Chapter 28
NOAH
T he funeral was softer than I’d expected, a quiet affair under a gray Estill sky, the kind that held its breath like it knew the weight of what we carried.
Hallie Mae stood beside me, her hand in mine, her black dress swaying in the breeze as the preacher spoke—someone new, stepping into her dad’s shoes, his voice steady.
She didn’t cry, not like she had in the morgue, but her grip tightened during the hymns, her fingers digging into mine like I was the only thing keeping her upright.
I held on, steady, letting her lean into me, my chest aching with how much I loved her, how much I’d fought to stand here for her.
The church was packed—congregation, friends, faces I didn’t know but could feel loved her dad, loved her.
They laid flowers on the casket, murmured condolences, and I caught glimpses of her mom, Leanne, pale but composed, nodding through tears as people hugged her.
It was sweet, in its way—the community, the love, the way they rallied around Hallie Mae and her mom, a reminder of what her dad had built.
But I didn’t dwell on it.
Couldn’t.
My mind was already drifting—to the men we’d lost, to the blood on Kiawah Island, to the war that wasn’t over, even if the guns had gone quiet for now.
Dom’s face flashed—half his head gone, eyes empty, one of ours cut down in 77’s trap.
We’d have to bury two others, good men, brothers in arms, their funerals in a few days.
The weight of it—of Jamie Calhoun, of Dom, of all the lives 77 had torn apart—sat heavy on my shoulders, an obligation I couldn’t shake.
My life had been a seesaw—chaos and death, a pendulum swinging between the thrill of the fight and the cold finality of a body hitting the ground.
I’d lived for it, craved it, the battlefield a home where I knew every rule, every move.
But now, with Hallie Mae’s hand in mine, her warmth seeping through my skin, I felt something new—a pull toward quiet, toward peace, toward a life that didn’t smell like cordite and blood.
I looked at her, her profile sharp against the gray sky, and realized I wanted it—normalcy, a routine, the kind of days where the loudest thing was her laugh, not a gunshot.
The man who’d thrived on war, who’d built his name on bodies and bullets, was fading, slipping into the recesses of my mind like an old comrade I didn’t need anymore.
This was a new chapter, a chance to claw back something I hadn’t felt since I was a kid—love, laughter, the endless ocean of possibility that used to stretch out on Sullivan’s Island, before Mom left, before Dad’s shadow swallowed us whole.
I squeezed her hand, and she looked up, her blue eyes soft but steady, like she knew what I was thinking.
“Love you,” I mouthed, no sound, just truth.
Her lips curved, faint but real. “Love you, too.”
The service ended, the crowd thinning as people drifted to the fellowship hall for casseroles and quiet talk.
Hallie Mae stayed by her mom, helping with the receiving line, and I gave her space, stepping out to the churchyard, the air cool with the promise of rain.
I leaned against a tree, its roots cracking the earth, and let my mind wander—to her, to us, to the life I wanted to build.
But there were details to wrap up first, loose ends that wouldn’t let me rest easy.
Dominion and the CIA had been in talks all morning, the Agency’s voice cold and clipped over secure lines.
Officially, Department 77 never existed—a ghost, a myth, a name scrubbed from every record.
It was a black eye for the CIA, a well-connected outfit they’d let run without a leash, and they were pissed, humiliated, ready to burn it all down to save face.
Unofficially, the powers that be wanted blood—every 77 operative, every contact, every whisper of their network rooted out, brought in for questioning, or shot on sight.
And they wanted us—Dominion—to do the dirty work.
Carte blanche, they’d said, extreme prejudice, a blank check to hunt, kill, and bury 77’s remains.
I liked the sound of it—Ryker’s grin had been sharp when we’d heard, Atlas nodding slow, Marcus already itching to move.
Charleston was quiet for now, the Agency’s cordon holding, 77’s local assets shattered after Thumb Point.
That gave me time—time to settle with Hallie Mae, to build something real, to lean into this wealthy life I’d spent years wishing away.
