Chapter Three

The Morning After

Pam Adams stood behind the counter of her patisserie, answering the phone while cradling it between her shoulder and ear as she slipped fresh pastries into its box. “Dar-ling, how have you been?” she cooed. “Spill! Tell me everything!”  She already knew why her best friend was calling but had promised Logan to keep their budding romance quiet for now. Not me telling her.

Dar relaxed at the sound of her best friend’s voice. Friendly, warm, exactly what I needed this morning, she thought. “Hi, Pam. You free for a cuppa? I’ve got to bounce something off you.”

“Time? For you, darling, I’d pause Armageddon itself. Be there in thirty.”

Pam shot her assistant, Maggie, a quick hand signal as she came in through the kitchen entrance to start her early morning shift—*hold down the fort*—then grabbed her keys and the pastry parcel. “Maggie, I’ll back before the break rush!” she called over her shoulder, sliding into her Mini Cooper. Queen blasted from the speakers as she sped along country lanes, arriving at Dar’s cottage eighteen minutes later. Balancing the box and her oversized tote, she knocked briskly with her elbow. “Delivery for anyone with a Masters in Criminology!”

Dar opened the door in a well-worn grey sweater and jeans, her hair piled into a messy bun. She looked tired, but her face brightened at Pam’s entrance. “Morning, Pam!” She poked her head out and quickly spied up and down the lane, scouring for Mrs. Henderson and her dog. “Hurry, if Mrs. H. sees you, she’ll invite herself.” Pam swept into the hallway, pushing the door shut with her hip and handing the pastry box to Dar, who headed into the living room where she had just placed two mugs of steaming coffee on the table. “Oh, God—these smell heavenly.” She placed the box down and opened the lid.

Pam flung herself onto the sofa, her bright red hair bouncing around her shoulders as she shook off her designer heels. Crap, she looks like she hasn’t slept since the Thatcher administration. She mused as she eyed Dar and then reached for the mug of coffee, its steam swirling upwards. “Bless you, darling,” she said, her voice raspy from the previous evening’s whisky and the cigarette she had shared with Logan. “I’m surviving on caffeine and sheer stubbornness lately.” And very little sleep. She raised her mug for a greedy gulp. “So. Spill. You look like you’ve been decoding Dead Sea Scrolls all night.”

Dar sank into the armchair opposite her, throat catching. “Where to start? Logan and Rhys—it’s so sudden—they’ve been shoved into retiring. Then out of nowhere this Veyr woman calls on my phone.  No idea how she got the number. She admits she orchestrated the whole thing so she can get them into a new task force she’s formed to chase down the worst criminals who slip through the cracks. And—” realizing she’d been talking too fast, she stopped, catching her breath and taking a sip of coffee. “She wants me as a civilian consultant.”

Pam’s perfectly sculpted brows shot up. She set down her mug with a sharp clink. Act surprised. “Retiring? Those two adrenaline junkies? Bollocks. Darling, start from the beginning. Logan and Rhys have hung up their boots, and they want you to…consult? What aren’t you telling me?”

Dar ran a hand over her face. “I don’t even know how Veyr found me.” This all feels way too big, she admitted inwardly.

“Darling, you’re a criminology expert, not some field agent,” Pam said, drumming her manicured fingers on the silky black pants covering her knee. “What does this Task Force actually do? And it involves Logan?” I’m invested now.

Dar shook her head. “No idea. Last night at Hounds, Rhys sighed about being put out to pasture—Greece, apparently. Without me. Then Veyr rings and spews out the whole thing and then says she needs my analytic skills. I’d stay…work from home, safe from the field.”

Pam narrowed her eyes like a chef spotting a flawed croissant. Safe? Rubbish. These spooks never mean safe. She leaned forward and caught Dar’s hand. “Listen to me, darling. These types always undersell the danger. Remember when Logan ‘just popped over’ to Damascus for a ‘quick consult’ and came back with that ghastly scar?” She released Dar’s hand to rearrange the pastries aggressively on the plate. She paused, then added in a wicked whisper, “Are you really considering doing this? What does your gut tell you, Dar?”

Dar managed a small smile. “My gut says I need to. Feels right—like I’m meant to be part of it.” She exhaled, the weight on her chest easing slightly. She met Pam’s eyes and nodded decisively. “I think so.  Yes.”

Pam reached for a pain au chocolat, tearing it apart with more force than necessary. Bloody Logan and his bloody instincts. “So, when do you start this cloak-and-dagger nonsense? And more importantly,” She pointed a buttery finger at Dar “- what’s your extraction plan when you inevitably uncover some parliamentary scandal and need to flee the country?” 

Dar chuckled, the sound tired but genuine. “Extraction plan? I was counting on you to hide me in your bakery’s walk-in freezer.” She took a bite of pastry, savouring the buttery layers. “Veyr is meeting with Rhys and Logan this morning.” Taking another sip of coffee, Dar’s eyes scanned the living room, too small for a desk. “Paperwork’s already moving. And apparently Veyr wields Capital-C clout.”

