Chapter 4
MICAH
The airfield was small enough to miss if you weren't looking for it—tucked between farmland and forest, a single runway cutting through the green like a scar that had healed clean.
I parked the rental two hundred meters out and approached on foot, scanning for threats out of habit. The coordinates had been exact. The timing, too. Whoever was running this operation didn't leave room for improvisation.
The plane sat at the far end of the tarmac, sleek and private, the kind that didn't need to advertise wealth because it existed in a tax bracket most people couldn't pronounce.
Black fuselage. Clean lines. No markings except a registration number I'd already memorized and would forget the second I didn't need it anymore.
A crewman stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped in front of him like he was waiting for royalty instead of a man who'd killed someone just hours ago.
"Mr. Dane," he said as I approached.
I stopped. "How do you know my name?"
"We were told to expect you." His smile was polite, professional, the kind that gave nothing away. "Welcome aboard."
I climbed the stairs, every instinct screaming that this was a trap, a setup, a play I couldn't see the edges of yet. But I'd committed. And if it went sideways, at least I'd go down swinging.
Inside, the plane was exactly what I'd expected—leather seats, polished wood, ambient lighting that made everything feel like a high-end hotel instead of a metal tube designed to defy gravity. Quiet. Expensive. Empty.
I was the only passenger.
The crewman gestured toward a seat near the front. "Make yourself comfortable, sir. We'll be airborne shortly."
I sat, buckled in, and waited.
The engines hummed to life. The plane taxied. Within minutes, we were climbing, the ground falling away beneath us, Riga disappearing into memory.
No one asked for my passport. No one ran my ID. No one cared.
That told me more than anything else.
We weren't in the air five minutes when another crewman appeared, this one holding a tablet like it was the menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
"Dinner, sir," he said. "We have three options tonight. A tomahawk-cut ribeye, pan-seared trout, or hand-stuffed ravioli."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
"Ribeye," I said, because why the hell not.
"Excellent choice." He nodded and disappeared back toward the galley.
I leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at nothing but clouds and twilight, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was being offered steak on a plane. Not freeze-dried military rations. Not protein bars. Not the tasteless shit I'd choked down in safehouses from Kabul to Kinshasa.
Steak.
It arrived faster than seemed possible.
The crewman set the plate in front of me with the kind of reverence you'd expect from someone serving communion. And when I looked down, I understood why.
The ribeye was perfect. Seared crust. Pink center. Charred just enough at the edges to taste like fire and fat and everything good about meat cooked right. A side of home fries—crispy, golden, salted perfectly—sat next to it like they'd been reading my mind.
I cut into it. Medium rare. Exactly how I liked it.
The first bite hit my tongue and I forgot, just for a second, where I was. Who I was. What I'd done.
It was that good.
Better than good.
It was the kind of meal that made you believe someone gave a damn whether you lived or died, even if logic told you that was impossible.
The crewman reappeared as I was halfway through. "Can I get you another drink, sir? Something other than water?"
I looked up. "What do you have?"
His mouth curved, just slightly. "Most things. Top shelf, bottom shelf, everything in between."
I thought about it. Thought about asking for something simple—a beer, maybe, or whiskey neat. But something made me test the boundaries.
"Patriotic bourbon," I said.
His eyebrow went up. Then he smiled, genuine this time. "I have just the thing."
He disappeared again. I finished the steak, savoring every bite, the home fries disappearing just as fast. By the time he came back, my plate was clean.
He set a bottle on the table in front of me.
Purple label. Bold lettering that read FOUR brANCHES. Underneath, a second label: Honor Reserve.
"Your host is an investor in the company," the crewman said, pouring a healthy draft into a crystal glass. "Friends of the four founders. A limited run. I think you’ll like it."
He handed me the glass and disappeared before I could ask anything else.
I stared at the bourbon for a moment, then lifted it to my lips.
The first sip went down smooth. Then the bite hit—just enough to remind me I was drinking something with teeth. Warmth spread through my chest, settling low in my gut, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I let myself relax.
Not much. Just enough.
I pushed aside thoughts of where I was going. Where I'd been. What waited for me in Charleston. For a few minutes, I just sat there, drinking good bourbon and staring out at the darkening sky, letting the plane carry me toward whatever came next.
The crewman returned once more, cleared the plate, topped off the bourbon, and left me alone.
I settled deeper into the seat, the alcohol and exhaustion finally catching up. Sleep sounded like a good idea. Sleep sounded like the only idea.
But before I could close my eyes, the thoughts came.
They always did.
My father's face flickered through my mind, uninvited and unwelcome.
Byron Dane.
Gone with the wind, as the saying went. Though no one in the family said it out loud anymore. Not where I could hear, anyway.
He'd been my hero once. The kind of man who seemed larger than life, like he could fix anything, protect anyone, make the world make sense just by existing in it.
He'd taught me to shoot. To track. To move through the woods without leaving a trace.
He'd taught me that mercy was a choice, not a weakness.
And then he'd disappeared.
No warning. No explanation. Just ... gone.
One day he was there, steady as the mountains themselves. The next, he was a ghost. A name we didn't say. A man who'd slipped away from everything—his family, his responsibilities, his sons—and never came back.
I didn't know why.
Still didn't.
Either way, it didn't matter.
He was gone. And whatever chance I'd had to fix it, to understand it, to reconcile the man I'd worshipped with the one who'd been taken from us—that chance was gone, too.
Too late now.
I took another sip of bourbon, let the burn chase away the memory.
I'd become something after he left. Something darker. Something necessary.
The family had needed it. The world had needed it. And I'd been good at it.
Still was.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, the hum of the engines lulling me toward sleep.
For once, I didn't fight it.
