Guns, Ghosts and Surviving the New Protocol
While Dar untangles a plot to walk armed men straight through Kensington’s fire-doors,
the task force preps for war in the garage—each of them calculating odds they never speak aloud.
MONDAY EVENING
The house settled into its evening rhythm after Callum left—a new protocol Dar found useful in keeping the ghosts at bay—boots on hardwood, the indistinct murmur of the team debriefing in the kitchen, the particular quality of silence that came from men who’d spent the day managing tension they couldn’t quite name. Dar stayed in her office, door cracked, listening to the architecture of their routines. Logan’s voice, steady and deliberate. Malik’s occasional laugh. Sean asked if anyone wanted a coffee, getting grunts in response.
Rhys’s footsteps paused outside her door at 2100. She could feel him there, deciding whether to knock. He didn’t. The footsteps continued upstairs.
She opened her laptop, pulled up the Kensington file Veyr had mentioned. Reconnaissance, Veyr had said. Not theft. They weren’t taking data—they were mapping it. Learning the topology, the authentication layers, the places where security was strong and where it was tissue paper.
The question was: mapping for what?
Dar created a new analysis document, fingers moving across the keys with the same precision she’d once applied to academic models. Except this wasn’t theoretical. This was a network that bled into violence, and somewhere in the data was the fracture point.
TUESDAY
Dar’s phone lit up at 0530, the screen casting pale light across her face. She’d fallen asleep at her desk again, cheek pressed against her forearm, the Kensington file still open on her laptop. Her neck protested as she lifted her head, vertebrae crackling like old wood.
Outside, boots hit pavement in synchronized rhythm—the team running their morning PT. She could hear Rhys calling cadence, his voice carrying through the pre-dawn quiet. Logan’s deeper tone responding. The sound of men who’d done this so many times their bodies moved on autopilot.
Dar stood, stretched, felt her spine realign with a series of small pops. The coffee maker gurgled on the counter—she padded out in yesterday’s clothes, made a mug, and returned to her office before the team came back inside.
The Kensington breach was elegant in its simplicity. They’d used a zero-day exploit in the API authentication layer, something that shouldn’t have existed but did because someone had prioritized speed over security six months ago.
The attackers had moved through the network like ghosts, touching nothing, taking nothing, just… looking.
Dar swiftly started pulling packet captures, analyzing traffic patterns, reconstructing their path. They’d mapped the entire network topology—every server, every endpoint, every security checkpoint. They’d identified the crown jewels: the client database, the financial records, the communications archive. And then they’d left, closing the door so carefully behind them that no one noticed for three days.
They’re coming back, Dar thought. This was reconnaissance for something bigger.
She created a timeline, cross-referencing the breach with external events. Two days after the exploration, Kensington had announced a major contract with a defense contractor. Three days after that, they’d been shortlisted for a government cybersecurity initiative.
Someone wanted to know what Kensington knew. Or who they were talking to.
Dar encrypted her findings, uploaded them to Veyr’s secure server, and added a note: Reconnaissance complete. Awaiting main event. Recommend immediate security overhaul and client notification.
The response came within minutes: Noted. Continue monitoring. They’ll try again.
At 1030, Pam knocked on the open office door, a white bakery box balanced on one hand, empty plate and napkin in the other. “Brought reinforcements.” She set the box on Dar’s desk, revealing an assortment of pastries that smelled like butter and sugar and normal life. “You eat breakfast?”
“Coffee counts.”
Pam rolled her eyes, already pulling out a spinach and feta croissant from the box. “Coffee’s a lifeline, not a food group, you daft woman.” She plated it, sliding it across the desk with the same precision she used for piping frosting. “Eat. The pastry’s got enough protein to count as actual sustenance, and I slipped in extra butter so your brain doesn’t mutiny before noon.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, surveying the office chaos with a critical eye. “You look like you’ve been wrestling data gremlins all night. Any of those blokes out there actually feeding you, or are they too busy measuring their dicks over an espresso machine?”
Dar’s mouth twitched. “It’s a very nice espresso machine.”
From the kitchen now, Pam snorted, already rummaging through Dar’s cupboards. “Of course it is. Probably cost more than my first car.” She found a mug, poured herself coffee, black as tar. “I bet they alphabetize their protein powder, too.” She took a sip, made a face. “Bloody hell, that’s strong enough to strip paint. You trying to stay awake or dissolve a body?” She set the mug down. “The Major…” Pam took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Stroud’s smart. Comes in, reserved but friendly, doesn’t push. Logan respects that. Rhys…” She trailed off, shrugged. “Rhys is Rhys. Doesn’t like variables he can’t control.”
“I’m not a variable.”
