Chapter 8
8
MARCUS
I sat in my Bugatti, parked off King Street, the engine idling low. How I loved that hum. Morning sun cut through the windshield, glinting off my phone as it buzzed—Norton’s name on the screen. I’d been waiting for this. I hit answer and kept it short.
“Yeah?”
“Crumb’s fed,” Eric Norton said, voice rough like always. He was an old pal from high school. “Didn’t take her long to get here.”
I leaned back, my jaw tight. “She bite you?”
“She tried. You picked another viper, Marcus.”
I smirked, quick and sharp. “You might be right.”
Norton chuckled—low, dry. “Still got that lacrosse hustle, Dane. Always knew how to set a play.”
“High school was a long damn time ago,” I said. “You still slow as shit off the line?”
“Faster than you, asshole.” He paused, tone shifting. “This 77 thing real?”
I didn’t answer right away. My gut hummed, that same old hum. “Maybe. You in if it is? ”
“Sheriff’s office suits me for now,” he said. “But Dominion’s got a pull. Might work for you one day—better pay, better toys.”
“Door’s open,” I said. “Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” Click.
I pocketed the phone and stared out at Charleston—tourists shuffling, locals sipping coffee like nothing was burning. Norton and I went back. We’d been lacrosse champs at Sullivan’s Island High. He’d been a brick wall on defense. I’d been the fast bastard scoring goals. I’d trusted him then, and I trusted him now. If Claire took the bait, we’d know soon.
I drove back to Dominion Hall, my tires chewing pavement and my mind chewing more. The gates clanged shut behind me, iron teeth locking tight.
I hit the ops room where monitors were humming. Ryker was there, pacing like a caged beast. He saw me, then stopped cold—six-four of Dane rage squared up.
“Got a call,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “Senator Holloway. Says intel’s sniffing—CIA, NSA, the whole alphabet soup.”
I didn’t flinch. “Sniffing what?”
“Us,” he snapped. “Dominion. Pier explosion’s got traction. There are whispers it’s terrorism.”
My gut clenched. “That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” His eyes burned, black and unyielding. “Feds are coming to town, Marcus. Terrorism label brings heat—eyes on us, our contracts, our dirt.”
I crossed my arms and held his stare. “We’re clean.”
“Clean don’t mean shit in a witch hunt,” he said. “Washington’s looking for scapegoats. The senator’s twitchy. Our contacts up there want assurances we’re not a liability. ”
“We’ve handled heat before,” I said. “They need us. Always have.”
“Not heat like this.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “The last thing we need is feds in our backyard. We’re the ones who watch. Not them.”
I nodded, short and tight. “I hear you.”
He didn’t back off. “Then what’s the play? Claire’s still out there, digging and talking. You said you’d handle it.”
“I am,” I said, my voice steel. “I dropped her a crumb—Department 77.”
Ryker’s face went hard, his jaw locked and his eyes blazing. “You fucking what?”
I didn’t move. “She’s got the lead now. Thinks she’s hunting it solo.”
He exploded—two strides, chest in my face. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? You fed her Department 77? You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
I held my ground and didn’t blink. “She’s good, Ryker. Knows people, digs where we can’t. She’ll find them.”
“Or bury us!” His fist slammed the table. Steel rang. “You’re playing with fire—her mic, her ears—she’ll link it back!”
“She won’t,” I said, cold, steady. “I’m steering her, blind. She’ll never know it’s us.”
He grabbed my shirt and yanked me close, his breath hot. “You’re betting our necks on a reporter? After I said to make her gone?”
I shoved him back, hard and fast. “Back off, Ryker. She’s a tool—the sharpest one we’ve got, for now. Give me time.”
He didn’t swing. He wanted to, his fist clenched white. “And if she talks? If she ties us to this mess—terrorism, feds, all of it?”
“She won’t,” I said again. “I’ve got her locked—feeds, tails, every move. If she steps wrong, I end it.”
He glared, black ice cutting deep. “You’re too close, Marcus. I saw her in the lobby. Saw you look.”
Heat hit low. Claire flashed again, naked, pinned. I buried it. “Doesn’t change shit. She’s a means. Family first.”
“Short leash,” he growled, stepping back. “All of us—her, you, this plan. One fuckup, and we’re done.”
I nodded. “Understood.”
He didn’t buy it, though. I saw it in his jaw, his stance. “What’s your next move? She’s got Department 77—now what?”
I smiled—slow, sharp, with a predator’s edge. “I’m inviting her to a masquerade ball.”
Ryker froze, staring like I’d lost it. “A what?”
“A masquerade,” I said, my grin widening. “Charleston’s elite at a big event. Dominion’s hosting. We open the doors wide open. She’ll bite at a chance to poke, prod, and get close.”
He didn’t blink. “You’re dangling her in our house? With feds circling?”
“She’ll dig there—quiet, controlled,” I said. “I’ll watch her, steer her, then use her to smoke out 77. Maybe offer to help. She’s too good to waste.”
“Too good?” His voice dropped. “Or too hot?”
I smirked. I couldn’t help it. “Both.”
He lunged, his fist cocked, his eyes wild. I sidestepped fast, then caught his arm and twisted it back. “Easy, brother.”
He yanked free, breathing hard. “You’re playing a game. If it ends bad, it’s on you. ”
“I know,” I said, my voice steel. “Trust me. I’ve got this.”
He didn’t trust me. I saw it in his glare and his fists. “Short leash,” he said again. “One slip, Marcus—one—and I bury her myself.”
He turned and stormed out. The door slammed, echo ringing. I stood there, my jaw tight, my pulse steady.
Ryker was right—the heat was rising. Senator Holloway, intel sniffing, and terrorism whispers were all bad for Dominion Defense Corporation. Not to mention, feds being in town flipped the script. We watched, not them. We were used to it. We always had eyes out, not in. Now Claire had Department 77, and I’d dropped it right in her lap.
My plan was risky as hell—feds, Ryker, her mic. One wrong move, and we’d bleed.
I pictured her again—the pier, the lobby, that blouse tight, jeans hugging. The vision of her naked flashed in my mind—raw, mine, legs spread on that steel table. Heat hit him. I wanted her pinned, breaking, and moaning. The thought thrilled me—her hunting, me watching, danger close.
Then that kick hit again. I wouldn’t let her burn. My gut snarled. Keep her safe, asshole. Why? Fuck if I knew.
I left the ops room, then drove back to The Battery Club. I needed air and space. The valet took the Bugatti—same kid, same stare. Inside—dark wood, leather, bourbon hum.
I sat at the bar on the same corner stool, the exit clear. “Whiskey,” I told the bartender. He poured, quick and silent.
I pulled my earbud and hit The Unseen —the Queens case again. “Truth doesn’t hide,” she said, voice cutting me open. She was too good. Too damn hot.
The plan was locked—a masquerade ball on Dominion’s turf. I’d invite her. Would slip a note under her door, cryptic and tempting. She’d come. She couldn’t resist. Masks, shadows, elite chatter—she’d dig, I’d steer. Department 77 would show. My gut said it. I’d watch her every move.
Ryker would hate it. She’d be too close, too wild. But I didn’t care—family first, always. Claire was the key. She was sharp, dangerous, and she was mine to wield.
The whiskey burned, grounding me. I saw her naked again. I wanted her bad. Wanted her safe, too. It was an impossible mess.
I’d use her to end this. Dominion standing. Feds blind. Department 77 dead.
Fuck, I was deep.