Chapter 20
20
ATLAS
D inner blurred.
I sat at the head of the long ironwood table as the fire flickered low behind me, a Lowcountry feast spread out like a Southern offering—she-crab soup, shrimp over Carolina gold rice, skillet cornbread with honey butter—but I couldn’t taste any of it.
Anna’s voice filtered in and out beside me as she did her best to entertain her parents, to charm them with bits of Charleston trivia and the occasional polite story from rehearsals at the Philharmonic. She was tired—pale around the eyes—but pushing through. Because that’s who she was. Grace under pressure. Music in a burning building.
I was polite. Said all the right things. But my mind wasn’t in the room.
I kept waiting—for a knock on the dining room doors, for Ryker to come in with intel, or Marcus to blow up my phone with a hurried text saying he’d hacked something dirty.
Nothing came.
No updates. No movement.
Just the rhythmic clink of silverware and the occasional hum of conversation that felt entirely out of sync with the tension stringing itself tighter and tighter beneath my skin.
We said our goodnights around ten. Anna kissed her mother on the cheek and hugged her father like she needed his strength for just a second more. They left for the East Wing with slow steps, and I held her hand as we walked the opposite way—back toward my suite, the corridor hushed, our footsteps barely echoing across the stone.
She was quiet once we slipped inside. Heavy-lidded. Her body curled toward mine in the bed like it always wanted to be there.
I lay with her until her breathing changed, steady and deep, her palm pressed to my chest like a silent claim.
And when I was sure she was asleep, I slipped from the room without a sound.
The ops room was dead silent.
The wall of screens cast a faint blue glow across the slate walls, and I scanned each one like something might flicker—some sudden blip of surveillance or digital thread we hadn’t pulled hard enough.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Marcus’s last note on Eugene’s background was half a page long, with more questions than answers. The deeper we dug, the slicker it got. No family. No real assets. No ties to anyone that made sense—not until last year, when a Charleston philanthropist suddenly decided to sponsor him. A woman twice his age. Old money. Too polished to be casual. Too involved to be innocent.
I pulled up a security cam image from her country club charity gala last month. Eugene was on her arm.
And now I knew exactly where he was spending his nights.
I didn’t need to wait for permission.
I stood.
And I got to work.
* * *
The house was a bungalow on James Island—stylish, just secluded enough, and rented through a blind trust by a woman named Iris Atwell. Patron of the Philharmonic. Widow of the late Walter Atwell, who once owned half of the docks on the Cooper River. The kind of woman who wore diamonds to brunch and believed “art” meant funding men like Eugene.
The street was deserted when I arrived. I parked three blocks away and came in on foot, every movement slow, deliberate, silent. I circled once, then again—scouting lines of sight, shadows, any hint of surveillance.
There was none.
I moved to the rear of the property.
A small back patio. Overgrown rosemary and rusted furniture. One light on in the back.
I knew it was the bedroom. I knew he’d be in it. I just didn’t expect to find him on top of her.
I stepped beneath the overhang, careful to stay in shadow. Just enough to see.
Eugene. Naked. Moving like a man who thought he was impressive.
Iris Atwell was beneath him, her long legs stretched out like she belonged on a chaise lounge instead of a creaking mattress. Her mouth moved, slow and glassy-eyed. Champagne-drunk or sedated—didn’t matter.
They finished quickly. I watched without expression.
When Iris left twenty minutes later, I tracked the curve of her BMW down the street until it vanished. Then I waited.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
All the lights went dark.
I moved.
+++
The lock was easy.
Took ten seconds and a steady hand.
The kitchen smelled like old wine and something burnt. I moved through it like smoke, each footfall silent, years of training turning a man my size into a phantom. I bypassed the study, the music room, the guest bath.
Straight for the master.
The door was cracked.
Inside, Eugene snored—lightly, nasal. The kind of sleep that only comes from self-importance and denial.
I stood at the threshold for a long moment, watching him.
It would be easy. I could crush his windpipe in four seconds. Carry the body out in under ten. Dump it in the marsh where things rot faster than the tide can remember.
But I wasn’t here for blood.
I was here for truth.
I stepped to the bed.
Bent low.
And wrapped one massive hand around his throat.
He woke instantly, his legs kicking, hands flailing against the sheets like a startled bird.
I squeezed just enough.
“Don’t scream,” I said quietly. “Or I’ll crush your larynx before the air leaves your mouth.”
His eyes bulged. He nodded frantically.
“Good,” I murmured.
I eased the pressure, just a fraction, and leaned in. “I want to know who put you up to it.”
His lips flapped uselessly. “I—I don’t know what you mean?—”
Wrong answer.
I tightened my grip, pressing down until he choked.
“Eugene,” I said softly, “I’ve killed men with less reason. But I don’t want to kill you. Not yet. I want a name.”
His hands clawed at my wrist.
He wasn’t used to real fear. Not the kind that arrived in silence and didn’t flinch.
“You think this is about Anna?” I continued, voice calm. “You think this is about your lies?”
He wheezed.
“This is about the woman you targeted. The family you underestimated. And the storm you walked into thinking it was a breeze.”
“I—I—” he sputtered.
I loosened the grip.
He gasped. Coughed. Shuddered.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he babbled. “They told me—Jesus, they said it was just leverage—just enough to discredit her before Spoleto?—”
“Who?” I demanded.
“They did! The committee—people close to the board—Iris said it would help?—”
“Iris Atwell?” I asked.
He nodded like a bobblehead on a death spiral. “She said it was protection—she has donors—friends in the mayor’s circle—she said the Danes wouldn’t intervene, that you didn’t like the limelight?—”
I smiled coldly. “She was wrong.”
He whimpered.
“You know what I hate most, Eugene?” I asked. “Cowards. Men who hide behind women, behind systems, behind the illusion of safety.”
He flinched.
I leaned in closer. “Tell me who’s pulling the strings. Not just Iris. The real name. The one who matters.”
His mouth trembled.
“They—they said if I gave her up—if I went public—” he whispered.
I froze.
Gave her up?
My blood ran cold.
“Who, Eugene?” I asked slowly.
He opened his mouth.
And then it happened.
A crack of glass.
Two quick pops.
The sound of bone and brain rupturing.
Eugene’s eyes went wide—and then blank. Blood sprayed across the sheets as his skull collapsed inward in two neat holes. He dropped like a stringless puppet, and I was already rolling.
Down. Flat. Behind the bed and side table.
I drew my weapon in silence, breath low. My heart pounded once. Twice.
A shadow moved past the window.
I bolted.
Back through the hall.
Out the same way I came.
I hit the alley and scanned the rooftops, the street, the trees.
Nothing.
They were gone.
Watching, maybe.
Gone, definitely.
I stood under the eaves for a long time, my pulse slowing. My mind working.
Eugene was dead.
Silenced.
And I hadn’t pulled the trigger.
That meant one thing: we weren’t alone in this anymore.
There was another player in the game.
And they’d just made their first move.