Chapter 24
NOAH
I stood in Dominion Hall’s war room, the air thick with tension and the faint hum of monitors casting cold light across the concrete walls.
My brothers were around me—Ryker pacing like a caged animal, Atlas leaning over a map, Marcus on a secure line, his voice crackling through static.
The call had come fast, brutal, like a guillotine dropping.
The CIA was on our side. Their response was ice-cold and final: take them out.
Not just Dominion Defense Corporation against a rogue outfit anymore—it was the United States government, greenlighting annihilation.
Every brother was called in, all hands on deck, except Charlie, lost deep in the South American jungle doing relief work, and Silas, being Silas, unreachable, probably off chasing ghosts or tail.
The CIA offered assets—drones, teams, firepower—but Ryker shut that down quick.
“We handle it,” he’d growled, and I’d agreed.
This was ours—our blood, our war, our reckoning.
The Agency didn’t argue, just promised to cordon off Charleston, seal the exits, cut off any retreat or backup for 77.
That left us free—unleashed—to do whatever it took to end them.
Anything and everything.
Kemper, sweating through his suit, had been more than happy to point us to their staging ground: a house on Kiawah Island, Thumb Point, a small peninsula jutting into the Kiawah River.
They owned the whole damn spit—private, isolated, perfect for their kind of work.
We pored over maps, satellite shots, the river’s curves glowing under Atlas’s finger as he traced approach routes.
Land was a trap—one way in.
Water could work, but tides were a bitch, and a wrong move could strand us in the shallows.
Air was tempting—drop in fast, hit hard—but without solid intel on 77’s numbers or defenses, we’d be jumping blind into a meat grinder.
The CIA was working on imagery, feeding us what they could, but it wasn’t enough, not yet.
“Two ways,” Atlas said, voice low, steady. “Land and sea. Split their focus, hit ‘em from both sides.”
I nodded, my gut twisting. “Who’s where?”
“Me on the ground,” Atlas said, not looking up. “Take a team, take vehicles to here, then move quiet, cut through the brush.”
“I’ve got the water,” Ryker added, cracking his knuckles. “Boats, small team, fast hit.”
I exhaled, knowing my place before they said it. “And I’m overwatch.”
Ryker glanced at me, brow raised. “You good with that?”
I wasn’t—wanted to be boots-down, shoulder-to-shoulder with them, blood and dirt in my teeth—but I was a sniper, born for the scope, and they needed my eyes.
“Yeah,” I said, voice flat. “I’ll keep you covered.”
Marcus’s voice cut through the line, sharp. “I’m locked on a plane. Once we have a better idea of what’s down there, I can drop in with a team from above.”
I smirked, despite the weight. “Always late, huh?”
“Always clutch,” Marcus shot back, and I could hear his grin.
We set the plan—midnight launch, two teams, me on the Dane fleet, a small armada rigged for stealth, my rifle ready to paint the night red if it came to that.
The minutes bled away, preparation a blur of gear checks, comms tests, and quiet looks between us—brothers who’d fought together, bled together, but never faced a shadow like this.
Hallie Mae’s face haunted me—her voice, soft and raw, begging me to come back for her dad’s funeral.
I’d sworn I would, but the promise felt heavier now, like a chain I might not break free of.
Doom settled in my bones, a cold weight that whispered this wasn’t just a fight—it was a reckoning, and we might not all walk away.
Midnight hit, and we moved.
The fleet cut through the Kiawah River, silent as death, engines muffled, black water swallowing our wake.
I crouched on the lead boat, scope up, the night sharp through my lens—stars bright, no moon, perfect for shadows like us.
Atlas’s team was inland, moving up the road on Kiawah, their marked signatures faint blips on my screen, courtesy of the CIA’s recon plane loitering high above.
Ryker’s boats hugged the river’s edge, three sleek crafts, eight men total, ready to storm the first house.
The Agency patched us into thermal imagery—crystal clear, like God himself was watching, drones feeding us every angle of Thumb Point’s sprawl. If only we could see inside those houses.
