In the Dark: Secrets, Tests, and the Quest for Clarity
With loyalties tested and emotions running high, Dar faces a choice: will she allow herself to be managed, or will she redefine her own parameters?
Hereford – Safehouse
Dar was halfway to the shower when three sharp raps sounded at the door—not a guest’s knock, but a declaration. Before the echo died, the knob attempted to turn. Pam, of course, arrived with pastries and the assumption of immediate entry.
Dar reached the door just in time to unlock it and tug it open, breath still uneven from her run, a faint sheen of dampness at her hairline.
Pam stopped short, her gaze sweeping over Dar with the precision of a crime scene analyst. Damp hair, ragged breath, shoulders tight enough to snap. Her head tilted, a silent accusation.
“You ran,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Dar stepped aside, letting Pam sweep past. “Good morning to you too.”
Pam proceeded through to the kitchen, where she set the box on the counter and gave Dar another once-over, slower this time. “You ran,” she repeated. “Like, ran ran.”
Dar stood next to the island, arms crossed. “I run most mornings.”
Pam’s eyes narrowed at Dar’s deflection. “Don’t give me that crap, Montgomery. You hate running. You’d rather be dissecting serial killer profiles in your pyjamas than sweating at dawn.” She pulled scones and muffins from the baked treats assortment, slamming them onto a plate like evidence. She planted her hands on the counter, leaning forward. “So, what’s this really about? You don’t suddenly develop a taste for cardio unless you’re running from something—or toward someone. Who did you run with?”
Dar reached for the kettle. “It was just a run, does it matter?” She kept her tone light—too light.
Pam’s eyes flashed, her voice dropping to that dangerous purr she reserved for burnt croissants and liars. “Darla Montgomery, you know damn well it matters. Who?”
Dar filled the kettle at the sink, gripping it harder than necessary. “Callum.”
Pam froze, one scone still in her hand. “Stroud?” She set it down with care, her mind racing. The Major — tall, quiet, and built like a goddamn statue? Her tone turned speculative. “Well now. The plot thickens like my ganache.” She studied Dar’s profile, reading the tension in her shoulders. “And how was that?”
Dar set the kettle on the stove with a deliberate click. “It was fine. A run.” She turned to face Pam, crossing her arms again as she leaned back against the counter.
“He’s… different. More human, I suppose, when he’s not in mission mode.” She paused, her expression unreadable. “He called yesterday. Checking in. Since Rhys took the team to Midland for live fire. Didn’t even tell me.” She exhaled sharply. “Apparently, everyone assumed someone else had.”
Pam’s jaw tightened—Rhys’s oversight stinging on Dar’s behalf — but it was the Callum detail that made her pulse quicken. “Bloody hell, Dar. He called you. The man who treats conversation like a tactical exercise?” She drummed her fingers on the counter, reading between every line Dar isn’t saying, “And you ran with him. Not from him.” Her gaze sharpened. “Different how?”
“Different in that he didn’t talk about work. Or logistics.” Dar paused, remembering the run. “He didn’t interrogate me or push when I didn’t want to talk. Just… listened. And smiled…even laughed.” She met Pam’s gaze directly. “And he didn’t try to fix me.”
Pam’s eyebrow climbed, slow and deliberate. She picked up a scone, breaking it with deliberate slowness.
“He didn’t try to fix you.” She let the words hang for a beat. “Christ on a cracker, Dar. That’s… that’s not different. That’s unprecedented.” She popped a crumb into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “The man who thinks emotions are a security breach actually listened?” She studied Dar’s face, searching for cracks in the armour. “You know what this means, right?” A wicked grin spread. “You’re going to have to teach him how to smile before he cracks his face.”
Dar pulled two mugs from the cabinet. She set them side-by-side, then paused, an image of her and Callum running along the river flashing in her mind—close, but not touching. She nudged one mug a hand’s width away from the other.
