20 – Whispers of Loyalty and Love

Whispers of Loyalty and Love

In a journey of self-discovery and resilience, the bonds of friendship and the unspoken whispers of love
are tested in the crucible of conflicting loyalties. Who will stand tall when the truth comes knocking?

Rhys arrived back from Berlin early Tuesday evening looking like he’d fought the devil and won on a technicality. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his eyes had that thousand-yard stare that came from too many nights running surveillance in hostile territory. He dropped his duffel in the entryway and headed straight for the kitchen, noticing that the door to Dar’s office was cracked an inch.

“Coffee on?” His voice was rough, abraded.

“Always,” she didn’t get up or come out. Bracing for a confrontation that she was not looking forward to, she could feel her heart beating faster. “Logan’s in the basement working on comms with Malik. Sean is…somewhere.” Sitrep done.

Rhys’s only acknowledgment was a grunt. She heard the cabinet open, the clink of ceramic, and the espresso machine gurgling. Then, a lengthy quiet descended—the sort signalling he downed his drink undiluted by the counter, forgetting the utility of chairs.

When he appeared at her door, knocked once and pushed it open without waiting, he had the mug in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through messages he’d missed. His expression shifted—something tightened in his jaw—and his eyes flicked to her. Dar tensed but kept working.

“Pam stop by?”

Dar’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Saturday night. Brought curry.”

She pulled up the tracking protocols she’d designed for this operation, the intelligence work that made her invaluable to the team despite Rhys’s five-day radio silence from her.

“And Stroud?”

The question landed with the subtlety of a brick through a window. Dar looked up, meeting his gaze. His face was neutral, but she knew that expression. It was the one he wore when he was deciding whether to kick a door or wait for backup.

“Callum stopped by Friday. Logan already gave me the third degree.” She kept her voice level. “He was in the area. Thought I should know you’d all gone dark.”

“In the area.” He echoed the phrase, his tone cautious, as though he were savouring each syllable to detect any hidden venom. “And how long did he stay?

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a conversation with a colleague.” Her tone sharpened. “Or that my weekend activities required a debrief.”

Rhys sipped from the mug. “Stroud’s not a colleague. He’s Veyr’s asset. And he doesn’t just ‘stop by’ anywhere without a reason.”

“He’s part of the task force.  Same as me. Maybe his reason was making sure I wasn’t spiralling because my own team disappeared without a word.” She closed the laptop. “Which, for the record, I wasn’t. But it was nice that someone bothered to check.”

“Dar…” Rhys’s jaw flexed. “I would’ve—”

“Would’ve what? Sent a carrier pigeon? You were black. I get it. But don’t stand there and act like Callum showing up was some kind of breach when you’re the one who left me in the dark.”

The ensuing hush was palpable, an oppressive weight settling over the room’s mood.

Rhys exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more controlled. “I should’ve told you we were going dark. That’s on me.”

“It is.”

“But Stroud—” He paused, choosing his words. “He’s got his own agenda. Always does. And if he’s circling you, Dar, I need to know why.”

“Maybe he’s circling because I’m good at my job and Veyr trusts me.” She stood, arms crossed. “Or maybe he’s just not an arsehole who treats me like I’m breakable.”

Rhys flinched, just barely, but she saw it.

“I don’t treat you like that.”

“Really? Then how about you treat me like a liability you’re babysitting between missions.” She stood up and pushed past him, shrinking just enough to avoid touching him. “I’m going upstairs. When you’re ready to stop interrogating me about who I have tea with, let me know.”

She was halfway through the kitchen when Rhys spoke again, quieter this time.

“Did he say anything about Berlin?”

Dar stopped but didn’t turn around. “He let me know he was going. That Veyr needed recon. Nothing classified.”

“And you believed him?”

Now she turned, her expression hard. “Yeah, Rhys. I believed him. Because unlike some people, he doesn’t make me guess.” She paused. “Who do you think runs the analysis, the intel that Veyr uses to make the calls? Is there something about my role on this team you don’t understand or approve of?”

She carried through to the hallway, then up the stairs, leaving Rhys standing in the kitchen with his coffee and whatever territorial bullshit was eating him alive.

