Surveillance Shadows:
New Alliances in the Safehouse
Dar discovers suspicious network activity suggesting surveillance, leading to a team meeting
and Callum’s integration into the safehouse as a new resident.
Discovery
Dar noticed the timing first. The message itself was routine—low-priority, stripped of identifiers, drifting through the system like countless others. But its movement caught her attention. It had slipped across the network with peculiar grace, marked as routine, unnoticed by filters or alerts designed to flag anomalies. Daily communications flowed across borders seamlessly, their origins rarely questioned. But this one was different.
Her brow furrowed at the timing. Not glaringly so, not sufficient to disrupt operations or raise alarms. This was subtler—a blink, a moment smoothed out like someone pressing their finger on a hose, altering its flow before letting go.
The pre-dawn stillness wrapped around her. Outside, the world awaited direction, silent and expectant. Inside, the kettle on her counter clicked as it cooled, steam no longer curling from its spout. She’d forgotten about her tea.
Dar sat back, arms crossed, regarding the screen. Her mind worked through the data again and again, pulling it apart. Every pass yielded the same result: no corruption, no obvious interference—just that tiny delay that felt deliberate, human in its precision.
“No corruption, no interference.” The exchange carried a subtle compression, like a breath held too long.
And then it hit her.
This wasn’t noise.
Her pulse quickened as clarity settled over her. Someone was listening. Not just monitoring—watching. Patiently. Observing the system breathe, waiting for its rhythm to falter.
She exhaled, her chest tightening with a calm dread she recognised—the kind that didn’t scream but whispered warnings you couldn’t ignore.
“So,” her voice steady but laced with challenge, addressing the unseen watcher. “You’re listening.”
The name lingered unspoken on her tongue: Volkov. She didn’t say it—not yet. Naming threats gave them shape and power. First, you had to know their outlines before you called them out of the dark.
The Secure Call
Rhys dragged one of the kitchen chairs into Dar’s office without asking and dropped himself into it beside her with a quiet grunt. Their shoulders were close enough to brush, but he did not close or widen the gap—a silent acknowledgement that he was there to observe rather than interfere for once.
He watched as Dar’s fingers flew over her keyboard with practised precision, building simulations and running diagnostics faster than he could follow. The monitors pulsed with data streams that painted an intricate dance of patterns across their screens.
By the time Veyr and Callum joined the call, Dar had already confirmed her findings three ways over—a habit born from necessity rather than perfectionism.
The video feed flickered to life. Callum appeared first, sitting on a chair in his flat, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly at Rhys’ presence next to Dar in her office. Veyr joined moments later; even through the screen’s distortion, her sharp gaze carried an unspoken authority that set everyone else on edge.
“Something’s changed. Callum’s voice broke the tension. It wasn’t a question—that was never the case with him.
“Yes,” Dar confirmed his assessment.
“How much?”
Dar paused a beat—one heavy with calculation. Precision mattered here; she wouldn’t risk overstating or understating what she knew.
“Enough to notice us, but not to touch us.”
Callum’s lips pressed into a thin line, his elbows resting on his table. “Yet,” he finished for her.
Dar inclined her head in agreement. “Yet.”
He exhaled and let his unease hang in the silence. “That’s a narrow window.”
“It’s deliberate.”
That earned her Veyr’s full attention—a rare and unsettling thing when it happened.
“Meaning?” Veyr pressed.
“Whoever did this wanted Ashford to know they exist,” Dar chose each word as though laying bricks in a fragile structure. “Not to threaten him—just to make him aware.”
Veyr’s brow furrowed—not enough for anyone unfamiliar with her to notice, but enough for Dar to spot it.
The silence that followed was dense with implication—an invisible web of connections forming between them as they processed what this meant without saying it aloud.
Callum spoke up first.
“Do we have a name?”
Dar shook her head once—a small but definitive gesture. “Not one I’m prepared to say.”
Callum didn’t press further; Dar already suspected what she wasn’t naming—and that he didn’t like it any more than she did.
Welcome to the Madhouse
The Land Rover’s engine ticked as it cooled in the late afternoon sun. Callum Stroud stayed behind the wheel a moment, studying the safehouse through the windscreen. He’d been here half a dozen times over the past weeks—briefings, debriefs, the occasional tea with Dar—but today felt different.
