In the Shadow of Duty: Love and Rivalry in a World of Secrets
Four operatives separately process the shifting dynamics within their safehouse team,
particularly regarding the romantic tension between Dar and rival officers, Rhys and Callum.
Hereford Safehouse – Rhys
Callum and Dar had been holed up in her office well past dinner, and Rhys’s chest ached every time their voices drifted through the door. Somewhere in the last few months he’d pissed her off so badly she’d retreated—from him — and decamped to Stroud’s orbit.
Just before midnight, he lingered in the kitchen, watching Callum head upstairs, forcing a “Good night” along with a casual nod. He waited for Dar to emerge, half-hopeful, half-dreading the silence. She never appeared.
Callum Stroud embodied everything Rhys was not: cultured, smooth-talking, a master of the digital battlespace that had become Dar’s world. Rhys thrived on direct action, on muddy boots and the crack of rifles—not behind a keyboard. Yet here, Stroud fit seamlessly, and with every confident stride Callum took, Rhys was reminded how uncertain he’d become.
Stroud had served under Rhys once, alongside Logan on that one near-disastrous mission. He followed rules then, following them still—so Rhys ought to respect him. Instead, he found himself replaying the moment Callum dared to question his orders. Rhys’s pride, so swollen he could barely swallow, needed that command unquestioned. He’d followed the order in the end, only after Rhys had barked it again. That hesitation had fractured something between them. Maybe Callum had balked at Rhys personally, maybe at high command. Whatever it was, the crack was permanent.
Stroud had raced ahead to Major before Rhys. And Rhys, who forever delayed the paperwork until it threatened him, resented it. Even the kid, Kennedy, seemed to gel with Stroud: the rich kid with a comms headset, bright-eyed and fearless in cyberwarfare. Rhys had dismissed Kennedy once as a thrill-seeker; now he grudgingly had to admit Logan was correct in assessing him for training and admired how the boy was excelling—backed by a trust fund safety net Rhys would never have.
He poured himself a slug of whiskey, the amber liquid trembling in the glass. The patio door creaked as he pushed it open. The night air was crisp; the stones bone-dry. He fumbled for his cigar and lighter, then settled into a lawn chair, staring up at the pinpricks of stars. He closed his eyes as the first draw filled his lungs with smoky warmth, but as he exhaled, his gaze drifted upward, tracing constellations he couldn’t name.
It stung to admit that transforming the place back into a safehouse had driven a wedge between Dar and himself. They used to hole up for hours on end, saying everything or nothing. Now he was the third wheel. The “old man,” he thought wryly. The relic.
Logan seemed different, too. Rhys suspected Pam had him in her thrall somehow, but he wasn’t going to pry. He’d let Logan share in his own time. He exhaled another plume of smoke, reminding himself that Malik was still solid—absorbing everything, keeping it locked down. At least there was someone Rhys could trust without question.
The cigar had burned down further than he’d realized. He took another drag, held it longer than necessary, as if the smoke itself could fill the hollow spaces inside him. His hand trembled slightly as he lowered the cigar.
He’d never told Dar how he felt—never mustered the courage. Logan’s accusation—”You’re a coward” — branded him accurately. He feared piling more sorrow onto her—she’d lost Zoe, survived the wreck of a marriage to Barry Berg. He thought he was protecting her from the instability of his world. Now he wondered if it had only protected himself—from rejection, from vulnerability.
He was selfish, he realized, making the choice for her. Denying her a say in their future. She’d almost toppled him that night in the pub, practically begging him to pick Greece. He’d been seconds from admitting everything—until Veyr’s call yanked him back to business. How could he have been so blind?
Now, watching her lean into Callum’s world—so fluid, so sure—he felt he had blown his chance. The whiskey burned as he swallowed, but nothing matched the ice tightening its grip around his heart.
Hereford Safehouse – Callum
Callum lay on his bed, one arm crooked under his head, and stared at the ceiling.
Calder’s eyes had tracked him through the kitchen like a targeting reticle. He’d felt it without looking.
Zoe’s image remained in his thoughts. He’d stood in front of it longer than he should have, while Dar was pulling up a file. The girl on the bike, mid-laugh, hair blown sideways. Fourteen, maybe fifteen now, if she’d lived. Such similarity stood out—their jaws matched, as did their eyes. He’d wanted to ask about it. Hadn’t.
