Bonds of Steel: Loyalty, Secrets, and Deadly Missions
Calder & 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.
Veyr watched them through the microscope of her trained observation—Calder’s white-knuckled grip on that pathetic cup, Ward’s performative slouch that fooled exactly no one. She’d studied their files until the pages practically bled. Calder’s blind spot was loyalty. Ward’s recklessness masked a sophisticated risk calculus most analysts would kill for. The Montgomery woman was the wild card—untested, unbroken by fieldwork’s corrosive realities. Her pattern recognition bordered on savant territory, but Veyr had seen brilliant minds shatter when theory met flesh-and-blood consequence. Still, the girl was leverage. Keep her distant, keep her useful, keep these two bound by something stronger than orders. Family. Loyalty. The leashes men forge themselves.
She slid the folder across with practiced casualness, watching Calder’s pupils dilate fractionally as his fingers touched the leather while Ward’s jaw tightened—there, just a millimetre—both men already committed from the moment they’d walked through that door, though they simply didn’t know it yet. What she didn’t tell them: Task Force 983 existed in a grey space so dark even Parliament’s intelligence committee had only rumours and redacted footnotes. No oversight meant no accountability. No accountability meant that when things went sideways—and they would—there’d be no official record of orders given, operations sanctioned, or bodies buried.
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 like smoke from a sniper’s rifle—deadly, lingering, impossible to wave away—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, knuckles drumming against the table’s edge. “You can’t just—” he started.
Veyr cut him off with a flick of her hand, efficient as a scalpel. “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 in something between a smirk and a snarl. “And what if the spine decides it’s tired of carrying the body?”
Veyr leaned forward, her gaze like steel wire. “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 passage of time had only intensified the muted atmosphere around her, as though she carried the desert with her still, a ghost who’d never truly left the sand.
“Still two steps ahead, are you?” he asked dryly.
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, Captain Ward.”
He huffed, half-laugh, half-snort. “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 the metallic trace of tension and the lingering notes of Veyr’s jasmine perfume, while she remained perfectly still, hands resting on the table as if carved from marble.
Logan leaned back in his chair, the leather protesting under his weight. His sunglasses stayed firmly in place, hiding the way his eyes flicked between Rhys and Veyr. “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 remained still, though the mention of TF983 stirred something deep in him—a mix of old instincts and fresh irritation that coiled tight in his chest. Deniable ops. Off the books. The mess that gets men killed with no one to claim the bodies. His knuckles whitened where they rested on the table, and when he leaned in, his voice dropped low and deliberate. “And if we refuse?”
Veyr’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. She tilted her head; the lamplight catching 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, unimpressed with the sunglasses. “Captain Ward, you won’t get dental. But I can promise you something far more valuable: autonomy. And targets worth your bullets.”
Rhys’s chest tightened. 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?” His tone was flat, but the edge in it was unmistakable—the same edge that had cut through briefing rooms for decades.
Logan’s expression didn’t waver, but his fingers 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 caught the tension in Rhys’s posture and the restless energy radiating from Logan, then closed the leather folio with a deliberate motion, its magnetic catch snapping shut with a soft thud. “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, something unreadable passing across her features. “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 caught the glance Veyr threw Logan’s way—familiar names? Who else is she dragging into this? He watched her face, his voice gravel-deep. “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, a flicker of something almost like approval in her eyes. “Welcome back, Storm.”
Logan leaned back in his chair, sunglasses fixed on Veyr while hiding the glint of dark amusement in his eyes. Storm. His jaw clenched as the old callsign settled over him like familiar armour. 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 at Logan’s retort, the promise of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The mess is inevitable, Captain. 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 drummed once on the closed folio that sat undisturbed on the table, her expression unreadable as she studied Rhys’s hardened features—that look of grudging acceptance she’d seen too many times before, the look of a man who’d watched too many missions go sideways under official channels. “Your team is already in motion,” she said, pulling a single sheet of paper from the folder with deliberate precision. “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—a known quantity in an unknown equation—and he caught Logan’s eye across the table, nodding almost imperceptibly as the faint words resonated with his memories more than with those present. “Yeah, we know Malik.” Shared history breeds trust. Or at least predictability.
Logan didn’t smile. He was already tapping 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 tapped once against the table—a sharp rap. 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, catching the minute tightening around his brother-in-arms’ eyes.
Logan’s sunglasses caught 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 as her eyes cut to Rhys, the shift in tone deliberate and measured. “Stroud’s role is coordination, not oversight—you’ll keep operational autonomy, provided your decisions align with mission parameters.” Predictable resistance. Good. Means they’re engaged. She paused, letting the words settle like dust after an explosion, her gaze holding steady on both men before she continued. “Consider him… insurance against the day your luck runs out.” They’ll chafe, but they’ll adapt—they always do.
