Chapter One

Retirement & Greece?

The impending storm of retirement shadows the pub’s quiet. Can Special Forces Captain Rhys Calder find a new beginning under the Greek sun, or is it really not the end of a soldier’s legacy?

The pub exuded familiar Hereford charm, an unspoken promise of comfort on a rainy evening. The stone walls bore the scars of time; the dark wooden beams crisscrossed above, stained dark with age and smoke. A dull golden glow from wall-mounted sconces softened the room, casting flickering shadows that danced along the timber. At the far end, a cluster of locals produced a low hum, nursing pints, their presence steady and unobtrusive, like the heartbeat of the place.

Rhys sat in the corner booth, shoulders hunched, a half-empty glass of bitter in front of him. He looked up when Dar slipped inside, brushing the drizzle from her coat. His face softened, but the heaviness in his eyes didn’t lift.

She slid into the seat opposite him. “You look like someone stole your dog.”

Rhys gave a humourless huff. “HQ wants me to retire.” He lifted the pint and set it down again without drinking. “Ward too. ‘End of the line, Captain Calder.’ Just like that. Twenty-five years, and suddenly I’m old kit they want off the shelf.”

Dar’s chest tightened. She tried to smile, and her voice came out softer than she meant. “You’re not old kit, Rhys. You’re the bloody manual they should be following.”

He managed a smile, brief and crooked, then stared at the condensation sliding down his glass. Manual, eh? Mine’s all bloodstained. He pushed the thought away, forcing lightness into his tone. “Suppose it means more time to sit in a deck chair, drink ouzo, complain about the heat.”

Dar tilted her head, curious. “Greece?”

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.” And maybe someone to share it with.

Dar traced the rim of her cider glass with her finger. “Sounds… nice. Better than Hereford rain, anyway.” She glanced away, cheeks warming. God, Dar, don’t beg for an invite.

Rhys studied her for a long moment. The way she avoided his eyes, the faint smile on her lips. His chest tightened, the weight of HQ’s verdict pressing in again. What the hell remains without the uniform? He looked at her, steadying himself. 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 complained about the sandals I shouldn’t have worn.” Don’t hope. He’s a soldier; you’re a survivor. Still, the image flickered — sunlight on blue water, laughter instead of dread, his hand brushing hers. She shook it off and smiled lightly. “Well. If you end up on a beach in Greece, at least send me a postcard. Proof you survived civilian life.”

Rhys’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Deal.”

Neither of them said what they were really thinking. The quiet between Rhys and Dar lingered, their drinks half-finished, words unsaid weighing heavier than the storm clouds outside.

The door creaked open, 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 eased himself onto the worn leather bench beside Dar, the dim glow of amber bulbs casting long shadows across their solemn faces. He gave them both a wry nod. “You two look like someone read you your obituaries.”

Dar lifted one brow, the flicker of the lights glinting in her eyes as she gestured toward Rhys with a slow tilt of her chin. “Just the retirement papers,” His voice was flat, shoulders sagging ever so slightly under the weight of the news.

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. He shot Rhys a look. “Guess that makes me a collector’s item.”

Rhys snorted—a short, soft expulsion of air that failed to carry much menace. “You’re about as collectible as moldy bread.”

Logan’s grin widened, the leather creaking beneath him as he moved. “Bread keeps people alive. You two are sat here looking like you’ve been sentenced to death by deck chair.”

Dar tried to tamp down a laugh. “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—moaning 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. I wouldn’t mind trying.

Rhys paused for a moment to collect himself. Then he looked up, fixing his gaze on his friend, who’d been a constant companion and brother in arms for over a decade. His voice flattened, lowering. “Your papers are being processed too, Logan.”

The words hung in the air like smoke from a freshly fired gun. Logan stared at Rhys; certain he’d misheard him. The smile that started on his lips quickly 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 of the pub. A few heads turned their way before quickly averting their eyes. “I’ve got at least another decade before mandatory. You can’t just—”

“It’s done,” Rhys cut in, shaking his head. Lines of fatigue mapped his brow. “Signed off this afternoon.”

