Slice to Destiny
He came to teach her golf. He stayed for the firefight.
A charming golf pro with a crush gets a crash course in black ops from his client’s deadly brother.
Hereford – Country Club
The driving range at four in the afternoon. Spring grass, decent light, and Dar Montgomery gripping her driver like she wanted to strangle it.
She swung. The ball shot left and smacked the fence.
Sean grinned. “That’s not a slice, Dar. That’s a felony.”
She leant on her club and rolled her eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll let this thing slip. See how fast you move.”
He plucked another ball from the bucket and teed it up. “Fast enough. I’ve got excellent survival instincts.” Liar. If you had survival instincts, you wouldn’t be standing here pretending your heart doesn’t do stupid things every time she smiles.
Sean had been teaching Dar since last summer. Somewhere between fixing her grip and watching her swing, he’d fallen completely, hopelessly smitten. She talked to him the way women talked to their hairdresser—warm, easy, like he was safe. Which he was. Painfully safe. She even called him Kid.
He didn’t know how old she was. Didn’t care. What he knew: she was brilliant, grounded, fierce in this quiet way that made his chest ache. And she had zero idea what she did to him.
The big guy watching from the café window was probably her boyfriend. Story of your life, mate. Fucking typical.
Dar turned and spotted him. She lifted her middle finger.
Sean caught the movement in his peripheral vision and bit back a laugh. That’s my girl.
Across the car park, Logan raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. He thumbed out a text: If he suggests ‘private coaching,’ remember: 9-iron to the kneecap works wonders.
Her reply was a single eye-roll emoji.
Logan sat back, grinning into his terrible coffee. Beats paperwork.
Sean shoved the driver back into the bag and pulled out a seven-iron. “Forget the driver. You’re launching your demons into the trees. Let’s work on your grip.”
He stepped in behind her, adjusting her stance. Logan’s silhouette flickered in the window. Sean’s jaw tightened. Keep it professional, you idiot. He pressed down on her shoulders. “You’re tighter than a—” He caught himself. “Tighter than a first-date handshake. Breathe out when you swing. Pretend the ball’s your ex’s face.”
Dar’s face lit up. “You’re such a dick.”
She drew back and swung. This time the ball cracked off clean, soaring straight down the fairway.
She spun to face him, grinning. “That’s more like it.”
Sean clapped slowly. “Look at that. Montgomery’s back from the dead. Should I call the PGA now or just cash in my teaching fee?” His smirk softened. “Seriously, though. You’re fine. Stop death-gripping the club like it’s your last vodka soda.”
His eyes flicked toward the café window. Still watching. Shit.
He jerked his chin toward the empty stalls. “Wanna hit a few more? Less of an audience. I’ll even spot you the bucket. Out of the goodness of my blackened heart.”
“Thanks.” Dar tossed him a wink as she passed. “Looks like I owe the kid a drink then. Pub, after?”
Sean snagged the bucket from her. “Drinks? Christ, Dar, are you trying to get me drunk or just embarrass me in front of the cart girls?” He turned toward the range, fighting to keep his voice casual. “Fine. Twist my arm. But don’t come crying to me when I school you at darts after.”
He ducked his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. She winked. Fuck. Play it cool.
Dar fell behind, pulling out her phone.
Sean rolled his eyes when he caught her. “Texting your bodyguard? Tell him I promise not to corrupt you. Much.” Why the hell did you say that? You sound like you’re trying too hard.
Dar groaned, palming her face before turning to him with a laugh. “Just Logan. He’s overprotective. You have any sisters?”
“Sisters? Fuck no. Only child. My parents barely tolerated me.” Sean chipped a ball lazily. “Although, if I did, yeah—I’d probably stalk her golf lessons too. Scare off the dickhead instructors.” He glanced sideways at her. “What’s his deal anyway? Dude acts like I’m gonna kidnap you mid-putt.” Christ, don’t sound jealous. You’re not jealous.
Dar gave a half-shrug. “Lo’s my stepbrother. Military. Very protective. Like having a pit bull for a brother.”
Sean’s laugh came out sharper than he meant. “Military. Ah. So that’s the source of the death-ray stare.” He lined up another chip. “Bet he’d love my resume. Rich kid dropout teaching golf. Real threat to society.” He straightened, feigning a bow. “If he tries to waterboard me, tell him I fold under pressure.”
He arched an eyebrow at her setup. “You gonna hit these balls or just stand there looking at them like they owe you money?”
Her next text to Logan was softer: I’m buying Sean a drink at the club pub after. You in? See for yourself? The kid is harmless.
