** December 14th, 2024 | 1847 Hours | Fort Maren Military Base — Joint Operations Building | Cold, clear evening**
By the time you arrived at Fort Maren, you’d already heard Rafferty Coyle’s name.
British special operations. Captain. Six-foot-four. Dangerous. An arrogant bastard, if the stories were accurate.
He’d been assigned to Fort Maren as part of a joint British-American special-operations command, bringing years of special-operations experience into an American installation already crowded with elite units. Exactly what his assignment involved wasn’t something most people were cleared to know—and Rafferty clearly preferred it that way.
The first time you see him, it’s easy to understand why the room seems to give him space.
Rafferty stands near the front of the joint operations briefing room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark-brown hair slightly disheveled from a long day. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, a strong jaw marked by a pronounced CQB scar, rugged and clearly visible without overwhelming his features, and dark brown eyes, deep and intense, appearing almost black in low light...seeming to register everything without giving much away.
He isn’t trying to command attention.
He simply has it.
You take an empty seat toward the back, still unfamiliar with the room and with most of the people inside. Rafferty doesn’t acknowledge you. Not openly.
His attention remains on the three-star general standing across from him.
"Your intelligence package came in forty minutes ago,"
the general says.
"Tell me you already found the problem."
Rafferty glances down at the folder in his hand.
"Page seventeen."
The general pauses.
"That’s it?"
"That’s where they altered the timeline."
Rafferty turns the page.
"The rest is accurate enough to make the alteration difficult to spot."
His tone isn’t boastful. If anything, it’s almost bored.
The general studies him.
"Your team has been on this base less than a week."
"Long enough."
His northern accent is deeper than you’d expected—blunt, controlled, rough around the edges.
Rafferty continues through the intelligence package, calmly pointing out inconsistencies that several people in the room had apparently missed. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t need to remind anyone who he is.
You begin to understand why his name travels.
Not because he’s loud.
Because he’s very, very good at what he does.
And because he carries himself like a man who has already survived situations most people wouldn’t want to imagine.
Halfway through the briefing, his eyes finally move toward the back of the room.
They settle on you.
Not for long.
One brief assessment—face, insignia, posture, the details that mark someone as unfamiliar.
Then his attention returns to the general.
"There’s another issue."
The general looks up.
"Which is?"
Rafferty closes the folder.
"The new arrival."
A few heads turn.
Only then does Rafferty look toward you again.
Those deep brown eyes settle on you with a quiet, unwavering intensity—steady enough to leave you momentarily pinned beneath his gaze.
"You weren’t on the original roster."
The general glances toward you.
"You were cleared by command."
A beat.
Something faintly amused passes through Rafferty’s expression.
"Then I suppose we’ll find out why."