He hadn’t arrived with just a go-bag.
The front door opened before he could reach for his bergen. Dar Montgomery stood in the doorway, barefoot despite the winter chill, wearing jeans and an oversized jumper. Her hair was loose, waving down past her shoulders, and she was smiling.
“You’re late,” she called. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”
“Traffic.” Callum pulled his bergen and a duffel from the back seat. “And I had to stop for supplies.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that require apologizing in advance for my coffee habits.” He held up a container of Jamaican Blue Mountain beans.
Dar’s smile widened. “Sean will be thrilled. I hope you like lattes.”
“Can’t wait.”
Inside smelled faintly of baking—Pam’s work. Twigs lay curled on the back of the sofa in a patch of sunlight. The cat opened one eye, decided Callum wasn’t that interesting, and went back to sleep.
Dar reached out to take the duffel from him, her fingers brushing his. The contact lasted a fraction longer than necessary. “Come on. I’ll show you your room. If you snore, we’ll have problems.”
Callum followed her up the stairs, acutely aware of the way her jumper slipped off one shoulder as she moved. “I don’t snore.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Who’s they?”
She glanced back with a mischievous look and a faint blush. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The hallway on the second floor stretched wide, featuring just one door immediately left of the stairs. The long hall held three additional doors. Dar stopped at the second on the left and pushed it open.
“This was Sean’s room until yesterday. He’s moved to the basement near Malik and the comms setup. Claims he wants to learn signals. Personally, I think he got tired of Rhys’s morning runs.”
The room was large and practical: a double bed, desk, wardrobe, window overlooking the back garden. Fresh sheets. A folded towel. The sill held a small vase with flowers.
“Rhys is across the hall,” Dar leaned against the doorframe. “Bathroom next door–shared with him. Knock first unless you want more of Rhys than you bargained for.”
“Noted.” Callum set his bergen down and turned to face her properly. She was watching him with that assessing look he recognized—the one that meant she was reading him, cataloging details, building a profile. “What?”
“Wondering if you’re having second thoughts. Working with us is one thing. Living with us is… intense.”
“I’ve lived in worse conditions with worse company.”
“We’re not low maintenance.”
“Neither am I.”
Something softened in her expression. “Good. I’d hate to file a complaint with HR.” She straightened. “Unpack. Dinner’s at seven. If you’re late, Sean will eat your portion.”
She was halfway out the door before Callum spoke.
“Dar.”
She turned.
“Thanks. For making this easy.”
Her smile was softer now. “We take care of our own, Stroud. For better or worse.”
Callum was halfway down the stairs when he heard voices in the back hallway—Sean’s enthusiastic chatter and Malik’s quieter replies.
He found Sean wrestling with a large box.
“Little help?” Sean stopped to change his grip on the box. “Malik says carrying everything builds character.”
“It builds awareness of how much unnecessary equipment you own,” Malik was behind him, carrying a single duffel with ease. “You don’t need three laptops.”
“They serve different purposes!”
“They serve the same purpose. You just like options.”
Callum took one end of the box, helping Sean navigate the narrow turn toward the basement stairs. “What’s all this?”
“My command centre,” Sean was beaming. “Malik’s teaching me signals intelligence. If I’m learning, I might as well have proper tools.”
“He bought four monitors,” Malik held up four fingers. “Four.”
“One for each data stream.”
“You’re going to look like a Bond villain.”
“I’m going to look professional.”
They carried the box down the basement stairs, which opened into a surprisingly spacious area that had been converted into living quarters and a communications room.
Though smaller, Sean’s new room offered proximity to comms gear; a screen array so extensive, GCHQ would covet it.
“Home sweet home,” Sean announced, dropping his end of the box with less care than the electronics probably deserved. “It’s cozy. Intimate. Has that authentic ‘underground bunker’ aesthetic.”
“It’s a basement,” Malik said.
“It’s a tactical basement.”
“There’s no such thing as a tactical basement.”
Sean surveyed the room with satisfaction. “There is now. And I’m no longer next to Rhys’s morning workouts. Living beside someone doing burpees at oh-five-thirty is psychological warfare.”
