Old Soldiers, New Missions:
A Toast to Unfinished Business
Some ties don’t break.
Some ghosts don’t fade.
And sometimes the right pint, the wrong hour, and a dangerous call are all it takes to pull a team together.
Hereford – Hounds Pub
The pub exuded familiar Hereford charm, an unspoken promise of comfort on a rainy evening. Its stone walls bore the scars of time like old soldiers; zig-zagged overhead like the ribs of some long-dead dragon. A row of battered sconces cast a lazy, amber glow that made every shadow look suspiciously alive. In a far corner, a knot of locals murmured over pints, their steady presence as reassuring as a metronome.
Rhys Calder slouched in a secluded corner booth like a man who’d spent his life hauling artillery and now suspected someone was trying to pry the barrels from his hands. A half-empty glass of bitter sat before him, condensation running rings around it so neat you’d almost believe he’d ordered it for the art. He glanced up when Dar slipped in, brushing the drizzle from her coat. His face softened—but only just—the heaviness in his eyes staying put.
“Crikey, Rhys, you look like someone stole your dog,” Dar said, sliding in opposite him.
Rhys gave a humourless huff. “HQ wants me to retire.” He lifted the pint and set it down again without drinking. “‘End of the line, Major Calder.’ Just like that. Twenty-seven years, and suddenly I’m old kit they want off the shelf.”
Dar’s teeth clenched before relaxing, and she tried to smile. “You’re not old kit, Rhys. You’re the bloody manual they should be following.”
He managed something like a crooked grin before flicking his gaze back to the condensation. Manual, huh? Mine’s been waterlogged with blood. He shook it off. “More time for deck chairs, ouzo, and kvetching about the sun.”
“Greece?” Dar raised a brow.
Rhys shrugged, casual, though his pulse ticked faster. “I always wanted to go. Somewhere quiet. Sea, sun, decent food. Maybe rent a villa. Read all the books I never had time for.” He glanced at her. Maybe someone to share it with.
Dar traced the rim of her glass. “Sounds… divine. Beats soggy Hereford, anyway.” She looked away fast, cheeks warming. God, Dar, don’t beg for an invite.
Rhys studied her, aware of the way she avoided his eyes, the faint smile on her lips. Ask her. Just say it. 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 was grateful for the deflection. “True. And I’d make you carry my luggage up cobbled hills while I bitched about the sandals I shouldn’t have worn.” Don’t hope. Still, the image lingered: blue water, genuine laughter, his hand brushing hers. She cleared her throat. “Well. If you end up on a beach in Greece, at least send me a postcard. Proof you survived civilian life.”
“Deal.” His grin didn’t reach his eyes.
The quiet lingered between them. Drinks half-finished. Words unsaid.
The door opened, 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,” Logan dropped himself onto the worn leather bench beside Dar, giving them both a wry nod. “You two look like you’ve just read your own eulogies.”
Dar tipped her chin at Rhys. “He’s just updated his CV. Retirement papers.”
Logan let out a low, impressed whistle and flagged the barman with two fingers. “HQ finally realized you’re an antique?” he jibed, leaning back and propping his boot on the footrail underneath the table. “Guess that makes me a collector’s item.”
Rhys snorted. “You’re about as collectible as mouldy bread.”
“Hey, mouldy bread keeps you alive,” Logan shot back.
Dar laughed. “Rhys was just dreaming out loud about beaches. Greece, of all places.”
Logan’s laughter rolled loud enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby tables. “Greece? You’d fold like a cheap sunshade before you even unpacked your bags—whinging about the heat, draining the locals dry. And Dar? Don’t kid yourself. You’d be lobster-red by midday, grumpy as a trodden-on cat, ready to off him with a paperback by day two.”
Dar rolled her eyes, though a faint rose bloomed on her cheeks at her stepbrother’s assumption that she would be invited. I wouldn’t mind trying.
Rhys paused for a moment, then cleared his throat, fixing his eyes on Logan, voice flat. “Your papers are in too, Ward. Signed off this afternoon.”
Nobody spoke. Logan stared at Rhys, certain he’d misheard. The smile that started on his lips dissolved as he searched for some sign Rhys was pulling an elaborate prank. But Rhys didn’t do pranks. “That’s bullshit.” His voice too loud for their quiet corner. Heads turned. “Who the fuck authorized it? Long? That bureaucratic pencil-pusher’s been gunning for us since day one—”
Rhys cut him off with a shake of his head. “Above him. Way above.”
