but her voice came out softer than she meant. “You’re not old kit, Rhys. You’re the bloody manual they should be following.”
He managed a smile, brief and crooked, then stared at the condensation sliding down his glass. Manual, eh? She doesn’t know how many pages in mine are bloodstained. He pushed the thought away, forcing lightness into his tone. “Suppose it means more time to sit in a deck chair, drink ouzo, complain about the heat.”
Dar tilted her head, curious. “Greece?”
Rhys shrugged, casual, though his pulse ticked faster. Don’t sound like you’ve thought about it too much. “Always wanted to go. Somewhere quiet. Sea, sun, decent food. Maybe rent a villa. Read all the books I never had time for.” And maybe someone to share it with.
Dar traced the rim of her cider glass with her finger. “Sounds… nice.” She hesitated, then added quickly, “Better than Hereford rain, anyway.” She glanced away, cheeks warming. God, don’t make it sound like you want an invite. He’s your friend. Your… anchor. Nothing more.
Rhys studied her for a long moment. The way she avoided his eyes, the faint smile tugging at her lips. His chest tightened. Ask her. Just say it. She needs rest; I need company. Greece could be—. He swallowed hard, retreating instead. “You’d hate it. Too hot. You’d spend the whole time hiding under a hat, muttering about sunburn.”
Dar laughed, grateful for the deflection. “True. And I’d make you carry my luggage up cobbled hills while I complained about the sandals I shouldn’t have worn.”
Their laughter faded into a softer silence. Around them, the pub carried on, oblivious.
Rhys leaned back, the weight of HQ’s verdict pressing in again. If this is the end, if they cut me loose… what the hell am I without the uniform? He looked at her, steadying himself. Maybe Greece doesn’t have to be about endings. Maybe it could be a beginning.
Dar sipped her cider, trying not to meet his gaze. Don’t hope, Dar. He’s a soldier; you’re a survivor. Vacations are for people who don’t have ghosts. Still, the image flickered — sunlight on blue water, laughter instead of dread, his hand brushing hers. She shook it off and smiled lightly. “Well. If you end up on a beach in Greece, at least send me a postcard. Proof you survived civilian life.”
Rhys smiled back, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Deal.”
Neither of them said what they were really thinking. The quiet between Rhys and Dar lingered, their drinks half-finished, words unsaid weighing heavier than the storm clouds outside.
The door creaked open, and in swept Logan—broad-shouldered, rain still dripping from his jacket, sunglasses inexplicably still on despite the grey skies. He spotted them instantly, weaving through the tables with a soldier’s efficiency.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered as he slid into the booth beside Rhys, nodding at their solemn expressions. “You two look like someone read you your obituaries.”
Dar arched a brow, nodding toward Rhys. “Just the retirement papers.”
Logan gave a low whistle, flagging the barman with two fingers. “HQ finally realized you’re an antique, then?” He shot Rhys a sideways look. “Guess that makes me a collector’s item.”
Rhys snorted, though it lacked bite. “You’re about as collectible as moldy bread.”
Logan smirked, leaning back. “Bread keeps people alive. You two are sat here looking like you’ve been sentenced to death by deck chair.”
Dar tried not to laugh, but failed, cider nearly spilling. “Rhys was just talking about beaches. Greece, of all places.”
Logan barked a laugh. “Greece? You’d last five minutes before whining about the heat and drinking the locals dry. And Dar? Don’t even pretend. You’d be sunburnt, grumpy, and ready to murder him with a paperback by day two.”
Dar rolled her eyes, but Rhys caught the flicker of colour in her cheeks. He’s not wrong. But I wouldn’t mind trying.
The pints arrived, and Logan raised his glass in mock solemnity. “To old soldiers. May our pensions be as generous as our scars, and may we never be reduced to fighting over sun loungers.”
Dar clinked her glass reluctantly, eyes flicking to Rhys.
He lifted his pint too, but in his head the toast rang differently. To not losing this. To not losing her.
The moment settled into a fragile sort of ease—Logan providing noise and sarcasm, Dar hiding her smile behind the rim of her glass, and Rhys, for the first time that night, feeling a little less like the world was closing in.
The pub had settled into a low murmur of voices and clinking glasses. Dar was halfway through her second cider, Logan nursing his pint with the casual suspicion of a man who expected bad news at any moment, and Rhys staring at the condensation rings on the table like they held a battle plan.
That was when Dar’s phone buzzed.
She frowned, pulling it closer. Not a message. A secure call. Veyr. The screen seemed to pulse, demanding.
She glanced at Rhys, who caught the look immediately, then at Logan, who muttered something that sounded like, “Bloody timing.”
Dar answered. “Montgomery.”
The voice that came through was smooth, precise, unmistakable. “Ms. Montgomery. I trust I’m not interrupting?”