Logan raised a brow. Harmless. He typed: Only if he passes the vetting. Tell him if he orders anything with an umbrella in it, I’m confiscating his man card. Permanently.
Dar returned with a grimace emoji. Try not to break him, please.
Logan pushed up from the café chair and headed toward the pub. Never trust a harmless twat with good hair. He sat at a table facing the door, fingers drumming. Five minutes. If the kid didn’t measure up, he’d drag her out.
Dar spotted Logan the instant she stepped into the pub. “There you are.” She settled into a chair across from him. “Lo, this is Sean O’Rourke. Sean, Logan.”
Logan looked up from his pint. He set the glass down with a deliberate thud, condensation bleeding across the coaster.
“Sean.” Logan’s voice was flat. No hand offered. Just a curt nod. “Heard you comped her the bucket at the range. Decent of you.” He lifted the pint again, taking a slow sip without breaking eye contact. “Dar collects people. Doesn’t always check the expiration date first. Hope you’re housebroken.”
Sean arched a brow, keeping his easy smirk in place. Christ, he’s already three pints into the pit bull act.
He placed his elbows on the bar, signaling the bartender with two fingers. “Only for our resident golf assassin. Though I draw the line at chasing her stray balls. I’ve got standards.”
He glanced back at Logan. “Don’t worry, mate. Had all my shots. Even the rabies one.”
He raised his chin. “Whisky neat. Double.” He caught Dar’s eye. “Strongbow?”
At her nod, he turned back to the bartender. “And a Strongbow for the lady.”
He carried the drinks back and set Dar’s cider gently in front of her before sliding onto the empty chair next to Logan.
Logan watched Sean set the drinks down, one boot tapping a slow rhythm under the table. Three taps, pause, two taps. Old recon habit. “Dar’s got a talent for finding trouble. Question is—are you the minder, or the trouble?”
Dar gave a brittle smile, rising quickly. “Be right back.” She turned toward the washroom, heart pounding. God, Lo, please don’t kill him.
Left alone with the soldier, Sean swirled his whisky. Buying himself a few seconds. Then he leant in, grin crooked but voice low. “Minder? Nah. Trouble?” He let the word hang, then shrugged. “Unless correcting her grip’s a felony.”
He took a long swallow, letting the burn mask his nerves. Just don’t blink.
“Relax, Logan. I’m not here to steal your sister. Just her handicap.” A beat. “Golf handicap. Obviously.”
He raised the glass in a mock salute. “Cheers to not getting knifed in the car park.”
Logan traced the rim of his pint glass with one thumb, letting the silence stretch. “Knifing’s messy. I prefer a clean shot.” His boot stopped tapping. “So. Sean. You always let old ladies buy your drinks? Or just the ones with psychotic brothers?” His mouth twitched. A shadow of a smirk.
Sean’s laugh cracked like a gunshot. Old ladies, Christ! Should’ve seen that jab coming.
He dropped his voice to a collusive stage-whisper. “Only the ones who can outdrive me. Which, between us?” He tipped his chin toward Dar’s empty chair. “Montgomery’s swing could make McIlroy weep.”
He raised his glass. “Now if you’re buying, I won’t say no. Single malt. Older than my last relationship.” His grin turned sly. “Three weeks. Still counts.”
“Three whole weeks, Sean?” Dar laid a hand on his shoulder before sliding back onto her seat. Her smile turned wicked as she looked at Logan. “Almost beat your record, bro.”
She tipped her cider back, legs stretching under the table.
Sean felt the heat of her hand linger on his shoulder. Whisky suddenly sharper in his throat. Fuck. She heard that. And she’s smiling. Play it cool, idiot.
“Oi, three weeks is a marathon in my world.”
Logan studied the younger man’s grin. He set down his pint deliberately. “Outdriving you’s not hard when you’re busy eyeing her arse instead of the fairway.”
Dar’s cider nearly went down the wrong pipe.
Logan tipped two fingers to the barman, ordering a fresh round. Glenfiddich for Sean, Strongbow for Dar. He slid the glass across to her. “She breaks clubs when she’s pissed. Just so you know.” His smirk sharpened. “Golf handicap’s twelve. What’s your relationship handicap?”
Dar rolled her eyes. “That club snapped because it was cheap. I told them not to give me the discount driver.” She pointed her glass at Sean, eyes gleaming. “Don’t listen to him. I’m a delight.”
Sean nearly choked on his whisky. Christ, she’s quick. And that smile—bloody lethal.