He’d watched his mother after Alice. The paradox of being present and absent simultaneously. Alice had taken eight months to die; his mother had taken longer. He’d seen it in other places too—Mosul, Djibouti, a village outside Erbil whose name he’d stopped trying to remember. Mothers, fathers—dropping to their knees in the rubble, that sound that didn’t translate into any language because it didn’t need to. It had kept him from wanting any of it: the house, the child, the exposure. The unbearable arithmetic of love.
But the calculus had shifted lately.
He thought of Djibouti. The high-value target. ‘There are always civilians,’ Rhys’s voice echoed through the comms, followed by a silence that was worse. The boy had been holding a stack of flatbread. Both hands. The reason that detail endured remained unknown to Callum.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum.
Calder was a lion statue. Decorative, immovable, outdoors. Dar deserved someone who could come inside. The thought landed with a peculiar mix of relief and self-loathing—relief that he could articulate why Rhys was wrong for her, self-loathing that he was still trying to convince himself to walk away even as he stayed.
So what were they to each other? Dar, with Rhys, echoing her closeness to him last night, struck him as utterly implausible.
Hereford Safehouse – Sean
Sean sat on the edge of his mattress, the blue-white glow of his phone cutting across his face while some football pundit droned on at low volume. Through the wall, Malik’s snores came in long, rattling waves. He swiped through open screens, past a meme, a match highlight, a weather alert, until the chat log with Dar sat open on the screen. Three messages from him. One quick reply from her. He dropped the phone onto the duvet.
He pressed both palms against his eyes until he saw white. This bloody house was a powder keg. Rhys brooding at the far end of every room; Callum measuring every doorway before he walked through it; Logan and whatever the hell that was with Pam, the two of them exchanging glances like they thought nobody noticed. A lot of baggage for one roof. All of them orbiting the same centre; Dar the gravitational force without quite saying so.
The kitchen scene came back uninvited—Dar and Callum near the counter, her hand reaching for his shirt, pulling him toward her. He’d had to retrace his steps so they heard him this time.A year ago she’d stood at the seventh hole with her arms crossed and her jaw set, daring Sean to tell her the grip was wrong. He had. She’d birdied it anyway.
Now she was building something new. He felt a sharp, distinct twinge of jealousy he quickly shoved down.
Just the golf instructor, right? Keep telling yourself that.
He leaned back against the headboard, forcing a dry smirk at the ceiling.
“First you confiscated my room. Good luck, you bastard.”
His mother’s clipped, posh accent echoed in his memory of their last conversation, demanding to know why he wasn’t at the club anymore, why he’d thrown away his ‘”future” for—what was it she called it?—”playing soldier.” He clenched his jaw.
She wouldn’t last five minutes in the mud.
For a tick, he missed the days when a bogey was the worst thing that had happened to him.
He grabbed the pillow and pressed it over his face as Malik detonated another snore through the wall. The fabric softener hit him—Dar’s scent, the way her clothes smelled, clinging to the pillowcase—and he breathed it in deliberately, pathetically, like some lovesick teenager grasping at scraps. The absurdity of it nearly broke him. Here he was, jealous of a man who’d actually earned his place, inhaling laundry like it was evidence of something, proof that he existed in her orbit at all. He held the breath until his lungs burned, until the urge to laugh—that dark, desperate, knowing laugh—finally passed.
The Cyprus operation returned as it always had—not through images, but as a sensation: the pungent, chemical taste of gunfire’s residue in the throat, and the heat from the tarmac rising through his boot soles. This contrasted with the sterile static of the headset he had worn the night before, watching green cursor blinks on a monitor, relaying coordinates in a level voice while the others moved through it without him.
In Cyprus, adrenaline had been a drug. Being on comms? It felt like watching the match from the locker room.
Useless. Just a voice in their ear.
He rolled onto his side, punching the pillow into a more comfortable shape. Safety underground wasn’t where he belonged; he needed to be out there.