Logan leaned forward, jaw clenching, voice a low growl. “Who the fuck authorized it?” His palm contacted the tabletop in a silent, precise manner. “Long? That bureaucratic pencil-pusher’s been gunning for our team since day one—”

Rhys cut him off with a slight shake of his head. “This is coming from above. Way above.”

Logan’s face became still, the same controlled mask he’d worn as a sniper during countless missions.

Dar reached over, her hand hovering above Logan’s arm before pulling it back, wrapping it around her glass instead. Her stepbrother wasn’t one for comfort, especially not in public, touching off limits as he maintained cybernetic control. “When?” She directed the question to Rhys instead.

“Not sure,” Rhys admitted, gaze still locked on Logan. “We report in tomorrow morning.”

“Roger that.” Logan’s voice was hollow as a grave.

Around them, the pub’s chorus played on: glasses chiming, murmured laughter, the scrape of chairs. It all surged louder, as if to emphasize the bubble of silence they occupied. Dar watched Logan’s face for any crack in his armour—any hint that the man behind the steel nerves would let loose his familiar sarcasm.

She didn’t have long to wait. The barman returned with three fresh pints, condensation beading down the sides. Logan lifted his glass in a mock-solemn salute. “To old soldiers,” he toasted, voice thick with dry irony. “May our pensions be as generous as our scars, and may we never be reduced to fighting over sun loungers.”

Dar clinked her glass reluctantly, eyes flicking to Rhys, who lifted his pint too, but the toast in his head rang differently. 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. And Rhys, for the first time that night, felt a little less like the world was closing in, staring at the water rings on the table as though they held a battle plan. 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 number-‘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, while Logan, having leaned in to see the screen, rolled his eyes. “Fuckin hell.”

Dar placed it on the table, pressing speaker mode. “Montgomery.”

The voice that came through was smooth, precise, unmistakable. “Ms. Montgomery. I trust I’m not interrupting?”

Feeling a prickle of unease, Dar shifted in her seat, suddenly alert yet annoyed that someone she didn’t know would have her phone number. “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. Captain Calder, Lieutenant Ward—retirement papers make for such dreary reading, don’t they?”

Rhys straightened, his jaw tight. “You’ve seen them?”

“I drafted them.” A pause. “On paper, you’re done. Off the board. Pensioners in waiting. But unofficially?” The pause stretched, deliberate. “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 ignored the jab and let out a soft chuckle, the sound like ice clinking in a glass. Ward, ever the cynic. Good. “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.” She paused, letting the silence build tension.”Dar-” her voice sharpened slightly, “your criminology expertise just became relevant as well. I suggest you all listen closely. Task Force 983. Independent, deniable, unsanctioned. You’ll operate off book, with resources routed through me. Your experience, your instincts—they’re not liabilities. They’re assets we can’t replicate. Unless of course you’d rather spend your twilight years arguing over sun cream in Corfu.”

Rhys glanced at Dar, who was already shaking her head, objecting quickly. “Don’t look at me. I’m not storming any compounds.”

Veyr let the silence hang for a beat, the faint clink of her ring against the whiskey glass echoing down the line. She expected hesitation from Dar. She’ll see the opportunity. They all will. She softened her voice a fraction. “No, Ms. Montgomery. Not storming. Advising. Behavioural analysis. The same skills that made you invaluable in academia—applied to targets who don’t leave paper trails. Think of it as… consulting. With better security clearance. This time from the safety of your home. Your expertise, not your blood.” A pause, deliberate. “As for you—Calder, Ward—this isn’t a recall. It’s a recalibration. You’ll have autonomy. Resources. As well as the satisfaction of knowing your work actually matters.” She waited a moment, letting the offer sink in. “I’ll expect your decisions in the morning.”

Dar opened her mouth to respond, then closed it as her phone buzzed again, confirmation ping. Veyr had already disconnected. Her fingers drummed against 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 three of them sat in their thoughts silently for a beat, the noise of the pub distant, unimportant.