He turned to Logan with mock solemnity. “For the record, I’ve seen her sink putts that’d make a priest swear. Though she nearly took my head off with a nine-iron last week.” He smirked. “Still a delight, though. Especially when she’s buying.”
He raised his glass toward Dar. “This round’s on your psychotic brother, since he’s so invested in my professional development.”
Logan drained his glass before catching the bartender’s eye. “Invested?” His mouth quirked. “More like public service.”
The conversation flowed for another hour. Logan’s dry barbs, Sean’s quick comebacks. Dar glanced at her watch, then downed the last of her cider.
She stood, shrugging her jacket over her shoulders. “Right, I’m off. Pam’s probably pacing my kitchen by now.” She looked at Sean. “Come for pizza? Pam’s a hoot—you’ll like her.”
Then to Logan: “You pick up the pizza, yeah?” Her eyes sharpened into a silent warning: Be nice.
She left before either could argue. The pub door swung closed behind her.
Sean watched her go. The look she’d shot Logan hit him like a gut punch. He forced a grin to cover the unease, thumb working a slow circle around the rim of his glass.
He turned to Logan, nodding toward the door. “You gonna follow her like a bloody guard dog, or can I buy you another drink first?”
He drained the scotch, savoring the burn.
Logan tracked Dar’s exit, then gave a brief nod at the fresh glasses. “How the fuck did you survive a three-week relationship?”
Sean chuckled darkly, swirling the Glenfiddich. “Three weeks? Easy. I cheat. Flattery, whisky, and pretending not to notice when she’s eyeing my arse during swing demonstrations.”
His grin lingered, then faded.
Logan smirked, but his jaw tightened. He leant forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to gravel. “What’s your play here, O’Rourke? Because Dar doesn’t do casual. And you—” His gaze scanned over Sean’s hair, his expensive clothes, even his polished golf shoes. “—you look like the type to bolt the second things get complicated.”
Sean didn’t blink. Bolt? Fuck you. Try surviving a trust fund family with knives for smiles.
He laughed. Short and sharp. The kind that doesn’t reach anywhere. “Bolt? Mate, I once played eighteen holes in a hailstorm because some pricks bet me I couldn’t.”
He set his glass down hard. “Your sister’s got more real shit in her pinky than I’ve seen in a decade of country club tantrums.” His voice dropped, serious now. “And for the record? I’m not here for casual. She calls me Kid, for fuck’s sake. I’m here because she’s the first person in years who doesn’t look at me like a walking ATM.”
Logan held the stare. Weighing him.
His voice stayed deadpan, but something flickered beneath. Approval, maybe. He swirled his glass. “You want in? You don’t get to quit when it’s messy. And with Dar? Messy is her middle name.”
Sean froze mid-sip. “Quit? I got canned from my last finance job for telling the CEO his merger stank of landfill. Quitting’s not in my vocabulary.” He shoved the glass aside. “Messy I can handle. It’s the silence that wrecks me.”
He stood. “So. We going for pizza?”
Hereford – Dar’s House
Dar sat alone on the sofa. A small tabby cat curled in her lap, a glass of wine dangling from her hand. The cat—Twigs—blinked slowly.
When the door swung open, she looked up. “Hey! You made it.”
The moment Sean stepped across the threshold, Twigs hissed, her ears flattening.
Logan shook the rain from his jacket, unfazed. “You’re stuck with us.” He nodded toward the pizza box Sean carried. “Brought reinforcements. Extra cheese—just how you like it.”
His eyes flicked to the half-empty wineglass. He tried for a smirk. “So. Pam running late?”
Sean ignored the cat’s death glare and set the pizza on the coffee table. Christ, this cat’s judging me harder than my old man did at graduation.
He flipped the lid. Steam rolled up.
From his coat he produced a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, dropping it beside the pizza like an offering. Dad’s cellar won’t even notice it’s gone.
“Also brought wine that doesn’t taste like battery acid.” He grinned at Dar.
“Well—welcome. Boots off at the door. No kale allowed.” Dar’s eyes slid to the wine. “Looks expensive. Kitchen’s that way—ask Lo about the corkscrew.”
Logan came back with plates, setting them down hard enough to rattle the table. He handed Sean a corkscrew. “O’Rourke, open that bottle before Twigs decides it’s a scratching post.”
Sean popped the cork and poured three full glasses. He handed Dar hers, then flopped down beside her. Careful not to disturb the cat.
Pam arrived shortly after. Breezed through the kitchen like a domestic hurricane, dropping sarcastic barbs while Sean opened more wine.
Logan actually cracked a smile.
Then Logan’s phone buzzed.