Pam sighed, leaning against the doorframe with the coffee mug cradled against her chest. “Darling, you’re the variable that makes the whole equation interesting.” She watched a muscle twitch in Dar’s jaw—the exhaustion settling into fine lines around her eyes. “You keep forgetting that these men build their lives around predictability. Patterns. Protocol.” She gestured vaguely toward the hallway with her chin, where the murmur of male voices drifted like background static. “Then you walk in with your data models and your late-night epiphanies and suddenly nothing’s linear anymore.”
She pushed off the frame, crossing to the desk to nudge the pastry closer. “That’s why Rhys paces outside your door at night. Why Logan watches you like you’re about to detonate. They can’t quite solve for x.” Her voice dropped, softer. “And maybe that’s exactly what they need. How you holding up? Really?”
The question lingered, a weight between them. Dar picked at the edge of the pastry, looking at the woman who’d just taken a week off to deal with her own ghosts, then ended up spending all her time baking in Dar’s kitchen instead, because normal routines were armour against the dark.
“I’m functional,” she said, the words careful and measured. “The data helps. Gives me something to… arrange.” She paused, fingers stilling over the keys. “Zoe used to ask why I liked numbers so much. Told her they don’t lie. They don’t leave.”
She glanced up, met Pam’s gaze. “I’m not sleeping much. But I’m not drowning either. Better than expected.”
“Good.” Pam stood, brushed crumbs from her jeans. “I’m at the bakery till six if you need anything. And eat the damn turnover.”
After she left, Dar did. It was perfect—flaky, rich, still warm from the morning bake. She ate it slowly, savouring each bite, then returned to the data.
Her phone buzzed at 1400. Unknown number, but the message format was familiar.
Survived the circus?
Callum. She grinned without holding it back.
Barely. Still processing yesterday’s alpha standoff.
Yeah, sorry about that. Territorial instincts die hard.
She put the phone down, but the warmth lingered. It felt… easy. Uncomplicated. A text from someone who understood that sometimes you needed a lifeline and sometimes you just needed to know someone was there.
At 1800, Dar emerged from her office, finding Rhys in the living room, checking weapons with the methodical precision of someone who’d done it ten thousand times. The coffee table was covered with gear—magazines, cleaning kits, tactical lights. He looked up as she entered.
“Tea?” she asked.
Rhys’ fingers still worked the slide of his sidearm. “Aye.” He set the pistol down, wiped his hands on his trousers. “You eat anything today?”
He followed her through the dining room to the kitchen, watched as she filled the kettle, and set it on the stove.
“I had a croissant at ten-thirty.” The kettle began its low hiss. “Does a protein bar at three count?”
He frowned. “That’s not eating, that’s surviving.” His knuckles were dark with oil, hands steady. “There’s leftover stew in the fridge. Made it yesterday.” He didn’t ask again. Just waited.
Dar pulled the stew from the fridge, transferred it to a bowl and put it in the microwave. The aroma of beef and rosemary filled the kitchen as it warmed. “Stew’s better than a protein bar, I’ll give you that.”
The kettle whistled. She poured two mugs of tea—Builder’s for him, Earl Grey for her — setting them on the counter. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re sorting through scenarios that haven’t happened yet.”
He picked up the mug, letting the steam warm his face. “Always am.”
Dar took the stew out of the microwave and turned, wordlessly offering him some.
Rhys shook his head. “Already had some.” He left her to eat alone and made his way back to the living room where he focused his attention on the rifle, running a cleaning cloth along the barrel with practiced efficiency.
After putting her bowl in the dishwasher, Dar came and stood in the living room doorway, tea in hand. “You prepping for something specific, or just the perpetual state of ready?”
Rhys set his empty mug down, gaze dropping to the disassembled gear spread across the table. “Perpetual ready. Standard rotation, nothing unusual.”
She nodded, noting that he didn’t look up at her. Going back through the kitchen, she poured another cup of tea before returning to her office. The house began its nightly routine. Normal sounds. New protocols.
WEDNESDAY
The sound of the front door opening jolted Dar awake at 0630. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa this time, laptop balanced on her thighs, Twigs curled against her side. The tabby stretched, yawned, and gave her a look that clearly said You have a bed for a reason.
“Morning, sis.” Logan’s voice followed by the sound of gear being dropped in the hallway. “We interrupting something?”
“Just sleep.” Dar stood, folding the blanket with automatic precision, closing the laptop. “How was the run?”
“Cold. Dark. Same as always.” He headed for the kitchen, Malik and Sean trailing behind him. The smell of sweat and morning air followed them in. “Coffee on?”
“Always.”
She retreated to her office, leaving them to their post-run routine. Twigs followed, tail high, and settled on the windowsill like a small furry supervisor.
