Chapter 4
4
MARCUS
I ’d been chasing the ghost of Department 77 for weeks. Nothing. No leads, no chatter—just a wisp on the wind. I sat in my truck that morning, the radio off, staring at the pier’s wreckage through a cracked windshield. It had been a while since it blew, and I had jack shit.
Part of me thought it was a hoax. Some bastard pinning a name on chaos to fuck with us. Maybe Will’s ramblings from captivity had been planted—bullshit fed to throw us off. I didn’t believe until I saw. Never had.
But my gut said different. It gnawed at me, steady and low. It was the same instinct my brothers lived by. Ryker’s gut had caught an IED in Kabul. Atlas’s had sniffed out a mole stateside. Mine had kept me breathing through hell I didn’t name. Now it hummed—Department 77 was real. I just couldn’t prove it.
That pissed me off most. Weeks of nada, and it was driving me nuts.
I drove back to Dominion Hall, my mind spinning. The place loomed—brick and stone, three stories of cold bulk. Towers jutted at the corners. The windows were slits, like a bunker’s. It was more fortress than home. Always had been.
Sullivan’s Island? Now, that was home. White sand, salt breeze, and Dad’s laugh on the porch before it all went dark. I’d give anything to rewind, to ditch this concrete cage for one more day there.
But Dominion Hall was ours now. Me and my six brothers, holding the line. It was built to take war, wealth, and anything else that hit. That day, it felt like a taunt.
I parked out front, my boots hitting the ground hard. Inside, the air was cool and cleansed. Marble floors gleamed. The walls could stop a tank round.
A chandelier hung in the foyer. It was sharp, glinting, and ready to cut. Wide, steep, stairs spiraled up. It was good vantage, if you knew it. I did. I kept my sidearm on me, even here.
Fortresses got breached. I’d seen it.
I dropped into the ops room where monitors flickered and maps were scattered on the steel table. Ryker was out. Atlas was, too. It was just me and the hum.
I pulled up Claire Dixon’s file for the third time that day. Her face hit the screen—gray eyes sharp, blonde hair a layered mess, lips I shouldn’t have clocked. I’d set up surveillance on her an hour after our chat at the pier.
I had cameras on her hotel, The Palmetto Rose, which was soon to be in our hands. Acquiring properties on a whim was one of the few reasons I liked the money.
I’d setup a tail—quiet, ours—tracking her. Audio taps, if I could manage it. She was a problem. I didn’t give problems free rein .
I checked the feeds. She’d gone to her room after the pier.
I couldn’t shake her. That New York bite, the way she’d faced me down—daring me. Best of her generation, they said. I believed it.
She was too damn good. Too damn close. I had to stop her. To scare her off, shut her down, or whatever worked.
Family first. Company second. The rest could burn.
I switched screens and hit other outlets. Post and Courier, Channel 5—all parroting the gas leak line. It was the official story from local brass, and it was being swallowed whole.
No digging. No questions. Idiots. Claire was the only one poking holes—her podcast calling bullshit. The rest were blind or bought.
I scrolled X. The same gas leak crap was trending. Conspiracy nuts got drowned out fast. Nothing else was solid. Another week and the story would be fully played out.
Then 0ur Washington friends called. They weren’t so subtle. The who’s who we sometimes worked for—suits with secrets—wanted assurances. “Pier contained?” “Dominion clean?” “No blowback?”
I gave them what I had—the situation was locked, no leaks, we’re on it. I hung up before they dug deeper.
They didn’t trust us. They never had. They needed us, though. It didn’t stop the questions from stacking up.
It was a big fucking mess, and we were in knee-deep with no way out.
So why couldn’t I stop imagining her naked?
The vision hit me hard—Claire, stripped bare. Her leather jacket gone, her jeans off. Curves in a dark alley—raw, hot, all bite. Tits pressed to my face .
I pictured her on that steel table—legs spread, wrists pinned, breath hitching. Rough. Mine. I wanted to take her, to break her, and to hear her moan.
That voice from the pier cut me open—all steel and heat stirring shit I didn’t need. Not now.
I clenched my fists, jaw locked. I was the sentinel—eyes, ears, blade when it counted. No time for this shit.
Department 77 was a ghost. Claire was a live wire. Washington was on my ass.
Focus, damn it.
But there she was in my mind’s eye—naked, taunting. Recorder swapped for a gasp. Fuck. I shoved it down, buried it.
It didn’t matter how bad I wanted her, or how I’d make it good, rough, her breaking under me. She was a threat.
I checked the surveillance again. Her hotel feed was quiet, lights low. She’d be plotting. Same as me.
As I worked, my gut hummed louder—Department 77, her, the mess—all tied. I couldn’t see it yet. I simply had to trust it.
Radio crackled—Ryker. “Anything new?”
“Nada,” I said. “Claire’s holed up. Press buys the gas leak. Washington’s twitchy.”
“Keep her locked down,” he said. “No more bleeding.”
“On it.” Click.
I stood, pacing the ops room. My steps echoed off marble. The fortress pressed in—walls too thick, air too still.
Sullivan’s Island hit me—the sand, the waves, the life before this. I’d trade it all to ditch the weight and the blood.
But I couldn’t. Dominion Hall was ours—to hold and to fight for. Claire didn’t get that. She’d burn it for her truth.
I’d bury her first.
I turned back to the monitors. Her feed was still steady. My fists clenched as I watched.
I couldn’t find Department 77. I couldn’t prove shit. And I couldn’t stop the mess from piling up.
So why was she still in my head? Naked. Writhing. Mine.
I growled, then slammed a fist on the table. Steel rang. It didn’t help.
She was under my skin. I hated it.
I had to end this—her digging, my wanting. One way or another.