Chapter 2
JACOB
T he Charleston air wrapped me like a wet blanket as I stepped off the plane, heavy with salt and secrets, the kind of humidity that seeps into your bones and stays there.
I wasn’t pleased. Not by a long shot. My MARSOC team had been primed, trained and ready to dive back into the shit—somewhere hot, somewhere real, where the stakes were clear and the enemy didn’t hide behind paperwork or cryptic orders.
Then the call had come, pulling me out like a fish on a line. Dominion Hall. Charleston. No explanation, just a directive, and when I had pushed back, my CO—Lt. Col. Meachum, a man I’d bleed for—told me he’d already tried to fight it.
“Do your job, Dane,” he’d said, voice tight. “Get to Charleston. That’s the order.”
Bullshit , I’d thought. Still did. But Meachum wasn’t one to bend, so here I was, feet on the tarmac, sweat already beading under my collar.
I had until 0600 the next day to report to this place—some fortress for men with more money than sense, from what I could gather—but I wasn’t about to show up early like some eager boot.
Rules were rules, and I knew how to play them.
First, I’d do what I always did when the world tried to cage me: swim.
The beach at Folly wasn’t much to look at. Gray sand, churned-up surf, a horizon that looked like it was daring me to cross it.
I ditched my boots and shirt in a small duffel, stashed it under a dune where the grass was thick enough to hide it, and stripped down to my black Speedo jammer, goggles, and fins. The ritual was simple: one hour out, straight into the Atlantic, then one hour back. Man versus nature.
It started as a stupid dare back when I’d gone out for MARSOC (Marine Forces Special Operations Command)—some asshole in selection betting I couldn’t make it without drowning.
Now, it was something else. A calling. A way to shut out the noise in my head, the weight that never left, the shadow that clung tighter than my own skin.
There was commotion down the beach—a crowd, voices carrying over the wind, maybe a dead shark or some washed-up mess. I didn’t care. The ocean was calling, and so was she. I didn’t let my mind linger on that last part. I clicked the timer on my watch and waded in.
The water was warm, almost too warm, like stepping into a lover’s mouth.
It fought me at first, waves slapping my chest, current tugging at my legs like it had a score to settle.
My arms sliced through, fins kicking hard, muscles and lungs burning as I powered out.
Stroke, kick, breathe. Stroke, kick, breathe.
The rhythm came slow, then snapped into place, my body finding its groove, autopilot kicking in.
The ocean didn’t care who I was—Marine, captain, broken man—it just demanded I keep up.
My mind wandered, the way it only did out here.
The noise of the world faded, the static of the past dulled to a hum.
I was five again, diving into a Montana river, snowmelt so cold it stole my breath, my brothers shouting from the bank, too chicken to follow.
Even then, the water had called me, its pull stronger than fear.
Years later, when I first saw the ocean—Virginia Beach, training for BUD/S before I switched tracks to the Marines—it hit me like a revelation. Endless, untamed, bigger than any mission.
I used to tow a lifeguard rescue tube on these swims, back when I thought I could save something. Someone. Not anymore. Everything had changed.
On I swam, one with the water, my body a machine, my mind quiet for once. I called out—not with words, but with something deeper, a pulse in my chest that echoed into the blue.
Nothing answered.
Just the churn of my own thoughts, the same as always.
Before I knew it, my watch buzzed against my wrist. One hour.
I stopped, treading water, the surface choppy but manageable.
The shore was a smear in the distance, Charleston’s skyline a low bruise against the horizon.
I was alone out here, two miles from land, nothing but sea and sky and the weight in my chest.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let myself sink. Down and down, ears popping, pressure building like a fist around my ribs. The water darkened, green light streaking through the blue, and I opened my eyes, searching. Hoping. For something. Anything. Her.
But it was just the deep, same as every time—silent, endless, offering nothing but its own indifference.
My heart shuddered, a familiar ache, and I kicked back toward the surface, breaking through with a gasp, gulping air as the sun burned my face.