Logan’s face locked into that sniper-focus mask, and instinctively, Dar reached for his arm, then pulled back; touch was a line he rarely let anyone cross.
“When?” she directed the question to Rhys instead.
Rhys exhaled. “We report in tomorrow morning.”
Logan’s reply was a hollow, “Roger that.”
Around them, the pub’s soundtrack swelled—glassware clattering, murmured laughter, chair legs scraping—and all of it pressed against their little bubble of bad news. Dar watched Logan, waiting for a crack in his steel, for the sarcasm to roll free again.
She didn’t have long to wait. The barman returned with three fresh pints, beads of cold clinging to the outisde of the mugs.
Logan lifted his ale in a mock-solemn salute. “To old soldiers,” he declared, voice rich with irony. “May our pensions rival our scars, and may we never have to fight over sun loungers.”
Dar tapped her glass against his, then glanced at Rhys. He raised his pint, eyes distant, but in his head, he whispered a different toast: To not losing this. To not losing her.
They settled into a fragile sort of ease—Logan providing noise and sarcasm as he nursed his pint with the casual suspicion of a man who expected more bad news at any moment. Rhys, for the first time that night, felt a little less like the world was closing in, his attention fixed on the water rings staining the table as though they were something worth solving.
Dar was halfway through a second cider when her phone buzzed. Picking it up, she frowned. Not a message. A secure call from an unfamiliar name-VEYR. The screen seemed to pulse as she showed it to Rhys. “Do I answer this?”
Rhys sat up straighter and gave a curt nod. Logan leaned in to see the screen, and his eyes widened. “Fuckin hell.”
Dar held the phone between them, thumb hovering over the speaker icon. She pressed it. “Montgomery.”
The voice that came through was smooth. “Ms. Montgomery. I trust I’m not interrupting?”
Dar shifted in her seat. “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. Calder, Ward—retirement papers make for such dreary reading, don’t they?”
Rhys straightened, his jaw tight. “You’ve seen them?”
“I drafted them.” She waited for that to settle. “On paper, you’re done. Off the board. Pensioners in waiting. But unofficially? You’ve never been more valuable. 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’s soft chuckle was like ice clinking in a glass. “We’re not done with you yet, Ward. If I wanted you dead, I’d have left you in that warehouse in Minsk. No, this is something cleaner. Also, far more lucrative. And Ms. Montgomery—your criminology expertise just became relevant as well.”
Purposefully, she paused briefly. “I suggest you all listen closely. Task Force 983. Independent, deniable, unsanctioned. You’ll operate off book, with resources routed through me. Your instincts are assets we can’t replicate. Unless 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.”
A beat of silence. The faint knock of a ring against glass echoed down the line before Veyr continued. “No, Ms. Montgomery. Not storming. Advising. Behavioural analysis, applied to targets who don’t leave paper trails. Think of it as consulting from the safety of your home. Your expertise, not your blood.” Another pause. “As for you, Calder, Ward—this isn’t a recall. It’s a recalibration. You’ll have autonomy and resources. As well as the satisfaction of knowing your work matters. I’ll expect your decisions in the morning.”
Dar opened her mouth to respond, then closed it as her phone buzzed with a confirmation ping that Veyr had already disconnected. Her fingers tapped the sides of her glass. Patterns. Data. Not danger.
Rhys leaned back slowly, exhaling, relieved. Not retirement. Not yet.
Logan drained the last of his pint, setting it down sharply. “Well. There’s our bloody answer. Thought we were out. Turns out we’re not retired, just being rebranded.”
The pub’s din seemed to fade.
Dar finally spoke, voice low. “Task Force 983.”
Rhys allowed himself the faintest smile. “Could be worse.”
Logan smirked. “Could be Greece.”
Rhys sat forward, shoulders squared, as Dar put her phone away and looked at him. “Task Force 983. A ghost team.” She sat for the next minute, the cool glass of cider against her lips as she processed it all. Why 9-8-3? Then, a burst of laughter escaped her lips. “Task Force W-T-F. Unofficial, deniable.”
“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.” Logan gestured at Rhys before knocking back the last of his pint. “Congratulations, Calder—you’re obsolete and indispensable at the same time. A rare gift.”