“Honestly? I think he already knows how. He just… doesn’t have much reason to.” She paused, her voice dropping. “He told me about his sister. The one who died.” She traced the rim of her mug, her voice quiet. “It explains a lot.” After a moment, she met Pam’s gaze again, the quiet vulnerability hardening into familiar frustration. “He only called because he knew the house was empty. Which is more than Rhys bothered to do.”
Pam’s expression shifted from a tease to something softer, almost protective. She abandoned the scone, reaching across the counter instead.
“Oh, Dar.” Her thumb brushed Dar’s knuckles. “He called because he knew you’d be alone. That’s not tactical—that’s care.” She squeezed once, firmly. “And Rhys? That bastard’s getting a fruitcake so dense it’ll crack his teeth. Family doesn’t get to worry alone. I would have come over last night if I didn’t have that corporate cluster-you-know-what to cater. Logan told me you’d be alone and so I’m here now.” She released Dar’s hand, straightening. “But Callum… Christ. The man’s been bleeding in silence, hasn’t he?” She studied Dar’s face. “You’re good for him. Don’t you dare doubt that.”
Dar’s grip tightened on the box of tea bags she had set next to the mugs; her mind ignored almost everything Pam had just told her.
“Logan told you. When?”
Pam’s mouth opened, then closed with a snap. Shit. She’d let that slip like a dropped whisk.
“Thursday night.” She met Dar’s eyes without flinching. “Said Rhys was taking them on a live fire exercise for two days, asked me to stop in. I assumed you knew…” She crossed her arms, defensive. “But you didn’t know, did you,” It wasn’t a question. “Not until Callum called you. To check on you.” God help me, I’m babbling.
The kettle whistled, sharp and insistent. Dar didn’t move. “Thursday.” The word dropped into the room and stayed there. “Logan called you Thursday. He told you.” The whistle escalated, piercing. Dar reached over and yanked the kettle off the burner. The sudden silence was worse. “So, nobody told me. Except Callum. At least Logan had the decency to respond to my text.” She shrugged. “Took him twelve hours to answer, but hey, he broke protocol to do it.”
Pam’s jaw clenched—Logan’s twelve-hour delay, Rhys’s silence, the whole bloody mess. She picked up her scone again, crumbling it between her fingers.
“Christ on a cracker. They’re all arseholes.” She dropped the crumbs, brushing her hands clean. “Well, maybe not…Logan. At least he texted as soon as he could…and broke Rhys’ rule.” Now I’m defending Logan?
“Why the hell wouldn’t Rhys let you know? He knows how you are. Do you think he just forgot?”
Dar turned, the kettle warm in her hand, and stared at the wall. “Forgot? No.” She held the kettle as she paused, thinking. “He didn’t forget. He made a decision.” She poured hot water into the first mug, then the second.
Pam’s eyes narrowed—Rhys’s decision. That word landed hard. She watched Dar pour the water, steam rising between them like a negotiation.
“Rhys made a decision.” She repeated it slowly, tasting the betrayal. “To leave you in the dark. While the team…your team went dark.” She picked up her mug, fingers drumming on the ceramic. “That’s not an oversight, love. That’s a test.” She sipped, letting the heat scald away the impulse to storm out and find him. “Did something happen? Was he unwilling to have you join the team? “
Dar’s fingers tightened around the kettle handle. “At first he tried to hint he didn’t, but that’s not the problem. Rhys is a soldier that would follow protocol to the letter even if he hated you.” She set the kettle down with a soft thud.
“He acted strange the other afternoon, after Callum called me. Said something about he needed to know who called me since I’m his responsibility. I told him Callum is just a friend and he said…” She returned Pam’s gaze, her voice level. “He said ‘Good, keep it that way‘.” A bitter laugh escaped.