Then it came—the thwump-thwump of rotor blades, low and mean, cutting through the quiet. A Coast Guard helicopter roared overhead, its wash blasting the water into a frothy mess. Before I could curse, a diver splashed in twenty feet away, slicing through the surface like a dart.
Great. Just fucking great.
I treaded water, watching as the chopper hovered, lowering a rescue basket. The diver swam toward me, head up, assessing. I waved, forcing a grin.
“You okay?” he shouted over the rotor noise, his voice sharp with protocol.
“Just out for a swim,” I called back, keeping it light.
He stopped a few feet away, treading water, his mask pushed up. “You crazy?”
“Not since my last psych check.” I wasn’t so sure, though. The thought flickered—maybe I was a little nuts, chasing ghosts in the deep like this. But I shoved it down.
The diver shook his head. “You can’t be out here, man. It’s not safe.”
I didn’t argue. No point. “Fine. Lower a couple harnesses instead of that basket. Save you some trouble.”
He snorted, glancing up at the chopper. “Nah, that’s a waste of fuel. Post commander hates that shit.”
“Let me guess,” I said, smirking. “The kind of CO who counts your toilet paper squares and checks the bowl after.”
The diver laughed, a real one, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah, something like that.”
I shrugged and swam toward the basket, climbing in without a fight. My Marines would’ve roasted me for this—Captain Dane, hauled out of the ocean like a stranded tourist.
The basket jerked as it lifted, water streaming off me, the chopper’s roar swallowing everything else.
Up top, the crew chief—a grizzled guy with a wad of chew tucked in his lip—hauled me aboard.
I pulled on a headset, the static crackling in my ears as the pilots glanced back, their expressions easing when they saw I wasn’t some idiot in distress.
“Where we headed?” I asked, voice steady despite the salt burning my throat.
“Back to base,” the chief said, spitting into a bottle. “Gotta file a report.”
“Is that necessary?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, dripping onto the deck. “I’m good for a round at your favorite bar. Drop me back at the beach, forget you saw me.”
The copilot—a woman, her voice crisp through the headset—chimed in. “One round? You’re paying for the whole night, including another crew.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
The chief squinted at me, his eyes narrowing like he’d caught a scent. “Jarhead, right?”
I shrugged, wiping salt from my goggles. “That obvious?”
“Yeah.” He tucked another pinch of tobacco in his lip, smirking. “My brother was a Marine. You Devil Dogs live by a different creed. Who else swims two miles out to sea with nothing but his cock and balls?”
I laughed, short and rough. “That’s about right.”
They kept their word, banking the chopper toward Folly Beach instead of the base. The crowd down below had swelled since I’d left, a knot of people clustered near the water’s edge, phones out, gawking at something. Probably that shark, or whatever it was.
The chopper set down a ways off, kicking up sand, and I climbed out, fins in hand, giving the crew a nod. The crew chief handed me an actual business card, and mimed a ‘call me’ sign.
“Thanks again,” I said. “Night’s on me.”
The chief grinned, gave me a short salute, already spitting into his bottle again as the diver climbed aboard. The chopper lifted, blades slicing the air, and I watched it disappear down the coastline.
That’s when I saw her.
She was in the middle of the crowd, commanding it without trying.
Not dressed for the beach—rubber boots, shorts, a soaked shirt clinging to her in ways that made my pulse kick.
Water had molded the fabric to her curves, her nipples sharp against the cotton, and I had to force my eyes up to her face.
She moved with purpose, directing people, her hands steady on a towel draped over something in the surf.
Not a shark. A dolphin, maybe, its gray shape half-hidden by foam.
She wasn’t yelling, wasn’t frantic, but every gesture said she was in charge.
The crowd parted for her like water for a blade.
I shook my head, salt stinging my eyes, and turned away. Fetched my duffel from the dune, the sand warm under my feet.
Another swim, another miss. How many times would I dive into the deep, chasing something I’d never find? How many times would I come back empty?
I didn’t know. Didn’t particularly care. About anything.
