Chapter 37
T he man in the gray suit stood on a Charleston pier in the dull morning light, the air sharp with brine and diesel. His burner phone buzzed, untraceable. He answered without a word, his eyes on the harbor’s glittering water, calm as a lie.
“Status?” the voice on the other end said, low, clipped.
The man’s lips thinned. “The second brother is in. The rest are coming.”
He watched a shrimp boat nose past the jetties. The Russian submersible had been luck, a tide-tossed gift they did not place. The Vanguard hadn’t conjured it. They only knew how to step into noise and use it.
“Good. Byron’s debt still needs to be paid. We’ll tear it down—brick by brick.”
The man nodded to the dawn, his voice cool. “Let them celebrate. The real storm’s coming.”
“Consider taking a more active role. See what they do.”
“My thoughts exactly,” the man in the gray suit said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Timing didn’t matter. Every member of The Vanguard was patient. They had to be. You didn’t change the course of empires overnight.
The line went dead. Fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and silent, and the man in the gray suit turned, his shadow swallowed as he disappeared into it.