Chapter 10
WYATT
The driver answered on the first ring.
"Mr. Dane. Where can I pick you up?"
I gave him Mama P's address and stood on the porch waiting, watching Charleston wake up properly. Mid-morning sun warming the cobblestones, tourists already out with their cameras and iced coffees clutched like lifelines, the city settling into its rhythm.
The black SUV pulled up five minutes later, silent and efficient.
I climbed in without a word, and we drove.
No vocal tour. Just the hum of the engine and the city sliding past my window like scenes from a movie I was watching instead of living in.
Old buildings and narrow streets, iron gates twisted into elaborate patterns that must've taken months to forge, palmetto trees swaying in the breeze, everything painted in that soft golden light that made Charleston look like a postcard someone had actually lived in and loved.
I was getting used to it. The slow pace.
The way time seemed to bend here, stretching and contracting depending on where you stood and what you were looking at.
But I still preferred Texas. Wide open spaces where you could see the horizon coming from miles away.
Room to breathe without history pressing in from all sides, without the weight of centuries telling you how to exist.
We left downtown, the architecture shifting from historic to modern, then back again like the city couldn't make up its mind. Charleston was like that—pockets of old and new existing side by side, refusing to choose, insisting both could be true at once.
The SUV turned onto a private road, trees forming a canopy overhead, dappled sunlight hitting the windshield in shifting patterns that made me squint. Then the gates appeared. Tall. Iron. Imposing without being aggressive. The kind that said private without needing signs or threats.
They opened automatically as we approached, smooth and silent.
Dominion Hall rose ahead of us like something out of another era—or maybe the future, it was hard to tell.
Massive didn't cover it. Multiple stories of stone and glass, columns flanking the entrance like sentries, windows reflecting the morning sky back at itself in fractured light.
The architecture was traditional Southern—grand without being gaudy, powerful without needing to shout—but there was something modern in the lines, something deliberate about the way it all fit together.
And on either side, construction. Heavy equipment sitting idle in the morning heat.
Steel frames rising from concrete foundations.
New wings being added to something already huge, expanding outward like the place was growing in real time, like it knew exactly where it was going and couldn't get there fast enough.
I wondered how new it all was. How long Dominion Hall had existed, and what exactly it was becoming.
The SUV pulled up to the entrance, and before I could reach for the door handle, someone was already walking toward me with purpose.
Micah.
He looked different in daylight—less mysterious, more real.
Mid-thirties, fit, moving with that easy confidence that came from knowing exactly who you were and not needing to prove it to anyone.
Dark hair cut short and practical, sharp eyes that missed nothing, a smile that suggested he found most things amusing but took the right things seriously.
I stepped out into the heat, and he extended his hand.
"Wyatt Dane. Good to finally meet you, properly."
His grip was firm. Professional. The kind that said I respect you without words. "Micah."
"Thanks for coming," he said, gesturing toward the entrance with one hand. "You need anything? Coffee? Water? Something stronger?"
"I'm loaded up for the day," I said. "Why don't we get down to business?"
He grinned, something approving flickering in his expression. "Yeah. You sound like us."
I didn't ask what he meant, but I felt it—the weight of something unsaid, something I was supposed to pick up on but hadn't yet. Like there was a language being spoken underneath the words and I was only catching half of it.
He led me inside.
The foyer was exactly what you'd expect from a place called Dominion Hall.
High ceilings that made you feel small. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
A sweeping staircase that curved up toward the second floor like something designed specifically to make an entrance, to command attention without asking for it.
But it wasn't ostentatious. Just ... substantial.
Like whoever built this knew exactly how much was enough and stopped there, confident in the restraint.
We moved through hallways lined with art—some modern, some classical, all expensive in that quiet way that didn't need price tags—past rooms I couldn't see into, doors closed or half-open, voices drifting from somewhere deeper in the house.
Low conversations. The sound of keyboards clicking. Someone laughing.
The place was alive. Occupied. Working.
Then, I saw it.
A massive tank built into the wall. Glass.
Illuminated from within by soft blue light.
And inside, coiled in the center like it owned the space and knew it, was a black viper.
Scales gleaming like polished obsidian, eyes flat and unreadable, completely still except for the occasional flick of its tongue testing the air for threats.
I stopped.
Micah noticed, glancing back. "That's Obsidian. Team mascot."
"You keep a viper in the house."
"We keep a lot of things," he said.
I didn't ask what it symbolized. Didn't need to. A viper in a glass cage. Beautiful. Dangerous. Controlled but never tamed. Deadly if you forgot what it was, if you got careless, if you thought beauty meant safety.
Message received.
We kept walking.
Micah stopped at a set of double doors, dark wood carved with patterns I didn't have time to study, and pushed them open. He gestured me inside.
"The War Room."
I stepped in and immediately cataloged everything—old habits, ingrained training, automatic threat assessment even when there was no visible threat.
The room was huge. Easily fifty feet across, high ceilings with exposed beams that looked original, windows along one wall overlooking manicured grounds that stretched toward trees in the distance.
But what dominated the space was the table.
Massive. Dark wood. Polished to a shine that reflected the overhead lights back like dark water.
And around it, twenty-two chairs. Leather.
High-backed. Identical down to the stitching.
I counted. Twice.
The room could've fit more. Easily. Forty, fifty chairs if someone wanted. But someone had chosen twenty-two specifically. Deliberately. Like it meant something. At least, that’s what my mind told me.