Logan emerged from the basement and found Rhys still standing there, staring at the empty doorway like it might offer answers.

“Went well, I take it?” Logan’s voice was dry.

Rhys shot him a look. “You could’ve warned me.”

Logan leaned against the counter and arched an eyebrow at Rhys. “Warn you about what? That Dar’s got a spine and a temper? For fucks sake, you’ve known her for five years.” He shrugged one shoulder as a grin formed on his mouth. “And I could’ve. But watching you step on that landmine was more entertaining.” Logan grabbed a beer from the fridge. “She’s not wrong, you know. You did ghost her.”

“I was on a mission.”

“You called the live-fire, Calder.  And Dar knew about Berlin before you did. Stroud was paying attention.” Logan popped the cap. “Maybe that’s the part that’s got your knickers in a twist.”

Without a word, Rhys drained the rest of the coffee, picked up his kit and climbed the stairs, heading for his room.

Logan shook his head and took a long pull from the bottle. “Fucking disaster,” he spoke to no one in particular.

An hour later, with the coast clear, Dar shut the office door, her movements betraying none of the turmoil churning inside her. She sank into her chair as the monitors glowed in the dim room, patient and waiting. She pulled up the tracking protocols she’d been running on Volkov’s network since Berlin.

Work had always been her refuge when emotions threatened to overwhelm her. And right now, tracking Volkov offered an escape from thoughts of her conversation with Rhys.

Work. I should work. Work makes sense.

The data streams populated across three screens—financial movements, communication patterns, travel logistics. The Berlin operation had exposed Volkov’s bioweapon network, and she had gone quiet for thirty-six hours after Callum’s confrontation, which meant she was regrouping or panicking. Dar’s money was on regrouping. Women like Volkov didn’t panic. They adapted.

There. A cluster of encrypted communications to three separate entities over the past twelve hours. The encryption proved strong, perhaps exceeding military standards, yet its pattern remained discernible. Volkov was reaching out. The tone of the traffic, the frequency, the desperation in the redundancy.

She was looking for protection.

Dar leaned back, fingers steepled against her lips. Volkov had built an empire on modified pathogens, on weaponizing disease. Thousands died because of her work. And now someone had rattled her cage hard enough that she was scrambling for cover.

Good.

Dar pulled up the secure messaging interface and typed:

V seeking protection. Three separate outreaches in 12hrs, military-grade encryption. Source unknown. Monitoring.

She hit send and watched the message disappear into whatever digital void Veyr operated from. Then she pulled up the tracking algorithms again, setting new parameters to identify the recipients.

The knock on her door was soft. Not Rhys. She felt instant relief. “Yes?”

Sean pushed the door open with his hip, both hands occupied with an elaborate coffee cup topped with foam art that looked like it might be a swan. Or possibly a deformed duck.

“Brought reinforcements. For my new hero who verbally dismembered a special forces operator in her own kitchen.” He set the cup on her desk with a flourish. “One flat white with an extra shot, because I’m pretty sure you’re going to need it.”

Dar glanced up, eyes narrowing at the foam art. “That swan looks like it had a stroke.”

Laughing, she reached for the cup anyway, fingers wrapping around the warmth. “And I didn’t dismember him. I just pointed out that his operational security is shit when it comes to keeping his own people in the loop.”

She took a sip; the bitter edge cutting through the tension headache building behind her eyes. “I’m fine. Just tired of being the civilian afterthought.” She looked back at Sean, exhaustion bleeding through the sharp edges. “You heard the whole thing, didn’t you?”

“Eavesdropping’s a habit when the walls are thin and the drama’s loud,” he admitted, his tone light but not quite a joke. “And you’re wrong, by the way. You didn’t just point out his shit comms—you made him feel it. But you being the ‘civilian afterthought’ is bollocks. You’re the one reading the tea leaves while the rest of us are just holding the kettle.”

He paused, his expression softening. “You did good, Dar. Even if he’s too much of a prick to admit it.” He dropped into the kitchen chair Dar had dragged in the night before, all lanky limbs and studied casualness. “For what it’s worth, Logan’s downstairs calling Rhys a ‘fucking disaster,’ so I think you won the round.”

