Chapter 22
NOAH
I leaned against the railing of our boat, the Folly Island Channel stretching dark and glassy under a bruised dusk sky.
The salt air soaked into my lungs, sharp and familiar, but it didn’t calm the churn in my gut.
Ryker’s call to the CIA had lit a fuse—quicker than we’d expected, quicker than we were ready for.
Dusk, they’d said. Meet on a yacht in the channel. Neutral ground, a CIA rep to mediate.
I didn’t trust it—not the timing, not the place, not the players.
But we didn’t have a choice.
Department 77 had drawn blood—Hallie Mae’s dad, that junkie on the beach, Holstein—and now they were pulling us into their game, whether we liked it or not.
Ryker stood at the helm, eyes scanning the horizon, jaw tight like he was chewing nails.
Atlas was below, checking the gear—guns, comms, enough tech to make sure we weren’t walking in blind.
Hallie Mae’s face kept flashing in my head—her eyes, blue and fierce, trusting me to end this without breaking her more.
I didn’t know if I could, but I’d burn the world down trying.
The yacht loomed ahead, a sleek beast of glass and steel, lights glinting off the water like it was showing off. More billionaire playtoy than clandestine spy spot.
My hackles rose, but I kept my face blank, hand resting on the pistol at my hip.
We tied off, climbed aboard, and the crew—silent types with eyes that didn’t miss anything—led us to a deck that screamed money.
Polished wood, leather chairs, a bar stocked with bottles I’d never afford in my old life.
U.S. Senator Klein Kemper was already there, lounging like he owned the place, a glass of dark liquid in hand.
We’d met him before, cut a deal in the last mess—cool customer, slick as oil, the kind of guy who’d smile while slipping a knife in your back.
He was one of Department 77’s guys, but he was one of ours, too, though he had yet to produce a single scrap of actionable intelligence, in exchange for our restraint when it came to his life.
He stood, all charm, suit crisp despite the humidity. “Gentlemen. Good to see you again.”
“Save it,” Ryker muttered, dropping into a chair, his bulk making it creak.
I stayed standing, eyes flicking to the corners—exits, shadows, anything that could hide a threat. Out there, everything was a threat. Too much open space. It felt like a suicide mission on foreign soil.
Atlas joined us, silent, his presence a wall at my back.
The CIA rep walked in—a lawyer type, mid-forties, suit cheaper than Kemper’s but sharp, like he’d ironed it on the way over.
He looked bored, clipboard under one arm, eyes scanning us like we were paperwork he’d rather shred.
“Mr. Dane, Mr. Dane, Mr. Dane,” he said, nodding to each of us, voice flat. “Let’s make this quick.”
Kemper sipped his drink, smirking. “My friends would like to point out the sins of the Dane brothers.”
I snorted, crossing my arms. “Sins, huh? That’s rich, coming from your crew.”
He didn’t flinch—just leaned back, legs crossed, like he was reciting a bedtime story. “Hypothetically, let’s say there’s a group—call it what you want—who’ve taken issue with your … extracurriculars. Black ops, wetwork, playing fast and loose with rules most folks don’t even know exist.”
“Hypothetically,” Ryker growled, “they started this by putting a bullet in a pastor’s head. And that’s only their most recent transgression.”
Kemper raised a brow, unfazed. “Did they? Or did you poke the wrong bear, and now you’re crying foul?”
I let him talk—let him spin his web, all smooth words and veiled threats.
We were wired, comms live, the crew back at Dominion listening in, ready to flag any new players or boats creeping too close.
Kemper’s voice rolled on, calm, like he was lecturing kids. “You’ve made enemies, gentlemen. Powerful ones. Men who don’t like their secrets aired. Men who’d rather see a church burn than let you keep digging.”
“Speak plain,” I snapped, patience gone, stepping forward. “Who’s pulling the strings?”
He smiled, slow, like he’d been waiting for it. “If, say, there was an outfit called Department 77—and I’m not saying there is—wouldn’t there be a way out of this mess? A deal, maybe? You stop sniffing, they stop biting?”
I opened my mouth, ready to tear into him, but the CIA guy cut in, voice sharp, like he was done with the theater.
“Enough,” he said, standing, clipboard tucked tight. “Whatever this feud is, it stops. Now. You’re tearing up American soil like it’s your playground, and I’m not here to clean up your blood. Escalate further, and I’ll make sure heads of state hear about it. Buttons get pushed. Nobody wins.”
Kemper tilted his head, still cool. “I’ll relay the message.”
Ryker leaned forward, voice low. “We understand.”
I didn’t say shit—just watched, wired tight, the weight of Hallie Mae’s trust pressing hard on my chest.
My earpiece crackled—Elias’s voice, urgent but low. “Helo inbound, northwest, two minutes out.”
I glanced at the CIA guy, who was already checking his watch, like he’d heard it, too. “That’s my ride,” he said, bored again, and headed for the yacht’s helipad, clipboard swinging like he didn’t have a care.
Kemper stood, brushing his suit, and we followed him to the open deck, the chopper’s hum growing louder, a black speck against the fading sky.
The helo came in low, blades chopping the air, and I saw it—a barrel poked out the open door.
Instinct kicked in.
I grabbed Kemper, yanked him hard behind a bulkhead, Ryker and Atlas diving after us as two shots cracked—sharp, precise, splitting the night.
The helo didn’t land—just climbed, fast, disappearing into the dark as the CIA guy hit the deck, choking, blood bubbling from his throat, clipboard clattering useless beside him.
I crouched, weapon drawn, scanning the sky—nothing but stars now, the chopper gone like it’d never been.
Kemper was pale, eyes wide, horror cracking his cool mask for the first time.
“Time to talk,” I growled, grabbing his collar, pulling him close. “Everything you know about Department 77. Now.”