Chapter 27
MICAH
We prepped for the flight like we were gearing up for an op.
Which, in a way, we were.
Except this time, the objective wasn't clean. The intel wasn't solid. And the asset we were protecting—Joy—shouldn't have been anywhere near the line of fire.
But here we were.
The armory at Dominion Hall was quiet, efficient. Silas had already laid out what we needed—body armor, lightweight but rated for small arms fire. Comms units. Sidearms. Nothing heavy. Nothing that would drag us down if we ended up in the water.
Because that was the real risk.
Deveaux Bank was a sandbar. Exposed. Surrounded by tidal marsh and open ocean. If something went wrong—if Victoria decided tonight was the night she finished what she'd started with my mother—we'd have nowhere to go but into the water.
And drowning in body armor wasn't how I planned to die.
My brothers were already gone.
Some in the air, circling at altitude in helicopters with doors open and shooters ready. Others on boats, drifting through the marsh channels close enough to respond but far enough to look like weekend fishermen enjoying the night.
Dad had coordinated it all with Silas and the Charleston Danes—men I still couldn't quite wrap my head around. Half-brothers I'd never known existed until a day ago, now risking their lives to back a play they had no stake in except blood.
Family.
The word still felt strange.
But it was real.
I checked my gear one last time, the familiar ritual grounding me. Magazine seated. Chamber loaded. Holster positioned at my hip where I could reach it without thinking.
Joy stood a few feet away, watching me with those dark eyes that saw too much.
She knew.
I hadn't told her about the backup—the helicopters, the boats, the small army circling Deveaux Bank like sharks waiting for blood in the water.
But she knew anyway.
Because Joy was smart. Observant. And she'd seen enough in the last few days to understand how this worked.
This could all be a trap.
Not even a complicated one.
A couple of sniper shots from across the water. Explosives buried in the sand. Someone posing as Victoria but really just an assassin with a mandate and a paycheck.
We could be landing on a strip of sand that would be our last.
And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it except go anyway.
Dad stepped into the armory, already geared up, his expression grim. "Ready?"
I nodded.
Joy nodded, too.
Dad's eyes lingered on her for a moment, something like respect flickering across his face. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do," Joy said quietly.
He didn't argue. Just inclined his head once, acknowledging the truth of it.
I still wanted to argue. Wanted to lock her in a room and deal with Victoria myself. But I'd already tried that conversation twice, and Joy had shut me down both times with a look that said don't you dare.
So, I didn't.
Instead, I reached for her hand and held on.
The helicopter was waiting on the lawn, sleek and black, rotors already spinning.
We climbed in, the noise swallowing conversation, and buckled into the seats. Joy's hand found mine immediately, fingers lacing tight, and she didn't let go.
Not during takeoff.
Not when the city fell away beneath us and the marsh spread out like a dark, breathing thing.
Not when the pilot's voice crackled over the comms: "Dominion Hall actual, we have eyes on Deveaux Bank. One figure. Thermals show no other human shapes in the immediate vicinity."
At least there was that.
I glanced at Dad, sitting across from us, his face illuminated by the faint glow of the instrument panel. He looked calm. Focused.
But I could see the tension in his jaw. The way his hand rested on his sidearm like a reflex.
This was the man who'd taught me to shoot. To track. To survive.
The man who'd vanished when I was a kid and left a hole in my life I'd spent fifteen years trying to fill with violence and distance.
And now here he was.
For the first time, I was flying into danger with my father at my side.
It should have felt triumphant. Redemptive.
Instead, it just felt strange.
Because Dad wasn't larger than life anymore.
He was just a man. Still handsome, still charismatic in the way that made people listen when he spoke. But for me, there was something broken in him that no amount of time or explanation could fix.
He'd left us.
He'd had his reasons—good ones, maybe—but he'd still left.
And I wasn't sure I'd ever forgive him for that.
"Micah."
Joy's voice pulled me back. I looked at her, and she squeezed my hand.
"We're going to be okay," she said softly.
I wanted to believe her.
Instead, I just nodded and held on tighter.
The pilot was good.
He brought us in low and fast, the helicopter's skids kissing the very edge of Deveaux Bank with barely a jolt.
Water splashed up around us as we disembarked, boots sinking into wet sand, the rotor wash whipping our clothes and hair into chaos.
Ahead, maybe fifty yards up the sandbar, a single lantern glowed.
And beside it, a figure waited.
The helicopter lifted off immediately, the noise deafening, and then it was gone, leaving us alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of waves and wind.
We started walking.
Dad led. I followed, Joy between us.
The sand was soft, unstable, sucking at our boots with every step. The air smelled like salt and decay, the marsh breathing around us, alive and indifferent.
And then we were close enough to see her.
Victoria.
She stood beside the lantern like she'd been waiting for hours, perfectly composed, a slim cigarette held between two fingers. The light carved shadows across her face, turning her into something doll-like, porcelain and eerie.
She must have been beautiful once. Decades ago, when she and Dad had their fling, she would've been stunning.
Now, she just looked … constructed. Polished. Like she'd been assembled rather than born.
Her eyes found us as we approached, and to my dismay, her gaze settled on Joy.
Not me. Not Dad.
Joy.
"Joy McKinley," Victoria said slowly, like she was tasting the words. "In the flesh, again."
Joy's grip on my hand tightened, but her voice stayed steady. "Why don't we just get this over with?"
Victoria snorted, a sound that was almost amused, and flicked her cigarette into the wind. The ember arced through the darkness and disappeared.
"Very well," she said. "I have two conditions. Meet them, and your little fortress and its merry soldiers will be left alone."
Dad stepped forward, his voice hard. "Spit it out, Victoria."
She smiled faintly, like she'd been waiting for him to snap. "You were always so impatient, Byron. So ready to move on to the next thing."
Her eyes glinted with something private, something bitter.
Dad's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.
Victoria pulled out a silver cigarette case, slow and deliberate, and slid out a fresh cigarette. She lit it with a lighter that matched the case, the flame briefly illuminating her face, then shook it out.
"My first request," she said, exhaling smoke, "is that you give up every bit of information about Project Trueborn."
I felt Dad go rigid beside me.
Project Trueborn.
I'd never heard of it.
But from the way Dad reacted—shoulders tensing, hands curling into fists—it was something big. Something he'd kept buried.
"And the second request?" Dad asked through gritted teeth.
Victoria took her time. Another long pull from the cigarette. Another exhale.
Then she turned her gaze back to Joy.
"You sever all ties with Joy."
The words hit like a punch.
I didn't understand.
Joy's hand went slack in mine, then tightened again, almost painful.
"What?" she breathed.
Victoria smiled—not warm, not kind. Just satisfied.
"What do I have to do with this?" Joy demanded, her voice rising.
Victoria shook her head slowly, like she was dealing with a child who didn't understand the rules.
"It was an accident, really," she said. "Pure coincidence. I didn't even know you were here until I got the first photographs of you and Micah walking to your condo."
My stomach dropped.
She'd had us followed the whole time.
From the beginning.
"Why?" Joy asked again, her voice breaking now. "Why me?"
Victoria took another long pull from her cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs before exhaling slowly.
Then she looked Joy straight in the eye.
"Because I am your mother," she said. "And the last thing I want is for these filthy Danes to set their hooks in you."