In The Heart of Ice and Authority
A criminologist unexpectedly becomes the civilian consultant for a covert task force hunting elusive criminals, while Logan and Rhys learn of their sudden reassignment to the same task force, hinting at new challenges ahead.
Their worlds are about to collide in a mashup orchestrated by an ‘Ice Queen’.
Pam’s hands never stopped moving as she wedged the phone against her ear, boxing a row of still-warm croissants while her voice lilted through the receiver. “Dar-ling! It’s been ages. Spill!” Behind her cheerful tone lay the weight of Logan’s confidence—a secret she’d promised to keep. Not a word, she reminded herself.
On the other end, Dar felt her shoulders drop an inch. Pam’s voice was like stepping into a warm kitchen after a cold walk. “Hey Pam. Got time for coffee? Need your advice on something.”
“For you? I’d tell the apocalypse to reschedule. I can be there in twenty.”
Pam flashed Maggie a quick “you’re in charge” gesture as her assistant bustled through the kitchen door for her morning shift. She snatched up her keys along with the carefully wrapped pastries. “Back before the morning crowd hits!” Pam called, already halfway out the door. Her Mini Cooper’s engine growled to life, Freddie Mercury’s voice filling the car as she wound through narrow lanes lined with hedgerows. Eighteen minutes later, she stood on Dar’s doorstep, pastry box teetering atop her massive tote as she nudged the door with her elbow. “Special delivery for the crime pattern genius!”
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 darted a glance up and down the street, scanning for any sign of her neighbour. “Quick, before Mrs. Henderson spots us with that dog of hers.” Pam slipped inside, nudging the door closed with a practiced hip-check. Dar relieved her of the pastry box and headed into the living room, where she had just placed two mugs of steaming coffee on the table. Setting the box down, she flipped open the lid. “Oh, God—this smell is heavenly.”
Pam flung herself onto the sofa, bright red hair bouncing around her shoulders as she eyed Dar and shook off her designer heels. Crap, she looks like she hasn’t slept since the Thatcher administration. She grabbed the steaming mug of coffee waiting, inhaling its aroma before taking a desperate sip. “You’re an absolute saint,” she croaked, her voice sandpaper-rough from last night’s whisky and the cigarette she’d shared with Logan. “These days I’m running on caffeine and pure spite.” And lack of sleep. She paused, draining half the mug in one go. “Right then. Talk to me. You’ve got that look—like you’ve been wrestling with the universe and lost.”
Dar sank into the armchair opposite her, fingers knotting together in her lap. She swallowed hard. “Logan and Rhys are retiring. Being retired. This woman Veyr called me. God knows how she got my number.” Her voice hardened, then wavered. “She orchestrated the whole thing—claims she’s building some elite task force to go after the criminals that slip through the cracks. And she—” Dar’s voice cracked. She took a sip, scalding her tongue but welcoming the pain. “God, Pam, she wants me too.” Dar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The exact cases that keep me up at night.” She took a quick sip, avoiding Pam’s eyes. “She wants me as a civilian consultant. And I hate her for what she did to them, but I’m also… tempted.” Dar’s hand trembled as she put the coffee back down. “She wants me! I’d be working with Rhys and Logan. But from here, from home. I should say no, I think. Shouldn’t I?”
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?” He’s in. He decided.
“Wish I knew. Last night at Hounds, Rhys was upset about being put out to pasture—in Greece, no less. Without me. Then he tells Logan that he is being retired as well! Out of nowhere Veyr rings and outlines the whole thing, offering me a job using my pattern recognition 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 actually considering this? What’s your instinct telling you, Dar?”
Dar managed a small smile. “That I should do it. 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 Lo this morning. Not sure when she will contact me.” Taking another sip of coffee, Dar’s eyes were already scanning 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. 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 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; her 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 as she chuckled. “A biscuit-tin panic button?” 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’s gaze followed Dar’s, and she squeezed her hand. “You’ve always been good at finding patterns in chaos. Just make sure they compensate you properly when their top-secret bullshit keeps you up at night.”
She grinned. “And hey—I can still drop by with pastries since you’ll be working from home.”
Pam rose, collecting her purse and phone. “I should get back before the mid-morning rush descends on Maggie. Text me updates, yeah?”
“Promise. With a line item for ‘psychological distress fees.'” Dar walked her to the entrance. “And… thanks.”
After Pam’s car pulled away, Dar stood in the doorway, surveying her empty living room, feeling an unexpected surge of excitement she hadn’t felt since Zoe’s death.
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 cardboard 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.
“Major Calder. Captain 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-six 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.”
Two worlds—one messy with crumbs, one carved from steel—had converged on the same trajectory. Task Force 983 was no longer a secret plan sketched on napkins in a dingy bar. It was alive. It was their future—both a promise and a prison, its jaws already closing.
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“He’s like a thoroughbred. You don’t get maximum performance unless you let him have his head.”
Maj.Gen. Sidney Shachnow (1934-2018) on the Special Forces soldier.