Chapter 4
LUCAS
The hum of the jet’s engines lulled me into a restless sleep, my body sinking into the leather seat like it knew better than my mind how to steal rest when it could.
I’d been awake for nearly forty-eight hours before boarding, running on adrenaline and instinct through that shitshow in China.
The moment my eyes closed, I was out, the world fading to black.
Dreams came in fragments—Montana rivers, the crack of a rifle, the traitor’s bloodied face—but they didn’t stick. Nothing did when you lived like I did.
They didn’t give off Agency vibes. No clipped speech, no subtle tells of operatives playing civilian.
Just pros doing their job. Still, I stayed on edge, my hand never far from the pistol holstered under my jacket.
Noah’s appearance back in that hut had rattled me more than I cared to admit.
How the hell had he slipped into my world?
Had one of my team let him in? I scrubbed the thought as soon as it formed.
My men were Delta—loyal to the bone, undetectable, invisible, capable of leading in my absence.
They were pros to the core. No way one of them had turned.
By the time we touched down in Charleston, the sun was sinking, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
The private airstrip was tucked away from the main airport, surrounded by marsh and low scrub.
A black SUV waited on the tarmac, engine idling.
The driver, a lean guy in his fifties with a buzz cut and shades, greeted me with a nod as I stepped off the plane.
“Evening, sir,” he said, his Lowcountry drawl soft but clipped.
“Where we headed?” I asked, sliding into the back seat. My pack hit the floor, my body still wired despite the flight.
“The Palmetto Rose,” he replied, pulling onto a narrow road. “Orders are to get you cleaned up, let you rest until morning.”
The Palmetto Rose. Sounded like one of those boutique hotels Charleston loved—old world charm with a modern price tag. “What happens in the morning?”
“Pick you up at seven,” he said, eyes on the road.
I waited for more—orders, a mission brief, anything. Nothing came. No “stay in place until beckoned,” no cryptic instructions. Just silence.
I leaned back, the leather creaking under me, and let the Lowcountry roll past. Marshes stretched wide, their surfaces catching the last light like shattered glass. Spanish moss swayed in the breeze, ghostly in the dusk. It was beautiful, in a way that made you feel small.
At the Palmetto Rose, I checked in at a polished mahogany desk. The lobby smelled of magnolias and wax, with chandeliers casting soft light over velvet chairs. The clerk, a young woman with a practiced smile, handed me a keycard. “Room 312. Enjoy your stay.”
I nodded, already halfway to the elevator. The room was what I expected—clean, modern, with a view of downtown. Bed crisp, minibar stocked, bathroom gleaming.
I dropped my pack and headed straight for the shower. The hot water hit me like a benediction, washing away the grime of China, the blood under my nails, the weight of unanswered questions. I stood under the spray for a long time, letting it pound my shoulders, steam curling around me.
When I stepped out, towel around my waist, I realized I was wired.
Jet lag had my body clock screwed up—still on China time, where it was tomorrow already.
East Coast time demanded I adjust, but the thought of flipping on the TV made my skin crawl.
I didn’t want news or reruns. I wanted air, noise, something to ground me.
I dressed quickly—jeans, a black t-shirt, a lightweight jacket to cover the pistol tucked into my waistband. Old habits.
In the lobby, I approached the desk. The same clerk, Sasha, looked up with that same smile. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Dane?”
“Looking for a bar,” I said. “Something local, not too touristy.”
Her eyes lit up, like she’d been waiting for the question. “You’ve got the look of someone who’d like Pelicangate.”
“Pelicangate?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like Watergate?”
She nodded, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s a play on words or something. Locals love it. Tacky but fun, with a bit of a D.C. vibe. Not far from here.”
“Sounds perfect.” I trusted her read—she’d pegged me right. “Can you call me a cab?”
“Of course.” She picked up the phone, and within minutes, a cab pulled up outside.
Pelicangate was exactly as advertised. The exterior was unassuming—brick, a neon sign flickering with a pelican holding a martini glass—but inside, it was a chaotic blend of Lowcountry charm and political kitsch.
Faded newspaper clippings lined the walls, headlines screaming about scandals from decades past. Song lyrics were scrawled in marker above the bar—Springsteen, Dylan, some Johnny Cash for good measure.
The decor leaned hard into tacky: a stuffed pelican perched on a shelf, wearing a tiny fedora.
It was the kind of place where you could disappear into the crowd, and I liked that.
The hostess seated me at a small table off to the side, giving me a clear view of the room.
The place was three-quarters full, a mix of locals and a few out-of-towners, the air thick with laughter and the twang of southern rock country spilling from the jukebox.
I ordered a bourbon, neat, and settled in, my back to the wall, eyes scanning out of habit.
The drink was smooth, oak and fire on my tongue.