Pam’s hand froze mid-reach for the sugar bowl. “‘Good, keep it that way’? Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She dropped the spoon with a clatter. “Rhys is marking territory. Like a tomcat pissing on a fencepost.” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “He doesn’t want Callum near you because he’s scared.” She gently jabbed a finger toward Dar. “Not scared of Callum. Scared of what you make him feel. Rhys Calder, the man who perceives vulnerability as a security risk, just tried to cockblock a bloke who’s actually capable of giving a shit.” She picked up her mug again. “Damn. This is going to be a disaster.”
Dar let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a snort. “Marking territory? Pam, that’s… actually not far off.” She stirred milk into her tea with more force than necessary, the spoon clinking against ceramic. “But it’s not about feelings. It’s about control.” She set the spoon down, meeting Pam’s eyes. “Rhys needs to manage every variable, every risk. And Callum? He views Callum as an unknown variable.”
She paused, the steam from her mug curling between them. “But here’s the thing… I told him Callum’s just a friend. And what, Rhys didn’t believe me? I also told him I wasn’t one of his variables.” A faint, fatigued smile touched her lips, and she shrugged, as if to cast it away. “Or he forgot and I’m reading too much into this. I just know Callum wasn’t impressed that Rhys hadn’t told me.”
Pam set her mug down, tea sloshing over the rim. “Not his variable? You said that to him? Christ, Dar.” She looked impressed as she swiped at the spill with her sleeve. “Rhys didn’t tell you. Callum called you. He checked. That’s a man who gives a damn.” She leaned back, eyes scanning for any glistening drops of splatter that remained. “Rhys isn’t managing risk—he’s managing you. And that’s worse.” Her eyes narrowed. “You told him Callum’s just a friend. He’s testing how far he can push before you push back.”
Dar’s spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering against the counter with a sound that felt like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen.
“Testing me,” she said, the words tasting like ash.
Her words were bitter, like something spoilt. “You know, when I agreed to this consulting role, Veyr made it very clear—I analyze data. I don’t go into the field. I don’t carry a weapon. I don’t make tactical decisions.” She picked up her mug, cradling it in both hands. “But they built a bloody fortress around me anyway, because I am part of the team. So, either he doesn’t trust his own parameters… or he thinks I’m going to break them.” A pause. “Maybe he thinks Callum’s going to break them for me.”
She took a sip, watching Pam over the rim. “But the kicker? Callum’s more self-aware than Rhys gives him credit for.”
Pam’s fingers drummed the counter, each tap echoing Dar’s words. “Callum’s self-aware? Now that’s dangerous.” She snorted, a sharp, mirthless sound. “Rhys thinks he’s managing a bastille,but he’s actually just stacking the kindling.”
She leaned in, whispering as though the house were bugged. “Here’s what you do: let Callum break the boundaries.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Not the safety ones—the emotional ones. Rhys should have to watch someone else treat you like an adult.” She picked up a crumb, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “And if Rhys gets twitchy? Tell him it’s ‘operational necessity.'”
Dar’s eyes flickered—not fear, but a spark of something darker. “Operational necessity.” She considered it. “Pam, you’re suggesting I weaponize Callum’s… whatever this is.” She set the mug down with deliberate placement. “That I use him to push back against Rhys.” She met Pam’s gaze, her expression unreadable. “That’s exactly the kind of manipulation Rhys would pull.” A pause, the kitchen ticking softly around them. “Callum hasn’t done anything to deserve to be a pawn. Not in their games, not in mine.”
Pam’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath pale skin. “Darla Montgomery, you absolute martyr.” She shoved away from the counter. “I’m not suggesting you use him.” She pointed a finger. “I’m suggesting you stop letting Rhys manage you.”
She yanked open the top cabinet, retrieving a bottle of whisky. “Callum’s not a pawn. He’s a bloke who sees you.” She poured a finger of whiskey into each mug. “You think you’re protecting him? I get the impression Callum can protect himself without anyone’s help. Don’t protect Rhys from having to admit he’s terrified of losing control.” She slid Dar’s mug across the table. “Drink. Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Dar watched the whisky slosh into her mug, the amber liquid swirling dark against the pale tea. She didn’t touch it. “I’m not a martyr, Pam.” Her voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. “And I’m not protecting Rhys. Rhys has no problem keeping his emotions locked up. If I had a quid for every time he started a sentence with that low, patient, ‘Dar…'” She mimicked Rhys’s tone as she picked up the mug, but only to move it aside, out of her direct line of sight. “Good God, Pam, I haven’t even showered yet.” Her laugh was soft, then her voice turned serious.