Hereford – Adams Sweet Spot Bakery
Logan lay tangled in the rumpled sheets beside Pam, each inhale a tired scramble for air. He fought to keep his eyes open; two days of missions and one unforgettable night had taken their toll. He caught Pam’s fingers as they curled around his and squeezed.
“Can you… not monologue?” he mumbled, eyelids sliding shut. His other hand searched the bedside to snag his briefs.
“Christ on a cracker, listen to this motor mouth,” she teased, watching him struggle to find his clothes. “If you’re reaching for the skivvies, you better be heading downstairs for coffee, not trying to sneak out.” She reached over, tracing a line along his thigh with a manicured fingernail. “Though I suppose I can forgive the nodding off. It’s hard work keeping up with me.”
“Hard work? That’s one word for it.” He yanked on his briefs, elastic snapping at his hips. “Just securing the perimeter,” he shot back, flashing a crooked grin. “And you were doing all the commanding last night.” He pressed a quick kiss to her shoulder before padding downstairs.
The only light in the bakery at pre-dawn was the warm glow from the under-counter LED strips and a single streetlamp outside. The coffee grinder whirred to life under his touch; beans tumbled and rasped in the chopper until the rich scent of roasting coffee filled the air. Two steaming cups later, he crept back up to her flat. Pam sat up, knees drawn under the sheet, her cheeks flushed when he handed her the mug.
“What do you make of Stroud?” he asked, settling back on the bed.
She blew a wisp of steam away before taking a careful sip. Green eyes wide, she sprinkled mock outrage into her voice. “Major Stroud? You bring another man to bed with us within five minutes?” She held the mug in her palm, the heat seeping into her skin. “He’s built like a brick shithouse, wound tighter than a Swiss watch—but why? Plotting to match us up?” She gave him a sidelong look over the rim of her mug. “He probably needs a drink. Or a shag. Maybe both.”
Logan cradled his coffee. “Not the visual I needed,” he murmured. “And I’m not talking about him in general. I mean Dar. Him and Dar.”
Pam wrinkled her nose and tucked her chin against his shoulder. “The Ice Prince and Dar, huh? He’s got that ‘I’ve-killed-a-man-with-a-spoon’ vibe. If he treats Dar like a mission—calculated and precise—she might actually like it. God knows she doesn’t need another Rhys Calder to drag it out for years with nothing.” She nudged him. “What’s your radar picking up that I’m missing?”
Logan nodded slowly. “I thought so too, at first. But he’s meshed with the team—everyone except Calder. He and Dar click in that same quiet way. I think he’s good for her–they think alike.”
“Him and Calder? That explains the tension. I thought they were just measuring dicks.” She took a long sip of coffee, humming thoughtfully. Her eyes flashed as she looked at him. “But if he hurts her, Logan… I know 50 ways to kill him with a rolling pin.”
He snorted, setting the mug on the nightstand. “Noted. But he’s solid. Doesn’t spook easy. Dar needs that.” He kissed her temple, voice low. “Besides, if he crosses the line, I don’t need your rolling pin. I’ll just bury him in the woods.”
“You’re adorable when you turn territorial, you know that?” She smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to the scar on his shoulder. “Christ, five years of Calder dithering about was enough to give anyone whiplash. If Stroud can actually make a decision without needing a committee meeting, he’s already winning in my book.” She settled back against the headboard. “Just keep Rhys away from the wedding. I might accidentally ‘trip’ and shove him into the cake.”
“A wedding?” He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Let’s let them survive a mission together first. Besides, when it involves Rhys, the only thing getting married is his ego to the job.”
He laced his fingers through hers. “But seriously… Stroud. He’s got a past he doesn’t talk about. Like us. If Dar’s diving into that, she’s going to hit rocks eventually.” He looked down at her, the playful edge fading slightly. “I just don’t want to see her bleed for it if it goes south.”
“She’s stronger than she looks, Logan. She survived Barry, didn’t she?” She squeezed his hand. “And Stroud isn’t Barry. He doesn’t have that… cruelty in him.” She looked up at him. “Besides, if she hits rocks, she’ll have us. We’ll patch her up with wine and gossip.”
Logan exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders, and draped an arm around her. “Wine and gossip. Standard operating procedure for extraction, then.” A faint smirk touched his lips. “Just make sure there’s plenty of the first part. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”