Bonds of Steel: Loyalty, Secrets, and Deadly Missions
Calder and Ward are thrust back into a shadowy, off-the-books task force where
loyalty, secrets, and deadly missions blur the line between survival and sacrifice.
Hereford
Veyr slid the folder across the table. The leather whispered against the polished wood. Calder’s hand shot out, his grip tight on his coffee cup. White knuckles.
Ward slouched deeper. The lazy pose didn’t hide the tension in his shoulders.
Predictable, both of them.
She’d built Task Force 983 in a space so dark Parliament only had whispers of its existence. No oversight, no accountability. When the blood came—and it would—there would be no record. As of now, they were hers; they just hadn’t caught up yet. All she had to do was add the final leash: the Montgomery woman. A brilliant analyst, but untested. The perfect leverage to keep these two bound tighter than any official order could manage.
You already have, she’d said. True enough. They’d been set in motion the moment they walked through that door. Let them have their sense of purpose, their noble mandate. Let them believe they’d chosen this. Ward’s fingers drummed once against his thigh—that restless tell she’d commit to memory. So eager to leap. She’d make certain they landed exactly where she needed them.
Veyr’s pronouncement hung in the air, and Logan shifted in response, sunglasses hiding his eyes but doing nothing to mask the tension that pulled his jaw tight.
Rhys sat back in his chair, fingers drumming against the table’s edge. “You can’t just—”
Veyr cut him off with a flick of her hand. “I can. And I did. I signed, stamped, and buried the paperwork so deep that not even Whitehall will sniff it. Task Force 983 exists. You’re its spine.”
Logan’s mouth twisted. “And what if the spine decides it’s tired of carrying the body?”
Veyr leaned forward. “Then the body collapses. And we both know you’d sooner break your own spine than let the mission fail.”
To Logan, Veyr looked the same—no rank, no insignia, just that same impossible poise that had followed her from Kabul into this sterile government building. The years had only sharpened something in her. A stillness that felt less like calm and more like a place where noise had learned not to go.
“Still two steps ahead, are you?” he asked.
Her mouth twitched. “Three, if I’m lucky.”
Rhys Calder raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “I take it you two are acquainted?”
“You could say that.” Logan replied. “She once told me I’d die of boredom before old age.”
Veyr’s expression didn’t change. “You’re proving me wrong so far, Ward.”
He huffed. “Good to see your bedside manner hasn’t improved.”
Veyr ignored the jab. “Gentlemen, the world has changed. The old frameworks are too slow, too political. I need people who can move faster than the rules allow.”
Rhys’s jaw tightened. “Off the books, then.”
“Off everything,” she said.
Logan caught her gaze. “983?”
She offered only the hint of a smile in response. “You remembered.”
He sat back, feeling the old hum under his skin—the one he’d sworn off when he left Kabul. You’re getting pulled back in, Ward. Again. He looked at her. “Right, then. What’s the game this time?”
Veyr re-folded her hands. “The same one it’s always been. Keeping the monsters from inheriting the world.”
Rhys looked down at the folder she’d slid across the table—black, unmarked, heavier than it should be. He didn’t open it. Not yet. Already signed up. Fuck.
The conference room’s air hung heavy with tension and the lingering notes of Veyr’s jasmine perfume. She remained perfectly motionless, hands resting on the table.
Logan pushed back into his chair. “Task Force 983. What were ‘Operation Certain Death’ and ‘Project Cannon Fodder’ already taken by MI6? What’s the catch, Veyr? Besides the obvious.” He gestured vaguely, with a grin playing on his lips. “And does it come with dental?”
Rhys had stilled, though the mention of TF983 stirred something deep in him. Deniable ops. Off the books. The mess that gets men killed with no one to claim the bodies. He leaned in, his voice dropped. “And if we refuse?”
Veyr’s lips curved into a faint smile. She tilted her head; the lights caught the sharp angles of her face. “Refusal is always an option, Major Calder. You would simply fade into obscurity. But then you’d miss the chance to do what you do best—without the bureaucracy.” Her gaze shifted to Logan. “Ward, you won’t get dental. But I can promise you something far more valuable: autonomy. And targets worth your bullets.”
Rhys’s unease surged. Obscurity? After everything? He glanced at Logan, weighing the unspoken risks. “Autonomy doesn’t mean much when you’re six feet under with no flag on the coffin. What’s the real mission set here? Wetwork? Asset recovery?”
Logan’s expression didn’t waver as he tapped a silent rhythm against the table—Morse code for “bullshit.” But the thought of sitting idle while the world burned? That grated worse than intelligence work. “You’ll need more than two old war dogs.”
Veyr’s eyes narrowed as she picked up the tension in Rhys’s posture and the restless energy radiating from Logan. “Wetwork is… reductive. TF983 handles problems before they become headlines. Think of it as preventive medicine for geopolitical infections.” Her gaze flicked to Logan and lingered for a beat. “And we’re not limited to two. Talent comes in many forms. I already have names. Familiar names.”