He read the message aloud, jaw clenched. “FUBAR.”
Dar froze mid-laugh. Her slice slipped back onto the plate. She set her glass down with a small, careful click. “Rhys?”
Logan nodded. “Cyprus extraction. Radio silence.”
Sean set down his drink. Glancing at Dar—her face pale but steady. Not a breakdown. Just bracing herself. What the fuck did I just step into?
Pam narrowed her eyes. “Well, that’s bloody marvelous. Who wants dessert before we all spiral into existential dread?”
Sean let out a nervous laugh. His chest felt tight. Stay. Don’t bolt. If she can hold it together, so can you.
Dar exhaled. Shoulders stiff but unbowed. “We wait then. No one’s in any shape to drive home tonight anyway.”
Logan pocketed his phone and scanned the room. Sean was still there. Still sitting. Not running. Interesting.
Pam sat on the couch next to Dar. “Rhys is a stubborn bastard. He’ll crawl out with a cigar and a shitty joke, same as always.” She pressed a warm mug of Earl Grey into Dar’s hands. “Drink this before I force-feed you kale scones.”
Sean caught the sharp jerk of Logan’s chin toward the sliding doors. Fresh air. Orders clear.
He followed him out into the cool evening. The river murmuring faintly in the distance.
Logan lit a cigarette and held the pack out. Sean hesitated only a second. Took one gratefully. The smoke hit his lungs like a slap.
Pam and Dar’s muffled voices carried from inside. Glad Pam’s here.
Sean tried to exhale the smoke without coughing. “So. Rhys. He’s the ex, right? Or is that another tragedy?” The words stumbled out, blunt and awkward. “Just—give me the CliffsNotes so I don’t step on a landmine.”
Logan snorted smoke through his nose. “CliffsNotes? Calder’s not the ex. That cunt’s dead.” He tapped his ash with sharp precision. “Rhys is… complicated. It’s been that way a long time.”
His gaze slid back toward the house. “Point is, this extraction in Cyprus went sideways. Radio silence for seventy-two hours. And Dar will hold herself together with sheer force of will until he’s back, or he’s not.”
Sean stared at the ground. “Right. So Calder’s the maybe-someday, and the ex is the prick who deserved a nine-iron to the knees. And now she’s got to wait, wondering if the maybe-someday might be KIA.” He took another drag. Shaky hand. “Christ. Does she ever catch a break?”
Logan drew hard on his cigarette. Smoke spilling into the night. “Dar’s life runs on borrowed time and duct tape.” He exhaled slowly. “But she’s tougher than any recruit I’ve trained. Survived her arsehole ex, buried her kid, and still gets up every morning. Calder wouldn’t let her down unless he was dead.” He clenched his jaw. Calder better be alive. Or I’ll kill him myself.
He glanced at Sean. “You’re in it now, mate. Either walk away clean or grab a shovel.”
Sean ground his cigarette into the dirt. His chest tightened, but he forced a smirk. “Walk away? Not my style. She’s got a swing that could qualify for the Olympics—be a shame to lose that over whatever this is.”
He thrust his hands into his pockets. “So tell me what not to say. Kids? Cyprus? Earl Grey? I’ll steer clear.” He hesitated. His voice softening. “She gonna be okay? Tonight?”
Logan flicked his cigarette into the night and turned toward the house. “Pam will bake lemon tarts. Always does. You’re on zesting duty.”
Sean’s pulse hammered. His gaze ping-ponged between them. Bloody hell, these people are serious. This isn’t bar banter. This is life-and-death. And I’m sitting here with pizza grease on my shirt.
The night bled away in fragments.
Pam stress-baked lemon tarts. Dar sat motionless except for stroking the cat. Her wine untouched for an hour. Logan and Sean played Call of Duty. The simulated gunfire a pathetic echo of the real thing.
At 0100, Logan poured another two fingers of single malt. Wordlessly handing a glass to Sean.
They drank. The silence heavy with the unspoken.
By the time Twigs finally curled up near Sean’s foot, it felt like a truce.
Dawn lurked, nothing changed, except tea had replaced whisky and exhaustion won out.
Logan sat at the kitchen table, phone face-up, jaw set, working through a list of assets that kept coming up dry. Dar was motionless on one side of the sofa, Pam on the other and Twigs a small warm weight between them.
Sean had fallen asleep in the armchair with socked feet up on the ottoman.
Somewhere between the lemon tarts and the third pour of single malt, without anyone marking the moment, he had stopped being a guest.
Hints of daylight had just begun to paint the sky when Logan’s phone buzzed.