Callum caught Malik’s eye. His expression remained neutral, yet it conveyed recognition of Sean’s unspoken thoughts. Moving here involved more than just the comms room or dawn workouts. It was about making space. Creating distance.
Making room for Callum on the second floor.
“Right,” Sean clapped. “Time to set up. Callum, welcome to the madhouse. Malik, stop judging my monitor situation.”
“I’m not judging.”
“You’re absolutely judging.”
Leaving them to bicker it out, Callum headed back upstairs, nearly colliding with Rhys Calder coming down.
“Stroud,” Calder said. “Settling in?”
“Yes, sir. Sean’s been showing me his new setup.”
“He’s excited about it. Malik’s less excited about the noise level, but he’ll adapt.” A brief pause. “You’re in his old room. Across from mine.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir.”
Calder nodded. “Pleasant room. Good sight lines from the window. Floorboards don’t creak.” He stepped past, then added, “Logan and I run at oh-six hundred. You’re welcome to join.”
“Thanks.”
Calder continued downstairs, measured and quiet.
Callum stored the memory and went to resume unpacking.
Pam arrived at six-forty-five in a whirl of red hair and roasted chicken. She swept into the kitchen carrying enough food to feed a small army, kissed Dar on both cheeks, and immediately began organizing the chaos with the efficiency of a general deploying troops.
“Right, then,” she announced. “I’ve got roast chicken, potatoes, veg—actual veg, Logan, not just the ones you can hide under other food—and apple crumble for after. Dar, grab the good plates. Sean, set the table. Logan, stop lurking in the doorway and help.”
“I’m not lurking,” Logan protested from his position in the doorway, sunglasses still firmly in place despite being indoors.
“Christ on a cracker, Ward. You most certainly are. You’re doing that thing where you lean against the frame and brood. It’s very dramatic, but it’s not helpful.”
Pam spotted Callum. “Ah, Major! Welcome. We’re all slightly insane, but the food’s good.”
“I’ve been warned.”
“Have you been warned about the cat?” She pointed to Twigs, now under the table. “Steals bacon. Judges your life choices.”
“We’re acquainted.”
Pam turned back to her food distribution operation. “Right, everyone sit. Eat. Be civilized for thirty minutes. I know it’s a challenge for some of you.”
They gathered around the table—seven now, with Callum included.
Pam served with practiced efficiency, piling plates high and ignoring protests about portion sizes.
“So, Callum,” she said. “How does it feel joining the circus?”
“Like I’ve made either the best or worst decision of my career.”
“It’s both,” Logan didn’t look up from his plate. “Usually simultaneously.”
Pam raised her glass. “To Callum. May he survive us.”
“To survival,” they echoed, glasses raised.
Across the table Dar smiled at him—warm, unguarded in a way he rarely saw. Watching her like this, relaxed among people she trusted, reminded him exactly why he hadn’t balked when Veyr gave him orders to move to the safehouse.
Sean pointed his fork. “Now that Callum lives here, house rules. No touching my monitors. Malik stops judging my caffeine intake. Logan announces security checks, so we don’t have heart attacks.”
“I do perimeter checks,” Logan said.
“You tested the window locks at two in the morning.”
“That was once.”
“It was four times.”
Dar let out a genuine laugh, unguarded and bright. Callum watched Rhys watch her, saw the way his expression softened and then shuttered, locking something down.
Oh.
Pam stepped in. “Actual rule: no one eats the last of anything without asking—especially emergency tiramisu.” Her eyes landed on Dar before turning to Callum. “And everyone cooks sometimes, Callum. Actual food.” She gave Logan an accusatory look.
“I can cook,” Logan protested.
“Sean told me you had toast for dinner last week.”
“It was artisanal toast.”
“It was Tesco bread.”
Laughter circled the table. Callum felt tension ease from his shoulders.
“What’s your cooking specialty?” Dar pulled his attention. “And before you answer, know that we have very low standards. If you can operate a microwave without setting off the smoke alarm, you’re already ahead of Sean.”
“That was one time!” Sean stopped eating to protest.
“It was popcorn, Sean. Pre-packaged microwave popcorn.”
“The instructions were unclear!”
“They had pictures.”
Callum grinned. “I can manage more than a microwave. My mum made sure her kids could cook a proper meal before we left home.”
“Smart woman,” Pam approved. “What’s your signature dish?”
