Chapter 18
NOAH
I was halfway through a bottle of bourbon, sprawled in Dominion Hall’s library, when my phone buzzed hard against the oak table.
The room was dark, heavy with old books and the faint stink of cigar smoke from Ryker’s last visit.
Didn’t work.
Every sip just sharpened the edges, made her face clearer—those blue eyes, red-rimmed and broken, staring at me like I could fix it.
I grabbed the phone, saw the number—one of the guys I’d put on her, watching from a distance to keep her safe.
“Yeah?” I answered, voice rough, already standing, instincts flaring.
“She won’t come with us,” the guy said, tense, low. “ Got spooked. Some asshole handed her a paper, and now she’s digging in, won’t move.”
My gut dropped, cold and sharp. “What paper?”
“Didn’t see it clear. She’s clutching it, though. Looks shook.”
“Where are you?”
“Isle of Palms. Near The Soundline.”
“I’m coming,” I said, already grabbing my keys, the bourbon forgotten.
I bolted for the truck, heart pounding.
The drive to Isle of Palms was a blur—salt air whipping through the open window, the road stretching out under a too-bright sun that didn’t match the storm in my chest.
My mind churned, spitting out every word I’d say to her, every way I’d try to explain the unexplainable.
I’d start with the truth—or as much as I could stomach.
Hallie Mae, I didn’t know about your dad. I’d never hurt you like that. The paper—it’s a setup, someone’s playing us both.
But then I’d see her eyes in my head—those blue depths, soft one minute, hard the next—and I’d hear her voice, sharp, cutting through my bullshit.
You lied to me, Noah. You knew, and you let me fall for you anyway. How could you?
I gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white, imagining her stepping back, folding her arms, that preacher’s-daughter steel shutting me out.
Or worse—she’d cry, quiet, like she did after we fucked, tears soaking my chest, and I’d have no words, no way to undo what she’d seen, what she’d think of me.
What if she asked about Department 77?
What could I say— I don’t know who they are, just shadows with money and blood on their hands, and now they’ve got my face tied to your pain?
She’d never buy it.
Not after everything—her dad dead, her world cracked open, me standing there with a gun and a past that screamed guilty.
I’d try anyway—beg, maybe, if it came to that.
Hallie Mae, you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like light. Don’t make me lose you.
But even in my head, the words sounded hollow, like a con I couldn’t sell.
The truth was, I didn’t know how to fix this—didn’t know if I could.
And that scared the shit out of me.
The Soundline came into view—weatherworn, slouched against the dunes, the ocean sparkling behind it like it didn’t give a damn about the chaos unfolding.
I parked hard, tires kicking sand, and spotted her—standing near the boardwalk, sundress fluttering in the breeze, clutching that paper like it was a death sentence.
My guys were close—one by the van, one near the dunes, both stiff, watching her like hawks.
The third guy—the one who’d delivered the paper—was slumped in the back of their surveillance van, door cracked, looking like he’d seen better days.
I stepped out and her eyes hit mine—blue, wide, burning with something I’d never seen before.
Accusation.
Betrayal.
She’d tried and sentenced me before I’d even opened my mouth, and fuck, I knew I was done.
“Hallie Mae,” I started, voice low, hands up like I could calm the storm in her face.
She didn’t move—just held out the paper, arm trembling, lips pressed tight.
I took it, slow, like it might bite, and unfolded it.
My face stared back—grainy, pulled from somewhere—and below it, her dad’s, smiling in his church suit.
“TARGET & ASSOCIATE — PRIMARY & PAYOUT,” typed cold and clear, like a contract I’d never signed.
Same as Holstein’s paper, but sharper now, fresher, meant for her eyes.
My stomach twisted, bile rising, and I looked up, meeting her gaze.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, but it sounded weak, even to me.
“Then what is it?” she snapped, voice cracking, stepping closer, fists clenched like she wanted to hit me.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came—every word I’d rehearsed on the drive dissolving under the weight of her stare.
“Hallie Mae, I swear—I didn’t know about your dad. This is a setup, someone trying to?—”
“Stop,” she cut in, sharp, tears brimming but not falling. “Just stop. You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me?”
I shook my head, desperate now, stepping toward her. “You don’t understand?—”
“I understand enough,” she said, voice low, deadly. “You’re not who I thought you were.”
That hit harder than any bullet—her words slicing clean through, leaving me raw.
I wanted to grab her, shake her, make her see I’d never hurt her like that, but she stepped back, and the distance between us felt like a canyon I couldn’t cross.
“Let me explain,” I said, softer, pleading now, hating how it sounded.
She didn’t answer—just pointed at the van, where the guy who’d handed her the paper sat, head lolling like he was half-gone already.
“Talk to him,” she said, flat. “I want to hear it.”
I nodded, jaw tight, and gestured to my guys—Carter and Jace, ex-Marines I’d trusted with my life more than once.
“Get him ready,” I said, voice clipped, and turned back to her. “You sure you want to be there for this?”
“I’m sure,” she said, no hesitation, eyes hard like she’d already buried me.
We climbed into the van, her sliding in beside me, close but untouchable, the paper still crumpled in her hand.
The guy—scrawny, twitchy, eyes darting like a cornered animal—sat cuffed in the back, reeking of sweat and something chemical, like he’d been cooking his brain for years.