Rhys let out a low chuckle. Ghost team. Fitting. “W-T-F indeed. Though I’d take ghosts over paperwork any day.” His jaw tightened as he rubbed a hand over his face, his gaze landing on Dar. “So, she expects you to be part of this as well?” He studied her face. “I know you’re more than qualified but…” He swallowed the words and rerouted his sentence. “How do you feel about it?” He could see her eyes sharpen with interest. She’s in. Of course she is. “You’ve never belonged to this, Dar. You can refuse.”
Before she could respond, Logan leaned back, sunglasses still in place. “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 leaned forward, putting his glass and his elbows on the table. “Freedom to work from home, eh? That’s code for ‘we’ll call you at 0300 when the worlds on fire.’” A smirk formed on his mouth. She’ll take it. We’ll take it.
Dar shrugged at Logan’s analysis, and Rhys forced a nod, leaning back against the booth, his fingers drumming against his thigh beneath the table. One last run. Then maybe… Christ, what am I thinking?
Dar’s eyes lingered on Rhys a second longer than she meant to, and he held her gaze, his throat tight. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Logan resisted the urge to bang their heads together like coconuts. Christ, could they be more obvious? Five bloody years of this dance and still they’re ‘just friends’. The air between them crackled. He took a long pull of his beer, then cleared his throat with deliberate volume, breaking their moment 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.” He shot Dar a smirk, then turned to Rhys. “And you. If you’re going to brood, at least do it somewhere scenic. I hear Santorini’s lovely this time of year.” He stretched his legs underneath 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?”
When the three of them stepped outside, the air was cool with a faint tang of river damp, and Logan peeled off first, muttering that he was on his way to grab 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 to the car park, their boots crunching over grit and fallen leaves. Dar replayed Rhys’ question in her mind while pulling her coat tighter around her, though the chill biting at her wasn’t only from the air. Does he think I can’t handle it?
“You know, you don’t have to do this again.” Her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve given them more than half your life, Rhys. Let them find someone else to carry the weight.”
Hands still deep in his pockets, Rhys expelled a puff of air. “Nobody asks you what you think the mission is worth. You just show up, do the job, and if you’re lucky, end up somewhere with a decent view.” He tried to lighten the words, but they landed flat.
Dar glanced up at him. “And if the mission wasn’t theirs to give you? If you chose it yourself?”
He stopped. What the hell remains without the uniform?
The street was empty, quiet except for the distant bark of a dog and the faint rush of the Wye. He turned toward her. Defiance that had carried her through every storm shone in her eyes. Rhys’ throat tightened, so he looked away, toward the dark riverbank. “What would I even do, Dar? Sit on a beach and… relax?” He spoke, but the words felt alien, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.
Dar observed him wrestle with the concept, the way his jaw clenched as if he was biting down on something unpalatable. Relaxation. The enemy of men like Rhys. A weary smile appeared on her face. “I’ve heard it’s possible. Even for you.” She shifted, brushing his arm lightly with her shoulder. “You might surprise yourself.”
His face showed a momentary hesitation, a fleeting contemplation, before his steadfast commitment returned.
“Dar…”
And there it was—that same expression and tone she’d met numberless times over the past few years. The “but.”
Like a stone finding the bottom, realization settled in her chest: the perfect time would never come with the unending cycle of missions. She struggled to shut out the bitterness she felt. “I understand.”
Rhys ran a hand through his hair, the streetlight catching the silver at his temples. “This … it’s who I am.”
She nodded. A dry, hard swallow was all she could manage.
They reached her car, and she opened the driver’s door, pausing before getting in. “Don’t make Greece the consolation prize, Rhys. Make it the mission.”
Her words lingered in the cold air as she slid behind the wheel, started the engine and slowly drove off, leaving Rhys standing on the quiet street, staring after her.
He lit a cigarette as he walked away, his lighter clicking three times before catching.
Retirement. Greece. Dar. The ember flared in the dark as he drew in a long breath. He’d spent twenty-seven years building this life, this purpose. But Dar—Christ, Dar’s had enough grief in her life. She needed someone steady, who wouldn’t vanish for months on end or bring danger to her door. Someone who wasn’t him.
He exhaled smoke and watched it dissolve, knowing some choices couldn’t wait forever, and whichever path he chose, he’d spend the rest of his life wondering about the other.