Pam leaned back, crossing a leg with theatrical flair. “Does she at least offer a pension package, or are you billing by the hour for peanuts?” Her emerald eyes gleamed. “And does she know about your knack for finding things that don’t want to be found?”

Dar rolled her eyes but kept smiling. “I guess I would bill by the hour—and yes, she knows my talents. Unique perspective, pattern-spotting, all that jazz. It’s a chance to make a difference.” Better than staring at spreadsheets all day.

Pam tapped her mug. “So you’re psychoanalyzing serial killers from your living room? Do they give hazard pay for paper cuts from classified docs?”

Dar leaned forward, adopting mock seriousness. “I’ll expense any paper cuts. But no chase scenes—just data, profiles, patterns. My specialty.”

Pam’s lips curved into a sly grin. “Promise me two things: one, you’ll let me install a panic button disguised as a biscuit tin. Two…” She lowered her voice. “…if you need to leak anything scandalous, my sourdough starter makes an excellent dead drop.”

Dar’s eyes widened. “A biscuit-tin panic button? Pam, that’s brilliant.” She sipped her coffee, expression thoughtful. “You know… this could be good for me. A fresh start.” Greece could’ve been, but—her thoughts trailed off, gazing out the window as Twigs, her tabby, wound around her ankles.

Pam followed her friend’s stare and reached out, her hand warm on Dar’s. “Darling, you’ve always found light in the darkest corners. Just don’t forget to invoice them for emotional labour when their classified bullshit gives you nightmares. Plus, I can pop by for coffee since you’ll be home working.  Bonus!” She pronounced and stood, gathering her things. “Maggie needs me back at the bakery before that mid morning Karin crowd arrives. Keep me posted, yeah?”

“I will. And I’ll add ‘nightmare surcharge’ to my invoice.” She walked Pam to the door. “Thanks—for everything.” As Pam disappeared into her car, Dar turned to the silent room. Now… what to do until Veyr calls?

Elsewhere in Herefordshire, the pale sun struggled through narrow, leaded windows high in the concrete walls of a locked-down government complex. The sterile air tasted faintly of disinfectant and cold steel. In a spartan conference room, fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Rhys Calder sat rigidly across from Logan Ward. Both clutching Styrofoam cups of vending machine coffee, their breaths synchronized in the heavy silence, like one nervous system expecting the enemy’s first move.

The door swung open without fanfare. Veyr stepped in—a silhouette of ice and authority. No announcements, no flourishes: just the crisp line of her charcoal suit cut so sharply it could draw blood, matching the stern sweep of her hair, and inscrutable eyes that measured the room like a predator scanning its prey. She paused deliberately, letting the hush stretch like a taut wire.

Logan shifted, leather creaking. Rhys could feel the barely contained energy in his partner’s posture, even through his tinted lenses. Fucking hell, she’s good at this. Could freeze a room just by breathing.

“Captain Calder. Lieutenant Ward.” Her voice was cool and precise, like an ice pick’s sharp glint. “Officially, you’re both retired as of this morning.”

The word clipped the air like a guillotine. Retired. Forty-five and suddenly obsolete. Rhys’s fingernails dug half-moons into the foam coffee cup. He forced his face still, a blank mask against the world. “That it? No fanfare, no ceremony?”

Logan leaned back, letting a smirk curl as his eyes hid beneath the dark lenses. “No one summons us just to hand out commemorative watches.”

Veyr’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Correct. While you appear pensioners in waiting, you’re being reassigned to Task Force 983—off-book, denied existence. You’ll answer only to me. The mandate is simple: hunt the threats too slippery for conventional channels. The criminals who write the rules instead of breaking them.”

Rhys flicked a look at Logan, reading the familiar spark in his eyes. He’s already in. Always ready to step across the line. To Veyr, “Why us? You’ve got younger teams—hungrier, faster.”

“Experience decides wars.” Veyr replied without haste. “Considering the established trust and shared experience of working together on countless missions, you’ve developed a strong connection with each other. You can’t manufacture or fake that.” She paused as if tasting the words. “You’ll have additional support and one civilian consultant: Dar Montgomery.”

Logan snapped his head toward the doorway as if expecting to see his stepsister emerge. “She’s not—”

“In the field? No.” Veyr shook her head. “She stays behind the screen, analyzing. You use her vision as your advantage.”

The hollow ache inside Rhys loosened, the relief so sharp it felt dangerous. Dar will be part of this lethal game, but safe. He exhaled, nodding once. “When do we start?”

Finally, Veyr settled into her chair. With deliberate calm, she opened a black leather folio and slid a matching folder across the table toward Rhys. Its surface was icy and smooth—like a promise and a warning in one. She laced her fingers. “You already have.”

Meanwhile, as Pam arrived back at her bakery, with an empty pastry box tucked under her arm and the opening riff of “Bohemian Rhapsody” humming on her lips, her mind replaying the previous night spent with Logan, Dar had her task of cleaning up crumbs and mugs interrupted by another knock on her door.

Two worlds—one messy with crumbs, one carved from steel—had converged on the same deadly path. Task Force 983 was no longer a secret. It was their future—and a trap snapping shut around them all.