Geopolitical infections. Right. More like cleaning up messes the suits don’t want to touch. Rhys saw the glance Veyr threw Logan’s way. Familiar names? Who else is she dragging into this? He watched her face. “Task Force 983, then. Anchors, aye?”
“Anchors, indeed. You’ll be the steady hand, Major. The one who keeps the ship from capsizing when the storm hits. And you.” Her gaze shifted to Logan. “Welcome back, Storm.”
Logan’s sunglasses fixed on Veyr. Storm. His jaw clenched. The old callsign settled over him. Another leash. Maybe this time it leads toward something worth biting. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, ma’am,” he drawled, shooting a sideways glance at Rhys. “Just make sure the targets are worth the mess.”
Veyr’s lips twitched. “The mess is inevitable, but I assure you, the targets will be… satisfying.”
Rhys turned to Logan, voice low. “Anchor and Storm. Sounds like a pub name.” Greece will have to wait.
Veyr’s fingers patted once on the closed folio that sat undisturbed on the table. “Your team is already in motion,” she said, pulling a single sheet of paper from the folder. “I don’t build from scratch. I collect what works.”
Rhys exchanged a quick glance with Logan. Hell, she talks like she’s shopping for wine.
Veyr’s gaze sharpened. “You’ll have Osei—Malik. You’ve worked with him before, Major Calder. London-born, decorated, sharp as a scalpel. He’s not afraid to question orders. I trust you’ll respect that.”
The tension in Rhys’s shoulders eased a fraction at Malik’s name. He met Logan’s eye across the table, nodding. “Yeah, we know Malik.” Shared history breeds trust. Or at least predictability.
Logan didn’t smile. He was already thumping a finger against the table, one slow rhythm. Good. Hawk’s got a way of keeping everyone in line. Even me, most days.
Veyr continued. “Major Stroud, Task Force Sabre—on loan—think of him as a bridge. Between my directives and your execution. He needs no introduction. You’ve crossed paths.”
Rhys’s fingers knocked once against the table. Stroud. Bridge? More like a bloody checkpoint. “Stroud’s solid,” he said, voice flat. “But if he’s your leash, Veyr, you picked a short one.” His eyes shot to Logan.
Logan’s sunglasses reflected the overhead light as he leaned back, crossing his arms. Shit, heard the man’s a rulebook with boots. This’ll be fun. “Sabre’s Major Stroud? Just hope he remembers which side of the sandbox we play in.”
Veyr’s voice sharpened. “Stroud’s role is coordination, not oversight. You’ll keep operational autonomy, provided your decisions align with mission parameters.” She paused. “Consider him… insurance against the day your luck runs out.”
Veyr glanced down at the page in her hand, letting the silence stretch for a beat before her attention shifted deliberately to Logan. “And Sean Kennedy—your civilian wildcard.”
That earned her two stares.
Rhys blinked once. “Kennedy? The fucking golf pro? The kid who teaches millionaires how to swing clubs.” Wildcard? More like a loose cannon.
The corner of Veyr’s mouth lifted a fraction. “Not anymore. Kennedy’s been under Ward’s personal training for the last six months—raw, but adaptable, and people underestimate him, which makes him valuable.” Her gaze shifted to Rhys and held there. “Kennedy brings unconventional access—golf courses are where the world’s rot gathers, networking in khaki and polos—and he’s already proven he can handle pressure.” She let that sink in, her tone cooling. “If he sinks, we learn; if he floats, we exploit.” Sacrifice the pawn early; save the queen later.
Rhys frowned, sitting back. Bloody hell, Logan. You’ve been training him behind my back. “Unconventional access cuts both ways. If he’s compromised—” A sharp squint at Logan. “—your pet project becomes our liability.”
Logan’s jaw flexed. He could still smell the damp night air of that rescue extraction in Cyprus, Sean’s panicked grin when the rotor wash hit them. Tossed him in the deep end, and the bastard swam. “Kennedy’s got more spine than half the rookies we’ve seen fresh out of Sandhurst,” he shot back, his fingers drumming the table in rhythmic, controlled beats. “And unlike some, he doesn’t lock up under fire—trained him myself, and he’ll hold the line.” Or I’ll bury him myself.
Rhys’s expression hardened at Logan’s defence of Kennedy before softening into something more complex. “Holding the line’s not the issue. It’s knowing which line to hold.” He rubbed his temple. He remembered Cyprus—the kid’s reckless courage was undeniable, but a raw recruit wasn’t a trained operator. Brilliant or suicidal—Rhys still couldn’t tell the difference, and that uncertainty gnawed at him. “He’s green,” he admitted, “but he’s got fight in him. Let’s hope that’s… enough.”
Veyr’s gaze flicked between the two men. She struck her wedding band against the steel edge of the table—three sharp clicks. Two men, one chair, and neither willing to admit it. “Enough.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Kennedy’s in. That’s not a debate.” Her eyes swept from Logan to Rhys. “I’ve noted your concern, Major, but we’re not running a democracy here—he brings assets we need.” Let them focus on the obvious ones. She straightened. “Focus on the mission parameters. The rest is my problem to manage.” A beat of silence, then her voice dropped. “Or do you fancy my job?”