The rental car was a black Jeep, parked where I’d left it, keys tucked in the duffel’s side pocket. I tossed the fins and goggles in the back, pulled on a dry shirt, and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine growled to life, and I pointed it toward Dominion Hall. Time for recon.
The drive was short, but Charleston’s streets had a way of slowing you down—cobblestones rattling the Jeep, tourists clogging the intersections, the air thick with jasmine and decay.
Dominion Hall wasn’t hard to find. It sat on the harbor like it owned the damn water, all stone and glass and iron, sprawling across grounds that screamed money.
The kind of place that didn’t need a sign because if you didn’t know what it was, you didn’t belong.
I parked a couple blocks away, blending the Jeep into a row of SUVs, and went on foot. Old habit. Never roll up to a meet without knowing the lay of the land.
The gate was black iron, heavy, with cameras tucked into the eaves—discreet but not invisible. The driveway stretched long enough to give defenders time to react. No guards in sight, but I felt them. Eyes on me, same as any hot zone. My skin prickled, but my pulse stayed even.
The mansion itself was a beast—stone walls cut sharp, windows reflecting the harbor like they were daring you to look too long. It wasn’t just a house; it was a statement. Power. Control. The kind of place where deals were made in whispers and bodies disappeared without a trace.
I’d seen compounds like this before—Dubai, Bogotá, places where men with my skill set were either hired or hunted. I wasn’t sure which I was here.
I circled what perimeter I could, keeping to the shadows of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, playing the tourist. The air smelled of salt and money, the kind that didn’t flash but pressed on you like a hand on your chest. I noted exits—side gate, service entrance, a dock with a sleek boat tied off.
The place was a fortress, no question, but every fortress had a crack. I just hadn’t found it yet.
My watch read 1430. Plenty of time before 0600 the next day.
I could’ve gone in, knocked on the door, played the good soldier.
But I didn’t trust orders without context, and this whole setup reeked of strings I couldn’t see.
Meachum had said “well-connected,” and that wasn’t a phrase he threw around lightly.
Whoever was behind this had pull—Pentagon-level, maybe higher.
That didn’t make me eager; it made me cautious.
I thought about the water again, the way it had held me an hour ago, indifferent but honest. Out there, it was just me and the deep.
No games, no agendas. Just the fight to keep moving.
I’d have gone back in right then, swam another hour, if it didn’t mean another chopper ride and a bar tab I’d already promised.
Instead, I leaned against a tree, out of sight from the cameras, and pulled a protein bar from my duffel. Unwrapped it, took a bite. Tasted like cardboard and regret, but it’d keep me sharp.
My eyes stayed on the mansion, mapping it, memorizing the rhythm of the place. A groundskeeper moved through the courtyard, clipping hedges with a precision that felt military. A car rolled out from a side garage—black, tinted, heavy. I clocked it, filed it away.
The woman from the beach flickered in my mind, unbidden. Her soaked shirt, the way she’d moved like she owned the sand under her feet. Something about her had stuck, like a hook in my gut. I didn’t like it. Didn’t have room for it. But it was there, same as the salt still drying on my skin.
I finished the bar, crumpled the wrapper, and tucked it back in the duffel.
The sun was lower now, painting the harbor gold, the mansion’s shadow stretching long across the lawn.
I’d seen enough. Time to move, find a diner, choke down some coffee, and figure out what the hell Dominion Hall wanted with a man like me.
I headed back to the Jeep, my steps silent on the pavement, the weight in my chest heavier than it should’ve been.
Another swim, another miss. Another day carrying the shadow I couldn’t shake.
I didn’t know what I’d find at Dominion Hall the next day.
Didn’t know if I’d see her again—out there, in the deep, or somewhere closer.
I didn’t know which time might be the one I didn’t come back.
And part of me—the part that still dove into the dark, chasing ghosts—didn’t care.
I made a decision right then and there. I was getting drunk tonight. That’d drive away the ghosts and give me a few minutes to breathe.
Breathe , I thought. What a simple word with so many connotations.