Every eye opened. The room went silent.
He read it. Jaw tightening. Extraction point confirmed.
He looked up at Sean. “You drive stick?”
Sean blinked. “Manual? Yeah, I can—”
Logan was on his feet, grabbing his jacket. “Good. You’re coming.”
“Coming where?”
Dar’s eyes widened. “Lo. Don’t.”
But Logan was already moving. His voice tight with a desperation Dar had never heard. “We’re out of assets. Every other driver is compromised or too far away. Calder’s bleeding out. I need a body in that seat who can follow a goddamn order. O’Rourke’s breathing, he’s in.”
Sean’s eyebrows rose. “That’s your criteria? Breathing?”
Logan leaned in. Shades glinting even in the dim kitchen light. “It’s a short list.”
Pam snorted from the table. “Christ, Logan, he’s a golf pro, not James bloody Bond.”
Logan didn’t even look back. “Golf’s just sniping with grass. He’ll adapt.”
Sean’s pulse spiked. Terror, disbelief, and something electric. Holy shit. This is insane. This is… exhilarating.
Dar caught his arm. “Sean. You don’t have to—”
But Sean was already on his feet. Adrenaline burning through the hesitation. “Nah. I’m in. Somebody’s gotta make sure Captain Sunglasses here doesn’t drive us into a ditch.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. Cocky. Suicidal. Maybe not useless.
Cyprus
The drive to the airstrip passed in a blur. Motorway lights and mounting dread. Logan stone-silent beside him, checking gear with mechanical precision while Sean’s brain screamed What the fuck are you doing?
The transport plane’s belly was all exposed ribs and canvas webbing. Nothing like the EasyJet flights to Málaga.
Somewhere over the Mediterranean, Sean realized he’d crossed a threshold he couldn’t uncross.
By the time they touched down in Cyprus, the air tasted like jet fuel and fear. Sean understood with crystalline clarity: this wasn’t an adventure. This was how people died.
Seven hours later, Sean was in the middle of something he had no word for.
The engine screamed like a wounded animal. Loose kit rattling like bones in a tin can. The stench of sweat and gun oil burned his nostrils—a universe away from his leather-seated BMW.
His hands fused to the wheel. Fingers cramped and rigid around it.
Bullets tore through metal inches from his skull. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Eyes on the road, O’Rourke!” Logan’s voice cut through the chaos. Blood streaking his temple. “Rhys has thirty seconds before they flank him.”
Sean’s molars ground together. “Steady? Half the fucking Russian army is trying to turn us into Swiss cheese!”
“Welcome to Tuesday.” Logan chambered a round.
Rhys materialized through black smoke like a blood-soaked apparition. A limp body draped over his shoulder.
Sean stomped on the brakes. Metal screamed.
Logan ripped the door open. “Move!”
Rhys hurled the bleeding rookie inside, diving after him. His eyes—wild yet laser-focused—locked onto Sean’s. “Drive or die!”
Sean floored it.
The vehicle lurched forward. Bullets whining past. His pulse thundered. Salt burned his vision. The symphony of destruction faded behind them as something electric ignited in his chest.
Every cell vibrated with terrible, perfect clarity.
This wasn’t terror. It was awakening. Like he’d spent his life sleepwalking until bullets finally shocked him conscious.
U.K.
Hours later, back in a sterile hangar in England, the silence was deafening.
Rhys, covered in dirt and dried blood, was being checked over by a medic. The rookie he’d carried, awake, stared at nothing.
Tranquility hadn’t been restored. It felt like the world was just holding its breath.
Sean stood by the open door. The smell of rain on tarmac a strange comfort.
Logan approached. “You did alright, O’Rourke.”
Sean turned. A grin tugging at his lips despite the tremor in his hands. “Alright? Mate, I’m a bloody natural. Just need to work on the not-pissing-myself bit.”
Logan studied him. Head tilting. He’s hooked. Poor bastard doesn’t even realize it yet.
“Six months.” Logan leveled his eyes at Sean. His voice like gravel. “I saw you out there. You didn’t just drive. You found the angle. You train with me. You shut up, you listen, and you do the work. Then maybe—maybe—you’ll be useful.”
Sean’s grin widened. Residual adrenaline still electric in his veins.
Six months.
The weight settled in his chest. Training with a man who treated gunfire like a mild inconvenience. His golf trophies and comfortable routine seemed laughably distant now.
Fuck. This is mad.
But that moment—bullets pinging off metal, the raw clarity—had already rewired something fundamental in him.
He met Logan’s gaze. Pulse hammering. “I’m in.”