Looked like Holstein—same strung-out vibe, same half-crazed glaze.
Deep addict, no question.
I leaned in, kept my voice low, steady. “Who gave you the paper?”
He blinked, slow, like my words were underwater, then giggled—high, jagged, like a kid who’d snorted too much sugar.
“They’re watchin’ me, man,” he said, rocking slightly, cuffs clinking. “Always watchin’. Government’s had me on their radar since I was sixteen. Locked me up, y’know? ‘Cause I knew their secrets.”
I glanced at Hallie Mae—she was staring at him, lips pressed thin, like she was trying to decide if he was crazy or just broken.
“What secrets?” I pressed, keeping my tone even, though my patience was fraying fast.
“All of ‘em,” he slurred, eyes darting to the van’s ceiling like it might open up. “Codes, signals, shit they don’t want you knowin’. They put me in the hospital, man, pumped me full of drugs to shut me up.”
I leaned closer, voice dropping colder. “The paper. Who gave it to you?”
He didn’t answer—just kept rocking, muttering about cameras, satellites, voices in his head.
Carter caught my eye, stepped outside, and motioned me to follow.
I slid out, leaving Hallie Mae with Jace, and shut the door behind me.
“What?” I said, voice low, sand crunching under my boots.
Carter kept his voice down, eyes scanning the dunes. “Ran his ID. Name’s Kenny Van Cleese. No government jobs, no military, nothing. Just a rap sheet—petty theft, possession, three overdoses in the last year alone. Probably more before that.”
I nodded, jaw tight, already knowing the type—another junkie pawn, same as Holstein, fed just enough cash and drugs to do someone’s dirty work.
“Worthless,” I muttered, glancing back at the van.
Carter shrugged. “Might know something, but good luck getting it out clean.”
I went back inside, found Hallie Mae staring at Van Cleese, her face pale, eyes flicking between him and the paper like she could piece it together herself.
“He’s not making sense,” she said, voice flat, but there was a shake in it, a crack I hated hearing.
“He’s high,” I said, trying to keep it gentle. “Probably doesn’t even know what day it is.”
She shook her head, fast, like she was shaking off a thought. “Let him go.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Let him go,” she said, firmer now, eyes meeting mine, hard and unyielding. “He’s not right, Noah. He needs help, not … whatever this is.”
“Hallie Mae, he might know something,” I said, keeping my voice low, trying not to sound like the asshole I felt like. “He’s tied to this?—”
“He’s half-dead already,” she cut in, sharp. “Look at him. You think he’s hiding some big secret? He’s just a mess. Let him go.”
I wanted to argue—knew it was stupid, knew he was a lead, even a shaky one—but her voice, that steel in it, stopped me cold.
“Fine,” I said, nodding to Jace. “Cut him loose.”
Jace raised a brow but didn’t argue—unlocked the cuffs, hauled Van Cleese up, and pushed him toward the door.
I turned to Hallie Mae, kept my voice low. “I’ll have my guys tail him. He knows something, even if he doesn’t know he knows it.”
She didn’t answer—just watched as Van Cleese stumbled out, blinking into the sunlight like he’d forgotten it existed.
He made it five steps—sand kicking up under his sneakers—when his head exploded.
A wet crack, red mist spraying, and his body dropped, limp and final, brains and blood seeping into the pavement.
The rifle’s report echoed a split second later, sharp and distant, bouncing off the water.
I moved—instinct, no thought—grabbed Hallie Mae, yanked her down behind the van, my body shielding hers, heart slamming as I waited for the next shot.
Carter and Jace hit the ground, too, guns out, shouting into comms for backup, their voices tight, urgent.
“Shooter, northwest, maybe five hundred yards?—”
“Get backup here, now!”
I pressed Hallie Mae against the van’s side, her breath fast and shallow, her hands clutching my arm like I was the only thing keeping her here.
“Stay down,” I growled, scanning the dunes, the boardwalk, the rooftops—anywhere a sniper could hide.
But no shots came.
No crack. No barrage.
Just silence, heavy and wrong, the ocean rolling in like it hadn’t just watched a man die.
The message was clear—delivered, done.
I eased up, still crouched, and looked at her—really looked.
Her face was pale, eyes wide, locked on the body sprawled in the sand, blood pooling dark and thick, seeping into the dunes like an offering.
“Hallie Mae,” I said, voice low, trying to pull her back.
She didn’t move—just stared, like she could see through the blood, through the body, into whatever hell had brought this to her.
I touched her shoulder, gentle, but she flinched, hard, and when she looked at me, it wasn’t grief or fear—it was something worse.
Doubt.
Accusation.
“You did this,” she whispered, barely audible, her voice shaking with it.
“No,” I said, fast, desperate, leaning in. “I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t?—”
But she shook her head, pulling back, the paper still crumpled in her hand, her eyes saying what her mouth wouldn’t.
She didn’t believe me.
And fuck, that was worse than any bullet.
Carter was on the radio now, barking orders, Jace sweeping the perimeter, but I couldn’t focus—couldn’t think past her face, the way she’d shut me out, sentenced me without a word.
I’d lost her—right there, in the sand, with a dead man’s brains staining the beach and a rifle shot ringing in my ears.
Didn’t know how to get her back.
Didn’t know if I could.