“What ‘s happened is that Callum already is a pawn. Rhys made him one the second he decided to withhold information from me.” She leaned back against the counter. “I won’t compound that by playing into it. Not deliberately, anyway.” A small, bitter smile. “I just want to do the job they asked me to do. Without the territorial pissing contests.”
Pam’s jaw shifted, fingers circling around her mug. “Territorial pissing contests? Dar, that’s exactly what you’ve got. Rhys withholds, Callum compensates, and you? You sit here analyzing it like a fucking crime scene.” She motioned with her hand toward the hallway. “Go shower. Then decide if you’re the analyst or the woman who ran this morning because an attractive man called her.” She set her mug down with a small, deliberate click. “Because right now, you’re both, and it’s crazy-making.”
Pam rose and collected her purse. “I have to get back before the lunch rush, shall I come back after I close the shop?”
Dar’s focus followed Pam as she gathered her bag; the weight of her words anchored her. She didn’t argue. Just watched the motion, the familiar efficiency of her best friend preparing to leave. “Yeah.” Her voice was soft, with none of the previous stress. “Come back after close. I’ll… I’ll have food. Or something.” She pushed away from the counter. “And Pam? Thanks for the whisky. And for not sugar-coating it.” A small, tired smile touched her lips. “Even when I wish you would.”
“Save the sugar for the scones, love.” Pam glanced back, red hair catching the light. “You need a proper meal, not ‘or something.'” She tapped her phone. “I’ll bring curry. Extra hot. And maybe something for that fortress of yours.” She winked, “Don’t overthink the whisky.” She disappeared down the hallway, with the scent of vanilla and sharp words lingering behind.
Back at her desk, tea in hand, Pam’s words echoed in the quiet house. Decide if you’re the analyst or the woman. Before she could spiral, a ping from SIBYL offered a welcome distraction.
She opened the packet from Veyr—Fracture Point. This she understood. This was just accounting.
She dragged transaction logs and shipping manifests into a single workspace; the familiar rhythm of the work was a quiet comfort. Ideology didn’t matter here; sequence was everything.
It started with money—a small, precise bleed, just enough to be written off as a rounding error. Then, weeks later, the violence bloomed, always somewhere else, officially blamed on local unrest.
She marked three instances, dragging them over each other on the screen. The timelines clicked into place, a perfect, damning match.
The money wasn’t lost; it was converted. What vanished from a ledger in Geneva reappeared as medical supplies for a ghost lab in Chad.
She traced the biological strand next.
Natasha Volkov’s work sat behind a series of outbreaks officially classified as humanitarian crises. The documentation was inconsistent. Aid access was delayed. Mortality figures varied widely.
That variation was the point.
Volkov deployed nothing herself. She provided modified pathogens and technical guidance to clients who carried out the releases. The separation protected her legally. The lack of precise records protected her politically.
Dar linked Volkov’s contracts to the earlier financial losses. Money was converted. Violence followed.
She added one last layer: institutional access. There it was.
Marcus Ashford’s name surfaced repeatedly at the margins. Procurement approvals. Advisory boards. Quiet interventions that stalled inquiries before they matured.
Dar leaned back.
The system did not function without Volkov.
Remove her, and future mass-casualty events stopped.
She documented the finding, flagged it for operational action, and returned her findings to Veyr.
Hereford – Callum
Callum had run another 8 kilometres after he separated from Dar.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He tried to be careful, maintaining a respectful distance and a professional demeanour. She was Logan’s stepsister. Part of the team. Off-limits in every way that mattered. Then she smiled at him, a proper one, and he found himself smiling back before he’d decided to.