The Kensington breakthrough came at 0900, buried in a packet capture she’d analyzed three times already. The attackers hadn’t just mapped the network topology—they’d mapped the API authentication layer and the physical security protocols. Door access logs. Camera blind spots. Guard rotation schedules.
They weren’t planning a cyberattack. They were planning a physical breach.
Dar’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling together every piece of data she’d collected. The surveillance had been surgical—they’d identified exactly what they needed, where it was stored, and how to get to it without triggering alarms. The digital breach was just the first phase.
She created a detailed analysis, highlighting the correlation between digital and physical reconnaissance. The attackers had accessed the building management system, the HVAC controls, and the fire suppression protocols. They’d mapped every entry point, every vulnerability, every moment when security was thin.
They’re going to walk right in, she thought. And no one will know until it’s too late.
She encrypted the analysis, sent it to Veyr with a priority flag: Physical breach imminent. Recommend immediate lockdown and security audit.
At 1430, her phone rang. Not a text—a call. Callum.
“Dar. You busy?”
“Always. What’s up?”
“Heard you made a breakthrough on Kensington.” His voice was warm, interested. “Veyr mentioned it in this morning’s brief. Physical breach?”
“They mapped everything. Digital, physical, security protocols. They’re planning to walk right in.”
“Smart.” A pause. “You’re sure?”
“I mapped the reconnaissance pattern against the building management system. They accessed door logs, camera feeds, guard rotations. They know exactly when and where to hit.”
“Bloody hell.” She could hear the respect in his voice. “That’s not just reconnaissance. That’s operational planning.”
“That’s what I told Veyr.”
They talked for twenty minutes—about the breach, the patterns, the implications. Callum asked smart questions, challenged her assumptions in ways that sharpened her analysis rather than undermining it. The conversation felt easy, collegial, like talking to someone who understood the work without needing it explained.
Before hanging up, he said, “Take breaks, yeah? Ghosts get loud when you’re tired.”
Dar paused, fingers stilling on the keyboard. “Speaking from experience?”
“Always.” His voice softened. “Take care of yourself, Dar.”
After he hung up, she sat for a long moment, staring at the phone, as her brain fought hard not to compartmentalize her new feelings. Not now.
At 1700, she emerged for tea. The house was quieter now—Sean and Malik were in the gym, the sound of weights clanking rhythmically. Logan was in the garage, doing something that involved power tools and swearing.
Rhys was there, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, watching her with that particular stillness that meant he was thinking too hard about something.
“Tea?” he offered.
“I can make it.”
“I know.” But he filled the kettle anyway and set it to boil. “Stroud check in today?”
Dar’s hand paused on the cabinet. “Yes. Why?”
“Just monitoring comms traffic.” His tone was casual, but his eyes weren’t. “Making sure everyone’s where they’re supposed to be.” Rhys poured hot water over her tea bag, set the mug in front of her. “I’m responsible for everyone on the squad.”
Dar met his gaze. “I’m not one of your variables, Rhys.”
“You’re SIBYL. That makes you my responsibility.” He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“From what? A phone call?”
“From factors I can’t predict.” He put the mug down, ran a hand through his hair. “Stroud’s a good operator. Solid. But he’s…new to this team, and I need to know who’s in your orbit.”
Territorial, Dar realized. Not jealous—territorial. Protecting his operational space, his team, his mission. She was an element he couldn’t control, and Callum was another intersecting with the first. She could feel heat rising to her cheeks.
“He’s a friend,” she said quietly. “That’s all.”
Rhys nodded, but his expression didn’t change. “Good. Keep it that way.”
Dar tensed and turned, walking back to her office and leaving him standing alone, her mug of tea sitting on the counter cooling. She closed the door, wondering when her life had become something that required operational security.
At 1900, Sean made dinner—his turn in the rotation. Shepherd’s pie, simple and hearty — the kind of food that fills the house with warmth. The team ate together at the larger dining room table, the dynamic looser than Monday but with an undercurrent she couldn’t quite name.
Malik made a joke about the trip to Birmingham, and Sean’s buying the espresso machine. Logan laughed. Sean grinned. Rhys didn’t.
Dar ate quietly, watching the interplay, feeling like an anthropologist studying a tribe whose customs she was still learning.
After dinner, she headed back to her office and pulled up the Berlin files. Three targets. Three nodes in a network that funded violence. Veyr wanted fracture points—places where money bled into action, where pressure would collapse the entire structure.
She started with Mikhail Kozlov. Arms trafficking. Human cargo routes. Financial ties to terrorist cells and parliamentary aides. Six years, nine countries. The movement pattern wasn’t evasion—it was expansion.