Dar finally spoke, voice low. “Task Force 983.”

Rhys allowed himself the faintest smile. “Could be worse.”

Logan smirked. “Could be Greece.”

As Rhys sat forward, his shoulders squared, the lines around his eyes deepened by the low light, Dar put her phone away and then looked at him. “Task Force 983. A ghost team.” For the next minute she sat, the cool glass of cider against her lips as she quietly 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, fingers digging into the skin as though trying to excavate clarity from beneath exhaustion, his gaze landing on Dar. “So, she expects you to be part of this as well?” His voice caught, torn between wanting her close and needing her safe. He studied her face, searching for what he hoped to find—hesitation, perhaps. Reluctance. “I know you’re more than qualified but…” He swallowed the rest of his sentence, rerouted. “How do you feel about it?” Rhys could see her eyes sharpen with interest even as her fingers tightened around her glass. She’s in. God help me, she’s in. His voice was hushed, almost imperceptible—a silent plea attempting to be heard. “You’ve never been part of 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. “But hey, at least you won’t have to wear tactical gear. Unless you’re into that.” He shot her a sideways glance, then to Rhys. “And you—don’t pretend you weren’t already planning the retirement villa’s security system. Now you get to keep the comms earpiece awhile longer. Win-win.”

As Dar shrugged coyly at Logan’s analysis, the silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the clink of glasses from nearby tables and the muted hum of the jukebox. Her eyes lingered on Rhys a second longer than she meant to, and he held her gaze, his throat tight. He forced a nod to Logan, leaning back against the booth, but his fingers drummed against his thigh beneath the table. One last run. Then maybe… Christ, what am I thinking? Rhys attempted one final try for a reprieve. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Are you ready for the mess I bring with me?”

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 with enough unresolved tension to power London for a week. He took a long pull of his beer, wondering if he could drown himself in it, but he 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. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” 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 leaned back, stretching his legs under 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 for a while, 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? Well, quid pro quo, Captain. “You know, you don’t have to do this again,” her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve given them half your life, Rhys. Let them find someone else to carry the weight.”

With hands still deep in his pockets, Rhys gave a humourless chuckle. “Soldiers don’t get to decide when the fight’s over. We’re just told which hill to die on. Or if we’re lucky, which beach to waste our retirement on.” He tried to lighten the words, but they landed flat.

Dar glanced up at him, her expression unreadable in the streetlamp’s glow. “And if the hill wasn’t theirs to give you? If you chose it yourself?”

He stopped abruptly, turning to her. The street was empty, quiet except for the distant bark of a dog and the faint rush of the Wye. Her eyes were lit with the same defiance that had propelled her through every storm. Rhys’ throat tightened, so he looked away, toward the dark riverbank. “What would I even do, Dar? Sit on a beach and… relax?” The words came out as if they were foreign to him.

Dar observed him wrestle with the concept, the way his jaw clenched like 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 as they started walking again. “You might surprise yourself.” She watched as his face revealed a flicker of consideration before the familiar resolve subsumed it.

“Dar…”

And there it was—that same expression and tone she’d met countless times over the past five years. The unspoken “but.” Like a heavy blanket, the chilling realization enveloped her: the perfect time would never come with the endless cycle of missions.

She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I understand.”

Rhys ran a hand through his hair, the streetlight catching the silver at his temples. “This work… it’s who I am.”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

They reached her gate, the old iron creaking faintly as she pushed it open. She paused there, turning back toward him. “Don’t make Greece the consolation prize, Rhys. Make it the plan.”

Her words lingered in the cold air as she slipped inside, leaving Rhys standing on the quiet street, staring after her.

He lit a cigarette as we 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-five 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 at a time or bring danger to her door. Someone who wasn’t him.

He exhaled smoke that ghosted away like all his certainties, knowing deep down that some choices couldn’t wait forever, and whichever path he chose, he’d spend the rest of his life wondering about the other.