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, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief as the name registered. “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, almost imperceptibly, her eyes never leaving Logan as she delivered the explanation with surgical precision. “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, grey as spent shell casings, weighing his reaction before she continued. “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 to something clinical. “If he sinks, we learn; if he floats, we exploit.” Sacrifice the pawn early, save the queen later.
Rhys frowned, leaning 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 as he could still smell the damp night air of that rescue extraction in Cyprus, Sean’s panicked grin when the rotor wash hit them flooding back with visceral clarity. 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 that punctuated each word. “And unlike some, he doesn’t freeze when shit hits the fan—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—grudging respect threading through genuine concern as his voice dropped low and edged. “Holding the line’s not the issue. It’s knowing which line to hold.” He rubbed his temple while the memory of Kennedy diving headlong into fusillades in Cyprus stirred fresh doubt, the kid’s reckless courage still vivid after six months of training. Brilliant or suicidal—sometimes Rhys couldn’t tell the difference, and that uncertainty gnawed at him in ways he didn’t want to examine. “He’s green,” he admitted, the words surprising even himself, “but he’s got fight in him, and sometimes that’s…enough.”
Veyr’s gaze flicked between the two men, the faintest crease forming between her brows as she tapped her wedding band against the steel edge of the table—three sharp clicks that cut through the tension like a blade. Like dogs circling the same bone. “Enough.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her voice carrying the weight of finality. “Kennedy’s in. That’s not a debate.” Her eyes swept from Logan to Rhys with calculated precision, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her point. “I’ve noted your concern, Major, but we’re not running a democracy here—he brings assets we need.” Let them think it’s about golf courses. The actual play is deeper. She straightened, her gaze locking on Rhys with the practiced stillness of a predator assessing whether to strike or retreat. “Focus on the mission parameters. The rest is my problem to manage.” A beat of silence, then her voice dropped to something colder, sharper. “Or do you fancy my job?”
Rhys met Veyr’s stare without flinching, his knuckles whitening 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, her eyes glittering with something that might have been anticipation or calculation—with her, the two were often indistinguishable. “Task Force 983: Calder, Ward, Stroud, Osei, Kennedy. Six of you if Montgomery signs on, but she will.” She paused, letting the weight of her next words settle like sediment. “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 with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d already moved three steps ahead. “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 a finality that echoed in the muted room.
With her back to the reinforced steel, she caught the faint murmur of Calder and Ward’s voices seeping through—just enough to catch the edges of their tension, the way men always sounded when they realized the trap had already closed. Her thumb traced the outline of the secure device nestled in her pocket while mental bullet points formed like soldiers in formation, each one a calculated step in the larger operation. Proceeding toward the stairs, she tapped a code into her encrypted phone, sending the briefest of messages flashing across the screen: TF983 active. Stand by for coordinates. The game was in motion now, pieces moving exactly where she’d positioned them, and all that remained was to see which ones would break under pressure and which would be forged into something sharper. Let them chew on it. Pressure reveals fractures—or forges steel.
Rhys tracked the door after it closed, the muscles in his jaw flexing beneath stubble like gears grinding without purchase. Forty-eight hours. Damn, she moves fast.
Logan’s gaze stayed fixed on the door Veyr had exited through, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the table—three taps, pause, two—while she always loved tight deadlines echoed through his mind. The memory of their first meeting flashed unbidden: Veyr’s calculating eyes over a glass of scotch in the Falcon’s Rest seven years earlier, offering information nobody should have known, the image twisting his gut and clinging like shrapnel, leaving him both wary and oddly grateful. 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, the memory sharpening into focus. “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 decides where the pieces go before you even know you’re on the board.”
Calder studied him with the careful attention you reserve for someone whose file doesn’t quite match their tone, then leaned forward slightly. “She said something—’you already know what happens when the rules don’t work.’ What did she mean by that?”
Ward hesitated, his thumb running along the edge of the folder as that night at The Falcon’s Rest came back in heat and static—the convoy, the bodies, the silence that followed like a held breath. “She means,” he said finally, voice low and deliberate, “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, gaze steady. “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.”
“Sure we will,” Calder said. “Right after hell freezes over.”
Ward smirked. “Then better pack a coat.”
Rhys shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, grabbing the folder off the table. He followed Logan out into the corridor, where Veyr’s perfume still lingered — jasmine and gun oil. How do you tell someone you’re dragging them into hell?
Veyr’s heels struck a military cadence against the cold floor as she ascended to the next level. 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.
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