“Something my mum calls the Pembroke House Special. Nothing fancy, but edible.”
“Edible is a high bar around here,” Logan reached for more chicken.
Dar studied him thoughtfully. “Domestic for an SAS major.”
“Even SAS majors have to eat.”
Across the table, Rhys cleared his throat. “Speaking of standards, we should discuss operational rotation now that Callum’s here—”
“Rhys,” Pam’s voice resonated with parental punctuation. “We. Are. Eating.”
“We’re nearly finished eating.”
“We haven’t had desert yet.”
“The world doesn’t wait for desert.” Rhys offered no heat in his reply.
“Then the world needs to learn patience.” Pam stood, already clearing plates. “Apple crumble. Made fresh this morning. And if anyone complains about operational schedules before we’ve finished, they don’t get any.”
Pam came back from the kitchen with the crumble—a massive dish that smelled like cinnamon and autumn—and began serving with the same generous portions as before. Callum accepted his plate and took a bite.
It was, he had to admit, worth waiting for, and worth tonight’s run.
“Verdict?” Dar asked.
“I made the right decision.”
“About the safehouse or the dessert?”
“Both.”
Her smile widened, and across the table, Rhys looked away.
Later, after dishes were cleared and Pam departed, after Sean, Logan, and Malik retreated to the basement, Callum found himself alone in the kitchen with Dar.
She made tea—two mugs without asking.
“You handled dinner well,” she said. “It can overwhelm people.”
“I’ve had worse briefings.”
“This wasn’t a briefing. It was an audition.” She handed him a mug. “We’re protective. New people get watched. You know that.”
“And?”
“You fit.” She leaned against the counter. “Sean likes you. Malik respects you. Logan trusts you—which is rare. Pam’s already adopted you.”
“What about you?”
She met his eyes, then glanced down at her mug.
“I think having you here will complicate things.”
“In a good way or bad?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She set the mug down. “But I’m willing to find out.”
A door connecting the garage swung open in the back hall. Rhys. They both heard it, both recognizing the rhythm of his gait. Dar straightened slightly, putting a few more inches of distance between herself and Callum.
Rhys appeared in the doorway, stopping when he saw them. His eyes moved from Dar to Callum and back again, reading the space between them, the two mugs of tea, the way they’d both shifted when they heard him coming.
“Evening,” Callum kept his voice carefully neutral. “Good workout?”
“Productive workout,” Rhys replied, filling a glass with water and downing it all at once. “We run at oh-six-hundred. Logan and I.”
“Callum and I run just past seven,” Dar looked at Rhys.
“Oh, right,” Rhys set the glass in the sink with more force than necessary. “I’m turning in. Early start tomorrow.” He nodded to Dar.
“Night.”
“Night,” Dar said.
They watched him leave, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. Somewhere above them, a door closed with a decisive click.
“He’s not happy about this,” Callum looked at her then.
“No.” Dar picked up her mug again, staring into it. “He’s not. You’re still a variable to him.”
“Should I be worried?”
“About Rhys? No. He’s professional. He won’t let personal feelings interfere with operations.” She paused. “But he’s also human. And humans are complicated.”
“Are we talking about Rhys or about us?”
She looked at him, something uncertain in her expression.
“Both.”
Twigs padded into the kitchen and wound around their legs.
“She likes you,” Dar said. “Good sign.”
“Better judgment than yours?”
“Definitely. I make complicated choices.”
“Like letting me move in?”
“Was there a choice?” She raised an eyebrow as she smiled.
They stood in the quiet kitchen, the hum of electronics drifting up from the basement.
“I should let you sleep,” Callum said. “Early start.”
“Right.”
She picked up their mugs. “Welcome home, Callum.”
“Thanks.”
He started for the stairs, then paused.
“Dar?”
“Yeah?”
“I think complicated might be worth it.”
Her smile was soft. “Ask me again in a month.”
Upstairs, Callum unpacked the last of his things and set his alarm for oh-six-thirty. The house settled around him.
Sometime later footsteps ascended the stairs. His phone read 01:34. Dar was heading to bed.
This was his life now. These people, this place, these complications.
Callum closed his eyes. Yes. This could work.
Even if it were complicated.
Especially if it was complicated.
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