Dar shifted in her seat, suddenly alert. “We’re in the middle of dinner, if that counts.”
“Good. Then you’re all in one place.” Veyr’s tone carried the faintest thread of amusement. “Saves me a conference call. Captain Calder, Lieutenant Ward—retirement papers make for such dreary reading, don’t they?”
Rhys straightened, his jaw tight. “You’ve seen them?”
“I drafted them.” A pause. “On paper, you’re done. Off the board. Pensioners in waiting. But unofficially?” The pause stretched, deliberate. “You’ve never been more valuable. And I’m prepared to offer you… let’s call it an alternative.”
Logan tipped his sunglasses down just enough to glare at the phone. “Alternative, or suicide mission with better stationery?”
Veyr ignored the jab and let out a soft chuckle, the sound like ice clinking in a glass. Ward, ever the cynic. Good. He’ll need that edge. “Lieutenant, if I wanted you dead, I’d have left you in that warehouse in Minsk. No, this is something… cleaner. And far more lucrative.” She paused, letting the silence build tension. “But I’ll need your answer by noon tomorrow. And Dar—” her voice sharpened slightly “your criminology expertise just became relevant. I suggest you listen closely. Task Force 983. Independent, deniable, unsanctioned. You’ll operate off-book, with resources routed through me. Your experience, your instincts—they’re not liabilities. They’re assets we can’t replicate. Unless of course you’d rather spend your twilight years arguing over sun cream in Corfu.”
Rhys glanced at Dar, who was already shaking her head. “Don’t look at me. I’m not storming any compounds.”
Veyr let the silence hang for a beat, the faint clink of her ring against the whiskey glass echoing down the line. Dar’s hesitation is expected—civilian instincts warring with that sharp mind. But she’ll see the opportunity. They all will. She softened her voice a fraction. “No, Ms. Montgomery. Not storming. Advising. Analyzing. Guiding. I need someone who can see patterns in the noise. Who isn’t blinded by rank or protocol. You’ve done it before—you’ll do it again. From the safety of your home. Your expertise, not your blood.” A pause, deliberate. “Behavioural analysis. The same skills that made you invaluable in academia—applied to targets who don’t leave paper trails. Think of it as… consulting. With better security clearance.” Veyr shifted slightly, the leather of her chair creaking softly. “As for the rest of you—Calder, Ward—this isn’t a recall. It’s a recalibration. You’ll have autonomy. Resources. And the satisfaction of knowing your work actually matters.” Another pause, letting the offer sink in. “I’ll be in touch and expect your decision then as well.”
Dar opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Her fingers drummed against her glass. Patterns. Data. Not danger. Could I live with that?
Rhys leaned back slowly, exhaling. So, this is it. Not retirement. Not Greece. Something else. One more fire to walk through.
Logan drained the last of his pint, setting it down with a sharp thunk. “Well. There’s our bloody answer. Thought we were out. Turns out we’re just being rebranded.”
Dar’s phone buzzed again, a silent confirmation ping. Veyr had already disconnected.
The three of them sat in silence for a beat, the noise of the pub distant, unimportant.
Dar finally spoke, voice low. “So. Task Force 983.”
Rhys allowed himself the faintest smile. “Could be worse.”
Logan smirked. “Could be Greece.”
The pub seemed smaller after the call ended. Dar placed her phone down gently, as though it might shatter under her fingertips. Rhys sat forward, his shoulders squared but heavy with years, the lines around his eyes deepened by the low light.
Dar looked at Rhys. “Task Force 9-8-3. A ghost team.” She sat for a few minutes, sipping her cider while silently wrapping her head around it. Then she laughed. “Task Force W-T-F. Unofficial, deniable.”
Logan gave a dry chuckle, knocking back the last of his pint. “Figures. What the fuck is right. Can’t let the old warhorses graze too long. They slap a new brand on us and trot us back out.” He gestured at Rhys. “Congratulations, Calder—you’re obsolete and indispensable at the same time. A rare gift.”
Rhys let out a low chuckle, the sound rough from disuse. Ghost team. Fitting. “W-T-F indeed. Though I’d take ghosts over paperwork any day.” His jaw tightened. So much for Greece. So much for mornings without comms, without the smell of cordite burned into my lungs. He rubbed a hand over his face as though to scrape off the fatigue. “And she expects you in it as well?” His gaze flicked to Dar, watching how she processed it all. She’s in. I can see it in the set of her jaw—that criminologist’s mind already turning over the angles.
Dar shook her head. “Just for analysis. Patterns, data, tracking. I’d have freedom to work from home.” A tired laugh escaped her. “I’ve just submitted my thesis, Rhys. Thought I’d have at least a week before someone tried to pull me back into the world’s madness.”