I woke to the crewman's voice, quiet and respectful.
"We'll be landing in thirty minutes, sir."
I sat up, the bourbon glass empty on the table beside me. My body felt rested in a way it hadn't in weeks. Months, maybe.
"There's a shower in the back," the crewman added. "Fresh clothes in your size, if you'd like."
I did.
The shower was hot and efficient. The clothes fit perfectly—dark jeans, black shirt, boots that didn't scream tactical but wouldn't slow me down if I needed to move. Whoever had planned this knew what they were doing.
By the time we touched down, I felt human again. Almost.
The door opened, and I stepped out into humid Charleston air, the kind that wrapped around you like a wet blanket and made you remember why the South moved slow.
A man waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of stillness that only came from training and experience. He wore jeans and a jacket that didn't quite hide the weapon at his hip.
He looked like me. Or at least, like someone who'd walked the same roads.
"Micah," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Silas."
I shook it. Firm grip. Calluses in the right places.
"We met before?" I asked.
His mouth twitched. "Doubtful."
"Possible."
"Happens all the time."
It did. Contractors, operators, ghosts passing through the same war zones, the same black sites, the same missions no one would ever talk about.
But the déjà vu didn't happen all the time.
I followed him to an SUV parked on the tarmac. Armored. Heavy. The kind of vehicle that could take a hit from an RPG and keep rolling. In some parts of the world, it would've been called a tank.
I climbed into the passenger seat. Silas got behind the wheel.
We drove in silence.
If I'd been expecting answers, I wasn't getting them. Silas was a mirror—silent, serious, observing everything and saying nothing.
Fine by me.
The road wound through lowcountry—marsh and oak trees, estates hidden behind gates and hedges, the occasional glimpse of water glinting in the distance. Charleston was money and secrets, history and power wrapped up in humidity and Southern charm.
Eventually, we turned down a long drive.
The gates opened without Silas touching anything. We rolled through, and the place unfolded in front of me like something out of a different century.
Massive. Stone and wood and glass, sprawling across the property like it had grown there instead of being built. Manicured grounds. Security that didn't advertise itself but was everywhere, if you knew how to look.
And off to one side, construction. Cranes. Workers. Fresh dirt and new foundations.
"What's the construction?" I asked.
Silas didn't look at me. "We bought out the neighbors. Expanding."
I filed that away.
We parked out front. Silas killed the engine and got out without a word. I followed.
The front door opened before we reached it. A butler—an actual fucking butler—stepped aside and let us in.
The entryway was as big as most houses. High ceilings. Marble floors. A staircase that curved up like something out of a movie. And in the corner, a glass tank with a black snake coiled inside, sleek and still.
I stared at it for a second. Could've been a viper. Probably wasn't—vipers made poor pets, and whoever ran this place didn't strike me as the type to keep things that couldn't be controlled.
Still. It was a statement.
We kept walking. Through hallways. Past rooms I couldn't see into. The place was bigger on the inside than it had any right to be.
"You hungry? Thirsty?" Silas asked.
"No."
We kept walking.
Finally, we stopped in front of a set of double doors. Silas pushed them open, and I stepped inside.
The room was ... something else.
Spartan. Viking hall meets Tom Clancy. A long table dominated the center, heavy wood, scarred like it had seen use.
Screens lined the walls—satellite feeds, maps, data streams I recognized from a thousand ops briefings.
High-tech gear sat next to old-school paper files.
Everything you'd need to run an operation. Or a war.
"Welcome to the War Room," Silas said.
There was a folder at one end of the table. He pointed to it.
I walked over. Opened it.
And froze.
Benson stared back at me from a photograph. Not the corpse I'd avenged. Not the man who'd died in Baku.
His official Marine boot camp photo. Young. Proud. Alive.
I looked up at Silas. "What is this?"
"Keep flipping."
I did.
Page after page. Benson's career. Marine infantryman. Recon. Recruited for Delta after he picked up sergeant. Mission logs. Dates. Locations. All of it classified. All of it accurate.
And one mission in red.
The last one.
Baku.
Where Draconi had gotten him killed.
"What the fuck is this?" I asked again, my voice flat.
"Keep reading."
I turned the page.
Another photo. Benson with his wife. Three kids. Smiling. Happy.
The folder froze in my hand.
This was a setup. Had to be. Some kind of psychological play, using a dead man's family to get leverage on me. Blackmail. Manipulation.
I turned the page again, ready to walk out, ready to burn this whole place down if I had to.
But what I saw stopped me cold.
A letter. Bank accounts. Numbers I didn't understand at first.
Then I did.
"The family's been taken care of," Silas said quietly. "They don't know it came from us. Just that someone's looking out for them. The kids can go to any college they want. Benson's wife will never make another mortgage payment. It's done."
I looked up, and I realized I was shaking.
Emotions I'd buried for decades were clawing their way to the surface, threatening to crack me open.
"That's what we do here," Silas continued. "At Dominion Hall. We take care of our own."
The words settled into the room like a vow.
I didn't understand. Couldn't process it.
"Why?" I managed.
Silas tilted his head. "What do we want from you?"
"Yeah."
"We'd like to get to know you," he said. "And you, us. See if it could be a good fit."
"For what?"
"We need men with your talents. Who can do exactly what you did in Latvia."
I stared at him. Waited.
He didn't flinch. "We need good men who can kill."
The words landed like the bourbon had on the plane. Smooth. With bite.
There was a silence between us. Not uncomfortable. Just ... understanding.
"Why do you think I'm a good man?" I asked.
For the first time, Silas smiled.
"Because it takes one to know one."
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I let myself feel something other than emptiness.
Peace. Just a moment of it.
But it was enough.