“It wasn’t a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.” Sean tilted his head, a slow grin spreading. “Though I gotta say, watching Rhys get his arse handed to him was pretty satisfying. He was wound tighter than a golf ball at the Midlands. Wouldn’t even let me puke.”

Dar arched an eyebrow; her fingers still wrapped around the coffee cup. “You tried to puke at the Midlands?”

“Didn’t try. Did.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Midlands had a hell of a bounce. Logan said I’d get used to it. I said I’d rather not.”

Dar shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips as she remembered Sean’s excitement when Logan first offered to train him. She examined the coffee cup, studying the intricate swirls of white against caramel brown. Her fingertip hovered just above the foam, tracing the outline without touching it. The beak—a bill? — had surprising definition; tiny bubbles formed delicate feather patterns along a—wing? “You never cease to surprise me, Sean; when did you learn to do this?”

Sean watched the foam duck-swan disintegrate under her scrutiny, his smirk widening.

“YouTube. Quarantine hobby that stuck.” He watched her take a sip, then his expression shifted—something more serious sliding into place beneath the usual self-deprecation.

“Can I say something? And you can tell me to fuck off if you want, because God knows you’ve done it a thousand times already and I’m the last person who should be giving relationship advice. I mean, my longest commitment is to a seven-iron, so—”

Dar’s fingers tightened on the cup as she watched him over the rim. “Already did, Sean. A thousand and one, if we’re counting.”  She set the cup down, her expression flattening. “What do you want to say?”

He stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, then his jaw, then his neck again. “Right. Okay.” He took a breath that seemed to get stuck halfway down. “That thing Rhys does. You know when he—” Sean’s fingers tapped against his thigh. ” The way he says ‘Dar…’—with that tone. And then you just… stop talking?”

She went still.

“My dad—” Sean cleared his throat, looked at the ceiling. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to bring him up.” He picked at a loose thread on his pants. “But he did that. Still does, when I’m stupid enough to pick up.” His voice had none of its usual bounce. “It’s not—I mean, it’s not about protecting you. I don’t think—” He swallowed. “It’s about control. You know?”

When Dar didn’t respond, Sean’s words tumbled out faster.

“Like, he puts you in this box where you don’t get to—where he decides what—” His hands made a vague, caging gesture. “Shit, I’m not explaining this…” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. “Just… you deserve better. That’s all.”

Dar set the coffee down. “Sean—”

“I know it’s not the same,” he cut in, eyes darting to hers then away. “Rhys isn’t—he’s not like my dad, not cruel. Christ, he’s nothing like—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “But that move? When he shuts you down?” Sean’s leg bounced. “It’s exactly the same. I just—for twenty-five years I thought—” He met her eyes, then looked at the wall. “It’s not normal for people to decide what you do.  Fucked me up.”

Twigs’ windowsill purring and the computer’s hum were the only sounds.

“Rhys isn’t a bad bloke. I’m not saying—” Sean started, then stopped. “Look, all I meant was—maybe it’s not him who gets to decide when you’re done, you know, grieving. Or who you run with. In the morning.” He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s my, uh, two cents. Which is probably worth about that much, so—” He gave a self-conscious shrug. “Feel free to ignore the kid who still kills cacti.” He turned to leave.

“Sean.”

Sean paused, then spun around. Dar was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read—something between exhaustion and relief.

“Yeah?” He kept his voice low, wary of breaking whatever fragile thing had just formed between them.

“Thank you.”

His fingers clenched the doorframe, and for a fleeting moment, a smartarse retort failed to surface, choked by something too genuine for humour.

He nodded once, sharp and final. Then he left before he could say something stupid that broke it.

The door closed softly behind him.

Dar sat in the blue glow of her monitors, Sean’s words settling into the spaces Rhys’s “Dar…” had carved out over five years. She picked up the coffee and took a long drink, letting the heat ground her.

Her screens flickered with new data. Volkov’s network, still reaching, still searching for shelter.

Dar pulled her keyboard closer and got back to work.