Rhys met Veyr’s stare without flinching, his hands tightening against the chair’s armrest before he forced them to relax, muscle by muscle. Not your job I want, just your intel. “Understood.” The word came out clipped, professional, even as he sent a silent warning to Logan with the tilt of his chin. Your boy. Your responsibility.
Veyr nodded at the folder she had earlier placed on the table. “Task Force 983: Calder, Ward, Stroud, Osei, Kennedy. Six of you if Montgomery signs on, but she will.” She paused. “You’ve been fighting this war long before I called you into this room—983 is just making it official. You either lead it or get left behind.” Standing, she tucked her leather portfolio under her arm. “You’ve got forty-eight hours to read yourselves in. Operational security protocols are non-negotiable—burn phones only, no paper trails.” Before either man could respond, she turned and walked away, the door clicking shut.
With her back to the reinforced steel, Veyr detected the faint murmur of the men’s voices seeping through—just enough to catch the edges of their tension.
Calder would speak first—he needed to name the problem before solving it. Ward would joke, then pivot to the real question: What did she want? What she wanted was already in motion.
She’d watched their reactions: Calder’s knuckles whitening on his coffee cup at the mention of Task Force 983—proof of his loyalty reflex. Ward’s thigh tapping—three beats, pause, two—a hidden Morse for anxiety. Calder was steady, bound by structure even as it rotted; he’d question, push back, then comply to avoid irrelevance. Ward was impulsive but indebted to her: she’d saved his men in Kabul by slipping him correct IED coordinates. That debt was leverage. Guilt—and his protégé, Kennedy—would keep him in line.
As she reached the stairwell, she thought of the team. Calder would anchor them, Ward would propel them, Malik would sharpen them, Stroud would keep them honest, Kennedy would prove—or break—and Montgomery: the brilliant analyst whose presence in Calder and Ward’s heads would cement their compliance. A system of pressure points and calculated risks, with every variable accounted for. Almost every contingency. The unknowns, she reminded herself, must break in her favour.
On the next level, she paused and typed out an encrypted message: “TF983 active. Stand by for coordinates.” It vanished into the void, routed through multiple servers. Task Force 983 was live.
She rounded the corner and paused before entering her temporary office. Inside, Dar Montgomery waited in the visitor’s chair, fingers laced as though bracing for impact. Let’s see if the academic’s mind bites as hard as her reputation.
Rhys tracked the door after it closed, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Forty-eight hours. Damn, she moves fast.
Logan’s gaze stayed fixed on the door Veyr had exited through. She always loved tight deadlines. The Falcon’s Rest, twelve years ago. The memory flashed—Veyr’s eyes over a glass of scotch, the quiet murmur of a grid coordinate for an IED that wasn’t supposed to exist. It twisted his gut now, just as it had then. He forced it away and turned to Rhys. “You going to call a meet?” He paused. “Dar’s going to hate this. You want me to prep her, or are you taking that bullet?”
Calder ignored Logan’s question. “You going to tell me what that was?”
“What what was?”
“That look.” Calder gestured toward the door. “Like you’d just seen a ghost. You know her.”
Ward leaned back in his chair, jaw ticking once before he answered. “Kabul. Years ago.”
Calder raised an eyebrow. “You worked together?”
“If you can call it that.” He stared at the closed door where Veyr’s shadow had vanished. “She showed up where she shouldn’t have, told me things no one else could’ve known, and got six men home alive. Then she vanished a couple of months later.”
Calder crossed his arms. “And now she’s back, recruiting us into her private crusade.”
Ward gave a short, humourless laugh. “She’s not the recruiting type. She’s the kind that’s already decided what you’re going to do before she’s finished shaking your hand.”
Calder studied him, then leaned forward slightly. “She mentioned the ‘old frameworks’ being too slow. It sounded personal. What was she talking about?”
Ward hesitated, his thumb running along the edge of the folder as a different night at The Falcon’s Rest came back in heat and static—the convoy, the bodies, the silence that dropped in after, total and wrong. “She means,” he said finally, voice low, “that I’ve seen what can happen when you follow the book and still lose half your team, and she’s betting that I’d rather bend the rules than bury another friend.”
Calder nodded slowly. “And you think she’s right?”
Ward drained the last of his cold coffee. “She usually is.”
Calder sighed, running a hand down his face. “Christ, Ward. Every time someone says ‘off the books,’ it ends with us neck-deep in bodies and paperwork.”
Ward cracked a grin, faint but real. “Then let’s hope she’s better at the first part than the second.” He stood. “Come on, Calder. Let’s go tell the lads they’ve just been voluntold for the most secret task force that doesn’t exist.”
Calder gathered his empty coffee cup, muttering under his breath, “Retirement was starting to sound pretty damn good.”
Ward held the door for him. “We’ll get there eventually.”
Rhys shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, grabbing the folder off the table. “Sure we will, right after hell freezes over.”
Ward smirked. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He followed Logan out into the corridor, where Veyr’s perfume still lingered—something floral with a chemical edge.
How do you tell someone you’re dragging them into hell?