No more running from Dad’s billions, no more hiding from the power they brought.
I wanted quiet mornings, her bare feet on hardwood, coffee brewing while we laughed about nothing.
I wanted her—every day, every night, her love the anchor I’d never known I needed.
But first, I had a gift for her, something to show her I was all in, and that meant a trip to Isle of Palms.
Atlas surprised me, catching me in the hall after the service, his bulk filling the doorway.
“Going to the island?” he asked, voice low, like he’d read my mind.
“Yeah,” I said, pausing, keys in hand. “Getting something for Hallie Mae.”
“I’ll come,” he said, no hesitation, like it was the most natural thing.
I raised a brow, smirking. “You? Shopping?”
He shrugged, a rare grin tugging his lips. “Anna’s been talking about beaches. Figure I’ll scout it out. Plus, you’re shit at picking gifts.”
I laughed, the sound lighter than I’d felt in weeks. “Fair enough.”
We drove out, the Lowcountry unfolding—marshes glinting gold, oaks heavy with moss, the air thick with salt and possibility.
Atlas was quiet, but it was the good kind, the kind that didn’t need filling.
I thought about the funeral again, the way Hallie Mae had held her mom’s hand after, her strength quiet but unshakable.
I thought about Dom, the men we’d have to bury, their names carved into us like scars.
I thought about 77—faceless, relentless, a shadow we’d broken but not killed, and the CIA’s offer, a leash they thought they’d slipped around us.
They were wrong.
We weren’t their dogs—we were wolves, and we’d hunt 77 our way, on our terms, until every last one was gone.
But for now, Charleston was ours—quiet, safe, a bubble I’d guard with everything I had.
I pulled into Isle of Palms, the beach stretching wide and pale, waves whispering secrets to the shore.
Atlas climbed out, scanning the horizon, his bulk a steady anchor beside me.
“Place looks good,” he said, nodding toward a row of cottages, their porches weathered but warm, like they’d been waiting for her dream.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight, imagining her here—barefoot, laughing, her hair loose in the wind.
I’d found a realtor earlier, a quiet deal, a plot just off the main drag, close enough to hear the ocean but private, tucked behind dunes.
The gift wasn’t the house—not yet, not built—but the deed, the promise, a piece of paper that said I’d give her the world if she’d let me.
I pulled it from my pocket, folded tight, the ink still fresh from the lawyer’s office.
Atlas glanced at it, raised a brow. “Big move.”
“She’s worth it,” I said, simple, true.
He nodded, no judgment, just understanding—a brother who’d found his own peace with Anna and knew what it cost.
We walked the plot, sand crunching under our boots, the realtor waiting a discreet distance away.
I could see it—her porch, her garden, a swing for kids we hadn’t named yet, a life we’d build brick by brick.
The man who’d lived for war was gone, faded to a shadow I didn’t need, replaced by someone who wanted mornings with her, nights with her, a future that didn’t end in blood.
Atlas clapped my shoulder, his grip firm. “You’re doing good, Noah.”
I smirked, shoving the deed back in my pocket. “Don’t get soft on me.”
He laughed, deep, rare. “Too late.”
We headed back to the truck, the sun climbing higher, the island alive with gulls and the promise of something new.
I thought about the CIA, their deal, the hunt for 77 that’d keep us sharp, keep us moving.
Ryker was already planning—safehouses, contacts, a network to root out 77’s remnants.
Marcus was itching for action, his laugh still ringing from Kiawah, ready to dive back in.
Atlas would hold us steady, like always, his calm the glue that kept us from breaking.
And me—I’d hunt, I’d fight, but I’d come home to her, to Hallie Mae, to the life we’d carve out in this quiet corner of the world.
The war wasn’t over, but for the first time, I wasn’t running toward it—I was running toward her, toward peace, toward a chance to be the man she saw when she looked at me.
I climbed into the truck, Atlas beside me, and started the engine, the road stretching back to Charleston, to her.
This was it—a new life, a new fight, a new love that’d outlast the blood and the bullets.
And I was ready.