Back in his bedsit, he stripped off his shirt, the damp fabric clinging to his skin. His pulse had slowed, but his thoughts still raced, stuck on a loop of her smile. He aimed the shirt at the laundry basket and missed, leaving it flat on the floor like a casualty. In the kitchenette, he downed a glass of water in three sharp swallows, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the heat in his chest.
But this morning, walking beside her with the river glinting through the trees, watching her face soften when she talked about the water — he’d wanted to slow down, to stay in step with her a little longer than necessary.
His phone buzzed on the counter. Once. Twice. The specific pattern that meant encrypted.
Callum set the glass down and picked up the phone, swiping to the secure app.
VEYR: Berlin. Fracture. Need immediate intercept. Main team dark another 24.
VEYR: Wheels up 1700. Confirm receipt.
He stared at the screen for three seconds, then typed back: Confirmed.
Fracture Point. The trio Dar was tracking through shell companies and hostile networks. She had already ruled out Kozlov as their first point of contact. That meant Volkov in Berlin.
The wanting in his chest didn’t disappear. But it had somewhere to go.
Callum moved.
Shower first—two minutes, efficient. Then, the go-bag from the closet, already half-packed. He added a second phone, the one with Berlin contacts preloaded. Clean passport, backup credit cards, the Glock he kept in the lockbox under the bed—he’d bought it off a retired BfV man in Hamburg four years ago and had never fired it at anything but paper. Extra mags. A jacket that wouldn’t stand out in a European café.
Dar’s voice echoed again: Do you ever get tired of being the steady one?
Yeah, he thought. All the fucking time.
But steady was what he had. What he was good at.
And right now, steady meant Berlin.
Callum locked the door behind him and headed for the car, thoughts of Dar pushed aside but not gone.
Professional. Focused.
The wanting could wait.
Sitting on the plane later, Callum’s mind returned to Dar. Tomorrow morning. Their run. Fuck.
He couldn’t just ghost her. The thought soured in his gut—it was a coward’s move, the kind of silent abandonment he despised. Rhys could play his games, but Callum wouldn’t be one of his pieces. Not with her.
Callum pulled out his phone, scrolled to her contact, and typed quickly. Something came up. Can’t make tomorrow. Sorry.
He stared at it.
Too casual. Too much like he didn’t care.
He deleted it.
Tried again: Hey—got pulled for work for a few days. We’ll reschedule.
Better. But still evasive. Somehow he felt like he was doing exactly what Rhys had done—disappearing without explanation, leaving her to fill in the blanks.
She deserved better than that.
Callum exhaled slowly and rewrote it one more time:Won’t make our run tomorrow—being sent to Berlin for a few days. Guessing you put the pieces together. Should be back by midweek. Rain check when I’m back?
He read it over twice.
Direct. Honest. Not cold.
Don’t overthink it. He hit send, then shoved the phone into his pocket and sat back as the plane taxied for takeoff.
If part of him wanted to say more—wanted to tell her he’d been thinking about this morning all day—well, that could wait too.
Hereford – Safehouse
Dar looked at her phone as it buzzed beside her. Callum.
Veyr had sent Callum to take care of Volkov. Of course she had. This is how it works.
She hadn’t expected the cancelled run to hit her like a door slammed in her face. Don’t be daft. This is critical. But her chest tightened anyway.
She glanced down at Twigs, who was purring away on her lap, running a finger along the cat’s soft head. “Guess it’s just you and me tomorrow, fuzzball.”
After a beat, she tapped out a brief reply—Rain check works. Be safe out there.
Then, before she could second-guess it, she added: I’ll hold you to it.
She hit send and placed the phone back onto the desk, pulling Twigs closer.
The house felt suddenly like a room she’d walked into and forgotten why, and she hated that she noticed.
The house had nothing left to absorb the sound of her own breathing.