I scanned the peninsula, my rifle steady, the weight of it grounding me as I counted rooftops, windows, shapes that could be men or ghosts.
“Ryker, you’re clear to the first house,” I murmured into the comms, voice low, eyes glued to the scope. “No movement outside.”
“Copy,” he grunted, and I watched his team glide in, boats docking silent, men spilling onto the shore like ink.
Atlas’s voice came next, calm, steady. “Ground team’s in position. Holding five hundred yards out.”
“Eyes on,” I said, shifting my scope, catching their outlines—crouched, waiting, predators in the dark.
It could go like clockwork, clean and quick.
Easy.
Too easy.
My gut twisted, that doom clawing harder, and I tightened my grip, scanning wider, looking for what I’d missed.
Ryker’s team breached the house—silent, smooth, doors kicked in, flashbangs popping like firecrackers.
I watched through the scope, barrels flashing in the night, heard the chatter on the radio—sharp, controlled.
“Contact!” Ryker said, voice steady. “Four down, but— more coming!”
I snapped my scope to the adjacent properties—two teams, six men each, rushing from the shadows, converging on Ryker’s position like wolves smelling blood. Their shapes came and went as they ran down the heavily wooded street.
“Ryker, you’ve got at least twelve incoming,” I said, already lining up shots, crosshairs settling on the lead guy’s skull as he moved, finding his rhythm and matching it to mine.
Cracked off a round—clean, his head snapped back, body dropping like a stone.
Shifted, fired again—another down, but they were at the house on the point now, moving fast, pinning Ryker’s team in a barrage of fire.
“Atlas, move!” I growled, firing a third shot, catching a guy in the chest, his rifle dropped as he fell.
“On it,” Atlas said, voice steady, his team already breaking cover, charging down the road instead of sneaking through the trees to reinforce our brother.
I kept shooting—methodical, precise, each pull of the trigger a life snuffed out—but they kept coming, shadows splitting, spreading, like 77 had planned for this, waited for us to walk into their trap.
Ryker’s voice crackled, strained. “Pinned down—two wounded. If you’re gonna help, better do it soon.”
I lined up another shot, heart pounding, scope tracking a guy raising an RPG—fuck, no—dropped him before he could fire, but the numbers weren’t adding up.
Too many.
Too fucking many.
“Atlas, where are you?” I snapped, firing again, another body down, my barrel hot, the fleet rocking under me as waves kicked up.
“Thirty seconds,” Atlas said, grunting—gunfire popping through his comms now, his team joining the fight.
I swung my scope back to Ryker’s house, saw his men holding—barely—barrels blazing, but 77’s teams were closing, relentless, like they’d die before they stopped.
“Marcus, you in position?” I called, voice tight, praying his drop was ready.
“One minute out,” he said, static heavy.
One minute was a lifetime down there.
I fired again—missed, cursed, adjusted, and dropped another, but it wasn’t enough, not with Ryker bleeding men, Atlas not there yet, and 77 swarming like roaches.
Hallie Mae’s face flashed—her eyes, her voice, “Come back to me,” and my chest burned, the promise I’d made feeling like a lie I couldn’t keep.
This was it—doom, clawing up my spine, the reckoning I’d felt coming since Kemper’s shaky voice on that yacht.
We’d bitten off too much, and now it was chewing us to pieces.
I lined up another shot, ready to take one more bastard down, when the boat’s alarm screamed—shrill, piercing, ripping through the vessel’s quiet.
“Incoming!” the cockswain yelled, and I jerked my head up, scope forgotten, eyes catching a streak of light—bright, fast, screeching toward us like a demon from the dark.
No time to move, no time to think.
The boat rocked, men shouting, and I stood, heart slamming, Hallie Mae’s name on my lips as the world slowed.
I’d promised her—sworn I’d come back, be there for her dad’s funeral, hold her through the grief—but now, with fire roaring closer, I wondered if I’d fucked it all, if I never should’ve made that vow, if I’d doomed us both by thinking I could outrun my family’s war.