Rhys looked at her—really looked—and for a moment the pub, the orders, the shadow of Veyr’s voice fell away. She deserves peace. A normal life. Not this. Not me dragging her down into the muck again. “You can say no,” he whispered. “You don’t owe them anything.”
Logan leaned back, sunglasses catching the amber light. “She’ll say yes. It’s written all over her face. Dar Montgomery doesn’t walk away from puzzles. And Calder doesn’t walk away from a fight.” He raised his empty glass toward the bar. “And me? Well, I don’t walk away from free beer, so here we are.”
He watched them—Rhys with that look on his face like he’d swallowed a grenade, Dar already halfway into the job without realizing it. Crikey, they’re both terrible at this. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, letting his glass clink against the wood. “Freedom to work from home? That’s code for ‘we’ll call you at 3am when the world’s on fire.'” A smirk tugged at his mouth. She’ll take it. She always does. Like the rest of us. “But hey, at least you won’t have to wear tactical gear. Unless you’re into that.” He shot her a sideways glance, then turned to Rhys. “And you—don’t pretend you weren’t already planning the retirement villa’s security system. Now you get to keep the comms earpiece in. Win-win.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the clink of glasses from nearby tables and the muted hum of the jukebox.
Dar gathered her phone and slipped it back into her bag, her expression firming. “If this happens, we do it on our terms. No chains. No illusions. Just… what we choose.” Her eyes lingered on Rhys a second longer than she meant to. And what would I choose if it meant choosing you?
Rhys held her gaze, his throat tight, the weight of her words settling in his chest. Our terms. No chains. But the ghosts always follow. His fingers tightened around his glass, the cool condensation grounding him. He forced a nod, leaning back against the booth. One last run. Then maybe … maybe Greece. With her. “You sure you’re ready for that?” The question wasn’t just about the job. Are you ready for me? For the mess I bring with me?
Logan watched the tension between them like a live wire, sparking in the dim light. Hell, they’re worse than a pair of rookies on their first op. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of his glass against the table. “Right. Terms. Let’s start with the important ones—no one calls it ‘Task Force W-T-F’ in official briefings. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” He shot Dar a smirk, then turned to Rhys. “And you. If you’re gonna brood, at least do it somewhere scenic. I hear Santorini’s lovely this time of year.” He leaned back, stretching his legs under the table. They’ll figure it out. Or they won’t. Either way, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. Like always. He pushed out of the booth. “Right then. Another round? Or shall we all go home and practice our retirement speeches?”
The evening had thinned the pub’s crowd to an inaudible murmur, and when the three of them stepped outside, the air was cool with a faint tang of river damp. Logan peeled off first, muttering something about grabbing takeaway chips and “making peace with retirement one fry at a time.” His silhouette dissolved into the glow of a streetlamp, leaving Dar and Rhys side by side.
They walked in silence for a while, their boots crunching over grit and fallen leaves. Dar pulled her coat tighter around her, though the chill biting at her wasn’t only from the air.
“You don’t have to do this again,” she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve given them half your life, Rhys. Let them find someone else to carry the weight.”
Rhys’s hands stayed deep in his pockets. Half my life? More. And what’s left, if not this? He gave a humourless chuckle. “Soldiers don’t get to decide when the fight’s over. We’re just told which hill to die on. Or if we’re lucky, which beach to waste our retirement on.” He tried to lighten the words, but they landed flat.
Dar glanced up at him, her expression unreadable in the amber glow. “And if the hill wasn’t theirs to give you? If you chose it yourself?”
He stopped, turning to her. The street was empty, quiet except for the distant bark of a dog and the faint rush of the Wye. Her eyes caught his—tired, yes, but burning with the same stubbornness that had carried her through every storm. Choose my own hill. Choose Greece. Choose her. His throat tightened. He looked away, toward the dark riverbank. “What would I even do, Dar? Sit on a beach and… relax?” He said it as if it were a foreign word.
Dar smiled, a crooked, weary thing. “I’ve heard it’s possible. Even for you.” She shifted, brushing his arm lightly with her shoulder as they started walking again. “You might surprise yourself.”
Rhys felt the warmth of that touch like a spark through his coat. Fuck. After everything… am I allowed to want that? Am I allowed to want her?
They reached her gate, the old iron creaking faintly as she pushed it open. She paused there, turning back toward him. “Don’t make Greece the consolation prize, Rhys. Make it the plan.”
Her words lingered in the cold air as she slipped inside, leaving him standing on the quiet street, staring after her. He lit a cigarette with hands that weren’t quite steady. Retirement. Greece. Dar. Could I really choose that over the fight? Or is she the fight worth choosing?
The ember flared in the dark as he drew in a long breath, the taste of smoke and doubt burning on his tongue.