Dar created a network diagram, nodes and edges connecting money to violence to power. Kozlov was a hub, but he wasn’t the centre. Someone was funding him. Someone was protecting him.
She worked until her eyes burned, until Twigs head-butted her hand in protest, until the house went quiet around her.
THURSDAY
Dar woke at 0600 to the smell of coffee and the noise of gear being sorted in the garage. She’d actually made it to bed last night—small victories. Twigs was curled against her side, purring like a small engine.
She showered, dressed, and went downstairs to find the kitchen empty but the espresso machine primed to work. Through the window, she could see movement in the shed as well—Logan’s silhouette, the methodical rhythm of equipment checks. Routine operational upkeep. They were always checking kit, cleaning weapons, maintaining readiness.
She poured a mug, added cream, and headed back to her office. The Kensington report needed final polishing—comprehensive analysis, timeline reconstruction, vulnerability assessment, and recommendations. She worked through the morning, refining her findings until every detail was prosecution-ready.
At 0945, Logan knocked on her office door. “Coffee run – don’t tell Kennedy. You need anything?”
It was an olive branch—she could see it in the way he stood, relaxed but attentive, offering something small and normal. Last night’s tension?
“Flat white, if they have it.”
“They will.” He paused, standing at her desk, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Stroud’s alright. Bit serious, but solid.”
Dar looked up from her laptop, puzzled. “You checking on me too or just being neighbourly?” Rhys must have said something.
“Both.” A small smile, quick and genuine. “We’re not used to… unknowns. People coming and going who aren’t part of the team. Makes us twitchy.”
“I noticed.”
“Yeah.” He shifted his weight, glanced at the hallway. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s good for you. Someone outside this circus who gets it.”
“Gets what?”
“The ghosts.” Logan’s expression sobered. “We all got ’em. Helps to have someone who understands without needing the complete story.”
He left before she could respond, coming back twenty minutes later with a flat white and two scones from Pam’s bakery. He set them on her desk, nodded once, and disappeared back into the house.
Dar ate the scones slowly, savouring the gesture as much as the food.
At 1145, she encrypted the file and uploaded it to Veyr’s secure server with a cover note: Comprehensive analysis attached.
The response came within five minutes: Excellent work. Stand by for further tasking.
Dar leaned back in her chair, feeling the particular satisfaction that came from solving a puzzle.
The Kensington breach had been elegant, but she’d been more elegant. She’d seen through the reconnaissance, identified the actual target, and given them the tools to stop it.
This is what I’m good at, she thought. Finding the patterns. Seeing what others miss.
The house felt busy today—boots on stairs, voices in the garage, the sound of weapons being checked and gear being sorted. She could hear Rhys’s voice giving instructions, Logan’s steady responses, and Malik’s occasional laugh. Sean’s grumblings. New normal sounds and rhythms.
At 1430, her phone buzzed.
How’s the analysis going?
Callum. She smiled before she could stop herself.
Making progress. Found a weak link in the supply chain.
Knew Veyr chose the right person. Don’t forget to eat.
Yes, sir.
Cheeky.
She set the phone down, still smiling, and retrieved the Berlin files. Dr. Natasha Volkov. Cambridge-educated. Five languages. Modified pathogens for regimes the UN somehow never sanctioned. Estimated body count: two to five thousand.
The range itself was data. Uncertainty meant poor documentation, which meant deliberate obscurity.
Someone was protecting her supply chains.
Dar pulled financial records, shipping manifests, pharmaceutical supply chains. Volkov’s network was smaller than Kozlov’s but more specialized. She didn’t move weapons—she moved precursors, the chemical building blocks that became weapons in the right hands.
And all of it flowed through a series of intermediaries, each one adding a layer of obscurity. But there—buried in the shipping manifests—was a Czech pharmaceutical company that appeared in seventeen different transactions over six months. Small enough to avoid scrutiny, large enough to handle the volume.
The weak link.
The clicking and tapping on the keyboard provided a rhythmic counterpoint to her thoughts as Dar mapped the connections. Czech company to Cyprus. Cyprus to Syria. Cyprus to Yemen. Cyprus to three different research facilities that officially didn’t exist. Cut off the Czech intermediary, and Volkov’s entire distribution network would collapse like a house of cards.
Dar worked until midnight, refining her analysis of Volkov’s network, documenting every connection, every transaction, every vulnerability. She encrypted her work, saved it to continue later, and stretched. When she finally closed her laptop, her eyes burned and her shoulders ached. Her neck cracked. Twigs appeared in the doorway, meowing her disapproval at being ignored.
She went to bed not knowing that in six hours, the house would be empty.
Not knowing that tomorrow, she’d wake to silence and wonder if they were ever coming back.
Not knowing that Rhys had chosen not to tell her.
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