Chapter 8
JACOB
T he yacht’s deck thrummed under my feet as Marcus led me aboard, his grin wide enough to light up the harbor.
The thing was a beast—billionaire huge, a sleek, black-hulled monster that looked like it could outrun a storm.
At least a hundred feet stem to stern, it cut through the water with a quiet arrogance, all polished teak and chrome, windows tinted so dark they swallowed the morning sun.
The name Eclipse was etched in silver along the hull, understated but sharp, like a blade that didn’t need to flash to cut. This wasn’t a boat; it was a statement, the kind of wealth that didn’t shout because it didn’t have to.
I clocked the details: a helipad on the aft deck, a tender garage half-hidden below, and a radar mast that looked like it could ping satellites in low orbit.
My hangover pulsed, but my training kept my eyes moving, mapping the layout—exits, blind spots, the way the crew moved with a precision that felt more military than yacht club.
Marcus bounded up the stairs to the main deck, his wetsuit still dripping from whatever dive he’d been on before I showed up.
He didn’t carry himself like a billionaire playboy, all preening ego and polished loafers.
No, he moved like an operator—loose but deliberate, aware of every inch of his surroundings, like a man who’d been handed a shiny new toy and knew exactly how to break it in.
“Welcome to the Eclipse ,” he said, spreading his arms like he was showing off a beat-up pickup instead of a floating fortress. “She’s a bit much, I know. I keep telling Ryker we should’ve gone for something smaller, but you try arguing with a guy who thinks ‘subtle’ is a four-letter word.”
I snorted, the sound escaping before I could stop it. His enthusiasm was infectious, a spark that cut through the fog in my head.
“This is subtle?” I asked, nodding at the leather-wrapped railing, the kind of detail that cost more than a Jeep.
Marcus laughed, a bright, self-deprecating sound. “Fair point. I’m just the idiot who gets to help drive it. When the skipper lets me. Come on, let me show you around before I embarrass myself further.”
He led me through the main salon, a sprawl of white leather sofas and a bar that gleamed with bottles I’d never afford.
The air smelled of citrus polish and salt, the harbor glinting through floor-to-ceiling windows.
A flatscreen the size of a small car hung on one wall, flanked by speakers that could probably wake the dead.
Marcus waved a hand at it, grinning. “For watching surf comps or, you know, mission briefings. Same thing, right?” He winked, and I caught myself almost smiling.
Up top, the flybridge was open to the sky, a teak deck with a hot tub big enough for a squad and a dining table that could seat twelve. A crew member in a crisp white polo adjusted a canopy, his movements quick but silent, like he’d been trained to disappear.
Marcus leaned against the railing, pointing out a radar console tucked under a cover. “State-of-the-art,” he said. “Can track a seagull’s heartbeat from a mile out. Not that I’ve tried. Yet.” He shot me a look, like he was daring me to call him out.
“Sounds like you’re planning to,” I said, keeping my tone dry but not cold. My head still throbbed, but Marcus’s energy was pulling me in, loosening the guard I’d built.
He chuckled, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. “Guilty. I’m a kid with a new toy, what can I say? But don’t worry, I’m housebroken. Mostly.”
We moved belowdecks, through a corridor lined with walnut paneling and recessed lights that glowed like they were powered by money itself. Guest cabins branched off, each one bigger than my apartment back in Virginia, with king-sized beds and bathrooms that looked like they belonged in a spa.
Marcus poked his head into one, smirking. “This is where I’d hide if Atlas starts lecturing me about responsibility again. Don’t tell him, though. He’s got a sixth sense for bullshit.”
I nodded, cataloging the details: a fire extinguisher mounted discreetly by a stairwell, a camera lens glinting above a doorway, the faint hum of a generator somewhere deep in the hull.
My training screamed to keep mapping, to stay sharp, but Marcus’s easy humor was wearing me down, making it harder to hold the stoic mask I’d walked in with.
By the time we hit open water, the Charleston skyline shrinking behind us, I felt comfortable enough to let my guard slip—just a fraction.
The Eclipse sliced through the waves, the engine’s low growl blending with the slap of water against the hull. Marcus leaned on the railing, the wind tugging at his wetsuit, and I found myself speaking before I could second-guess it.
“What’s all this for?” I asked, gesturing at the yacht, the harbor, the whole damn setup. “Why am I here?”
Marcus turned, his grin fading to something sharper, like he’d been waiting for the question. “What’d Ryker and Atlas tell you?”
I parroted their words, my memory razor-sharp despite the hangover. “Navy’s in hot water with the environmental folks. They’re supposed to appease Dr. Camille Allard. And I’m here for a delicate task because my reputation as a joint special forces leader precedes me.”
Marcus nodded, his eyes flicking to the horizon, not offering a damn thing.
For a moment, we just stood there, the world sliding by—gulls wheeling overhead, the water a deep blue-green that reminded me of the deep I’d sunk into yesterday.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy, like he was weighing how much to give me.
Then he broke it, his voice light but probing. “Is it true you know six languages?”
I wasn’t as surprised this time. These guys seemed to know more about me than I did about myself.