There were signs of recent construction here, too—fresh paint on the walls, new fixtures in the ceiling, the faint smell of sawdust and varnish still lingering despite the ventilation working overtime to clear it.
This whole place felt new. Like it was still becoming whatever it was meant to be.
Micah closed the doors behind us with a soft click and gestured to one of the chairs. "Have a seat."
I sat, keeping my posture relaxed but alert, hands resting on the armrests, ready. He took the chair across from me, leaning back like this was a conversation between friends instead of a recruitment pitch I hadn't agreed to yet.
"So," he said, settling in. "We've heard about your talents."
"Have you?"
"Engineering. Custom builds. Problem-solving that doesn't show up in textbooks or manuals." He smiled. "The kind of work that saves lives when everything else fails. We're hoping you might consider coming to work with us."
Little red flags popped up in my mind immediately, bright and insistent.
I'd been expecting this. Some version of it. But expectation didn't equal comfort.
There were organizations that said they were on the up and up, only to turn out to be mercenary armies run by very bad men who did their best to look like knights in shining armor to the public.
Groups that operated in shadows and called it patriotism.
Men with money and ambition who thought rules didn't apply when you had enough of both.
I'd seen it before. Worked alongside people who'd been burned by it. Good operators pulled into bad situations by promises that sounded too good because they were.
I needed to make sure this wasn't that.
"Where are the funds coming from?" I asked bluntly. No point dancing around it. "Washington?"
Micah shook his head. "No. It's our money."
"What does that mean?"
"Family money," he said simply. "My family's money. Private funding. No government strings. No political agendas we didn't choose ourselves."
I wasn't sure if that was better or worse.
History was littered with the debris of conflicts stirred by family fortunes gone awry.
Rich men playing soldier with real lives.
Ideologues with checkbooks funding wars that served their interests instead of anyone else's.
People who thought money bought righteousness, that wealth equaled wisdom, that good intentions justified any means.
"Why me?" I asked. "I don't need another job. I'm not looking."
Micah thought about that for a moment, his expression thoughtful, like he was choosing his words carefully. "We don't hire often. And when we do, it's slowly. Carefully. We're not looking to build an army. We're looking for specific people who fit specific needs."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.
"We're looking for character. Integrity.
People who understand what it means to serve something bigger than themselves.
Not just skillsets—anyone can learn a skill with enough time and training.
We're looking for people who already know why it matters.
Who've proven it when no one was watching. "
He paused, holding my gaze. "For now, you fit the bill. Might work out. Might not. But we think it's worth exploring. And we're hoping you'll think so, too."
I considered that. It was fair. Honest, even. More honest than most recruitment pitches I'd heard, which usually involved flag-waving and appeals to duty and carefully avoiding anything that sounded like doubt.
"You think this can be accomplished during my three weeks of leave?"
Micah grinned, something amused dancing in his eyes. "That's really up to you."
I didn't know what that meant. Again, there was something he wasn't saying. Something I was supposed to understand, but didn't yet. Like the answer was obvious if I just looked at it from the right angle, if I just asked the right question.
He reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and slid it across the polished table with one finger.
It was a card. Black. Heavy. Metal, not plastic. No numbers on the front, just an embossed logo I didn't recognize—geometric, modern, expensive.
I picked it up, feeling the weight of it in my palm. Substantial. Cold against my skin. "What is this?"
"Yours to use," Micah said.
"I don't need money."
Secretly, I didn't want to be in anyone's debt. This could be an easy trap. Take the money, owe the favor, get pulled into something you couldn't walk away from when you realized what it actually cost. I'd seen that game played before.
"You can use it or not," Micah said easily, like it genuinely didn't matter to him either way. "Your choice. But it's there, if you need it. No strings. No expectations. No one tracking what you spend it on or asking questions later."
I set the card back on the table, not touching it again. Leaving it between us like neutral ground. "What now?"
"If you give the okay," Micah said, "we'll start the request process on your records.
Medical. Psychological. Service history.
Get you in to see a string of doctors who love to poke and prod and ask questions you've already answered a hundred times.
Nothing you haven't been through before, I'm sure. Standard vetting. Just ... thorough."
"And if I say no at the end of this?"
Micah shrugged, but something shifted in his expression. Something deeper. Something almost reverent, like he was talking about something sacred. "Then you'd be missing out on something very big. Very special. Something most people never get the chance to be part of."
He leaned forward again, his voice dropping slightly, taking on weight. "I sincerely hope you'll stay, Wyatt. There's a lot of good to do in the world. Real good. The kind that matters. The kind that changes things. And Dominion Hall is on the side of the good guys. I can promise you that."
I thought that was yet to be determined, but I didn't say it. Didn't let it show on my face. Just nodded once, acknowledging the words without agreeing to them.
Instead, I asked, "What happens to my current military enlistment, if I say yes?"
Micah grinned again, wider this time. "That's the easy part. We'll take care of it."
That set me back.
Pulling an operator off an op to play with the CIA was one thing. Bureaucracy. Paperwork. Channels that existed, even if most people didn't know about them. Inter-agency cooperation that happened in shadows but followed rules, however bent they were.
But negating mandatory service with the stroke of a pen? Making years of commitment disappear? That was something else entirely. That was power. The kind that didn't ask permission. The kind that operated above systems most people thought were fixed and immutable.
The kind that made me wonder exactly who Micah's family was, and how deep their influence actually went.
I needed to find out more about Dominion Hall. What it really was. Who was behind it. What "family money" actually meant when it could erase military contracts like they'd never existed.
And I thought I had just the right person to ask.