Emergency Laphroaig

Amidst the chaos of shadows and silence, trust remains in the hands that have held secrets.
Pam and Logan dance on the edge of what’s left unsaid.

Hereford – Adams Sweet Spot

Logan paused, staring at the “CLOSED” sign and pressed his palm against the glass. Inside, two lonely squares of chocolate sat like cast-offs in the small display case; chairs were flipped onto tables, and the espresso machine stood silent. Pam’s back was turned, stacking cups onto the shelf above to the muffled thud of Queen from the stereo.


He knocked.

Pam spun around, her easy smile flickering out the instant she caught his face. Without a word, she killed the music, unlocked the door, and gave him the ghost of a nod. He stepped inside, and she clicked the bolt shut behind him. Logan didn’t shrug off his jacket as he shifted toward the dim, safer shelter of the back room.

She followed, leaning her hip against the stainless steel and folding her arms, head tilted forward, waiting. The only sound was the low hum of the industrial fridge.

“Christ on a cracker, Ward. Spill.”

Commerical mixer. Racks of spices. Bags of flour. Logan looked anywhere but at her.

“Dar’s fine.”

Pam’s expression froze. “That is never how you start a conversation when Dar is fine.”

“She’s physically fine.”

“Logan.”

“I’m getting there.”

“You’ve been here thirty seconds.”

“Exactly.”

Pam waited, her gaze locked on him.

Logan’s throat felt thick. “That thing… two weeks ago,” he said.

“That thing where you all went away, told me nothing, came back looking like somebody had driven you through a hedge backwards, and then continued telling me nothing?”

“That thing.”

“Rrrright.” She drew the word out, visibly practising patience.

“One of the men we killed has been identified.”

Pam’s arms tightened across her chest. This was unfamiliar territory with Logan. He watched the thought move across her face—not fear yet, but calculation.

“Who?”

“Barry Berg.”

For a full second, Pam didn’t move at all.

Then she gave a small, dry laugh. The sort that escaped before disbelief had decided what else to do.

“Well,” she said stubbornly. “How odd. Considering that Barry Berg’s been dead almost six years.”

“Apparently not.”

He watched her face fray from disbelief to something darker—anger, fear, a sudden fragility under the bakery’s dim pot lights.

“What do you mean, apparently not?”

“We got a positive ID today,” he said evenly.

Pam’s eyes dropped to the counter, bracing herself. “From what?”

“Fingerprints.”

Her mouth worked soundlessly before she breathed out into the hush, “Jesus, Logan… He was alive?”

He nodded. “At least in Wroclaw. Everything before that is going to take time to sort out.”

She turned away, her fingers gripping the edge of the countertop. He waited while she wrestled with the weight of it. Then she spun back.

“I assume Wroclaw is where you went then? And Dar knows?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re only telling me now?” The accusation snapped between them like a live wire.

Logan gave a weary shrug. “I wasn’t going to deliver this over the phone. You’d have driven straight over.”

Her jaw clenched, colour flushing up her neck. “You’re not wrong, Ward.”

“I came as soon as I could.” He kept his voice steady, refusing to plead, knowing she wouldn’t tolerate it anyway.

She slammed a flat hand onto the counter, rattling the empty cups. “What the bloody hell, Lo! She’s my best friend!”

“She’s had enough people hovering over her today.” He let the depth of his exhaustion show. “Veyr. Rhys. Callum. Everyone’s watching to see what she does next.”

Pam’s anger wavered, concern taking its place. “She doesn’t need watching.”

“And she doesn’t need you turning up tonight with casseroles and emotional pep talks.”

Her mouth twitched faintly. “I own a bakery.”

“Exactly.”

Pam looked down at her hands. “Is she alone?”

“No.”

“Who’s with her?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“She’s not alone, Pam.”

“Logan.”

“Pam.”

That earned him a glare. Normally, he enjoyed those. Tonight, he didn’t.

“Callum?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Or Rhys. They’re both there.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “That means Callum.”

“My guess.”

That seemed to steady her. She reached beneath the counter, pulled out the bottle of emergency Laphroaig, and splashed a generous measure into a ceramic mug, handing it across to him. The heavy peat smoke rose between them like an old promise.

Logan took the mug and rolled it once between his palms. Pam was going to ask. He could see it coming. He just held the mug in both hands, staring into the dark amber pool.

Pam leant closer, confrontation replaced by a quiet, dread-laced tension. “Logan. Look at me.”

He forced his eyes up.

“Who killed him?” she asked softly.

Logan looked at the whisky, then back at her. There wasn’t much point dressing it up.

He tipped the mug back, drained the whisky in a single swallow, and set the cup down with a soft click. “It was me.”

He heard Pam’s breath hitch. “Did you know?”

“Not who he was. Night op. Scope. Too far.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, Pam, I thought Berg was dead too. As far as the target package went, he was just operational muscle—a wheelman. I killed a driver, not a ghost.”

Her shoulders slumped as the breath rushed out of her. “And Dar?” Her voice cracked on the name. “Did he know Dar was here? Was he looking for her? For Zoe?”

“We don’t know.”

Pam lifted a folded tea towel from the counter, gently shook it out, and smoothed it back down into place with meticulous care. “He’s been dead for her,” she whispered. “For all of us. And now…”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Logan said quietly. “Or the right place for him.”

She looked at him steadily. “You couldn’t have known.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t have.”

“But if you had—”

“I’d have taken the shot.” His voice didn’t waver. “Hell, I’d have taken two.”

Pam closed her eyes as if absorbing a blow. When she opened them, a thin sheen of tears caught the light. “That bastard stabbed your sister.”

“Made her believe she had to vanish.”

“To stay alive,” Pam finished under her breath. She drew in a slow, ragged breath, her spine straightening. “Good. I’m glad it was you.”

“Dar needs space tonight,” Logan said, passing the empty mug back to her. “Tomorrow, you can bake all the pies you want. But tonight, let her breathe, yeah?”

Pam wiped her palms on her apron, nodding slowly as a softer look took over—gratitude, relief; and something in Logan’s chest eased with it.

Outside, a car’s headlights swept past the window, throwing long stripes of light across the café floor. Pam glanced toward the door, then back at Logan, her voice dropping. “You’re all right?”

“I’m glad it was me,” he repeated simply.

“Me too.” A small, exhausted smile touched her lips. “Can you stay?”

“Can’t tonight, Pam. Malik and Sean are away so it’s all hands on deck. Rhys and Callum are working through whatever intel they can find on the prick.”

He stepped close, gave her a brief kiss on the cheek, and turned toward the door.

As his hand touched the brass handle, Pam called softly after him, “Ten o’clock in the morning. I’m coming by then.”

Logan paused, pulling the door open just enough to feel the chilly night air. “Ten,” he agreed.

And then he was gone.