“More like four,” I said, keeping it honest. “My Russian and Japanese are lousy. I can order a beer and maybe insult someone’s mother, but that’s about it.”
Marcus laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that echoed off the water. “Man, Spanish trips me up every time. I can charm my way through Portuguese, but Spanish? It’s like my brain forgets where the verbs go.”
I snorted, the coffee and his energy chipping away at the weight in my chest. “You don’t strike me as someone who forgets much.”
“Guilty again,” he said, winking. Then his face shifted, the grin softening, and he dropped the real bomb. “We met your brother Caleb, by the way. Great guy. Stand-up dude, even if he grew up in bumfuck Montana.”
My jaw tightened, the words hitting like a sucker punch. Caleb was here? Why the hell hadn’t he said anything? I leaned forward, my voice low but steady. “Where is he?”
Marcus waved a hand back toward shore, casual as hell. “Somewhere, doing something.”
I pressed, my patience thinning. “Last I heard, he was in Asia.”
Marcus nodded, noncommittal, like he was dodging a jab. “Yeah, he gets around.”
I wanted to grab him by the wetsuit and shake answers out of him, but I kept my hands on the railing, my face impassive.
“Seven brothers, huh?” Marcus said, shifting gears before I could push harder.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat.
“That’s rare,” he said, his tone thoughtful, like he was turning over a stone to see what was underneath.
I didn’t know where he was going with it, and I didn’t like it. My brothers were my anchor, my blood, the only thing that kept me grounded through years of ops and losses I didn’t talk about. Whatever Marcus was hinting at, it felt like a door I wasn’t ready to open.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked, my voice low, not quite a demand but close.
Marcus looked at me—really looked, his eyes locking on mine, that comical glimmer still there, like he was laughing at the world and inviting me to join him.
“I might be full of shit,” he said, “but I’ll never bullshit you. Understand?”
I took it for what it was: a promise that answers would come when they came, and not a second sooner. I nodded, but the questions piled higher in my head, a stack of ammo crates ready to topple.
I blurted out the one that burned most. “Just tell me I’m not getting pulled into some goatrope run by a trust fund baby raising a private army.”
Marcus’s eyes widened, mock shock, but that twinkle never left. He pointed at himself, grinning. “Me? A spoiled trust fund baby raising a private army worthy of Napoleon’s praise? Do I look like that guy?”
I studied him—the wetsuit, the easy stance, the way he moved like he’d seen action and laughed through it.
“No,” I admitted, the corner of my mouth twitching. “But you don’t look broke, either.”
He laughed, loud and bright, the sound carrying over the water.
“Not just me, man. All my brothers. We’re not exactly hurting.
” He looked out at the horizon, his grin fading to something softer, more serious.
“Family’s everything, you know? I hope you feel the same way.
At Dominion Hall, brothers take care of brothers. ”
I didn’t miss the weight in his words, the way he said brothers like it meant more than comrades, more than the bond I’d known in the Corps.
It felt like he was hinting at something bigger, something I couldn’t see yet.
My gut told me he wasn’t talking about soldiers sharing a foxhole.
There was a punchline coming, and I wasn’t sure I’d like it when it landed.
I kept my face neutral, sipping the coffee that had gone cold in my hand.
“Family’s family,” I said, leaving it vague.
My brothers—spread across the globe, fighting wars that didn’t make the news—were the only thing that kept me sane. Caleb being here, and not telling me, cut deeper than I wanted to admit. What else weren’t they saying?
Marcus didn’t push, just leaned back against the railing, the wind tugging at his hair. The Eclipse powered through the water, the coastline a distant smudge now, gulls trailing us like they were waiting for a mistake.
I cataloged more details: a crew member checking a line with the precision of a sniper zeroing a scope; a faint scar on Marcus’s forearm, barely visible under the wetsuit, shaped like a blade had kissed him once; the way the yacht’s deck vibrated just enough to tell me the engines were overpowered for a boat this size.
My head still throbbed, but the open water and Marcus’s easy chatter kept the ghosts at bay, at least for now.
I thought about Camille again, unbidden—her laugh in the bar, the way she’d taken the whiskey like it was water, the fire in her eyes when she’d demanded more. She was out there, fighting her war against the Navy, against the world.
I didn’t know where I fit in that, or in this place, but the pull was there, like a current I couldn’t shake.
Marcus’s words about family echoed, mixing with the ache in my chest, the one that had followed me from Montana to every shithole I’d ever fought in.
The yacht banked slightly, the horizon tilting, and Marcus clapped me on the shoulder, his grin back in full force.
“Don’t overthink it, man,” he said. “You’re here. That’s step one. Step two’s just keeping up.”
I nodded, my face still impassive, but something in me loosened, just a fraction. Marcus was a smartass, no question, but he wasn’t careless. He was an operator, like me, and he was offering me a rope. I didn’t trust it yet, but I’d hold on until I knew what I was climbing toward.
The yacht powered on, the water stretching endless before us.
I didn’t know what Dominion Hall was, or what they wanted, or why Caleb hadn’t told me he’d been here.
I didn’t know if Camille was a one-night mistake or something more dangerous.
But for now, I’d watch, I’d listen, and I’d wait for the punchline. Because when it came, I’d be ready.