By the second one, I felt the edges of my tension soften, though my senses stayed sharp.
Then she walked in.
It was impossible to miss her, even though she was trying hard not to be seen. Blonde hair tucked under a baseball cap, no makeup, dressed in jeans and a loose sweater that didn’t hide the curves beneath.
Lexi Montgomery.
I’d seen her movies—hell, who hadn’t?—and even without the Hollywood polish, she was unmistakable. Her face had that rare quality, the kind that burned into your memory whether you wanted it to or not. My cock stirred, a reflex I neither welcomed nor fought.
She was an untouchable, part of that glittering Hollywood swirl where stars protected each other, dated each other, then tore each other apart in tabloids and podcasts. I wasn’t here to care. But I watched, anyway, because watching was what I did.
She slid into a booth near the bar, her movements careful, like she was measuring every step.
The bartender, a wiry guy with a beard, grinned when he saw her, like they’d already met.
She ordered something, her smile polite but guarded.
The room didn’t notice her at first, too caught up in their own conversations.
I sipped my bourbon, my eyes flicking between her and the crowd.
It took maybe ten minutes for the first local to spot her.
A kid, college-aged, all bravado and beer breath, sauntered over.
I couldn’t hear the exchange over the music, but her body language said it all—calm, deflecting, a pro at brushing off fans without bruising egos.
When he walked back to his buddies, he was beaming, like he’d just won a prize.
She had that effect, I guessed. Made people feel seen without giving anything away.
The bar filled up, the noise rising with it.
Lexi seemed to relax, her shoulders loosening as she sipped her drink.
The bartender kept an eye on her, and so did a few others nearby, drawn in by her quiet charisma.
She was stunning, no question—those green eyes catching the light, her laugh soft but real when the bartender cracked a joke.
I felt a pull, not just attraction but something else, like I needed to keep tabs on her. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was the bourbon. Either way, I moved to a spot at the end of the bar, leaning casually, pretending to watch a football rerun on the TV above.
Then the tide shifted.
I felt it before I saw it—a disturbance in the crowd, like a shark cutting through minnows.
A guy in a crisp khaki Navy uniform pushed through, aviator wings pinned to his chest, sunglasses tucked in his pocket.
He had the look—cocky, all smiles and self-deprecation, the kind of charm that worked on everyone.
He made a beeline for Lexi, sliding into the spot next to her like he owned it.
She straightened, her expression shifting to something respectful, almost curious.
Not flirtatious, but intrigued. They fell into conversation, easy and familiar, like siblings swapping stories.
The bar ate it up, the energy shifting as people leaned in, laughing at their banter. It was a show, and they were the stars.
But I saw what no one else did.
His hand moved fast—too fast for a civilian to catch. A flick of his wrist, something emptying into her drink while he distracted her with a grin and a wave of his other hand.
My blood went cold.
Time slowed, the way it did before a strike.
I set my bourbon down, my body moving before my mind caught up. The crowd parted as I cut through, my eyes locked on the aviator. He was good—smooth, practiced, the kind of predator who could give Iceman from Top Gun a run for his money.
But I was better.
Lexi lifted her glass, the aviator motioning for her to chug it while he raised his own, the bar cheering them on.
I reached her just in time, my hand closing over her drink, stopping it an inch from her lips.
My arm brushed hers, and a jolt shot through me—electric, sharp, like a live wire.
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide with confusion and a flicker of fear.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice low but steady.
“Ms. Montgomery,” I said, leaning close, my tone calm but firm, like I was her security detail. “It’s time to leave.”
She pulled back, regaining her composure. “I don’t know who you are.”
The aviator stood, his smile gone. “Hey, man, back off. You’re ruining the fun.”
I didn’t hesitate. My fist slammed into his sternum, a clean strike that cracked something beneath his ribs. He gasped, folding forward, and the crowd gasped with him as he fell to the floor.
The actress protested, her voice sharp, but I was already moving, my hand on her arm, guiding her toward the door. The bar erupted—phones out, voices rising, chaos swallowing us.
We were halfway down the block before she yanked her arm free, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I pulled the plastic baggie from my pocket, the one I’d swiped from the aviator in the split second after I hit him. My sleight of hand was better than his. “The prick spiked your drink with this,” I said, holding it up.
She stared at it, her face paling. “You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want,” I said, stepping back. “But if you call the cops, tell them to pull the footage from the bar. They’ll see what he did.”
She hesitated, her phone already in her hand, her thumb hovering over the screen. The anger in her eyes softened, replaced by something else—doubt, maybe, or fear.
“Why did you help me?” she asked, her voice almost shy.
I told the truth. “Because I had to.”
Then I turned and walked away, the humid night air wrapping around me. Her face burned in my mind—those eyes, that spark when we touched. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing in Charleston, or why I’d been pulled here. But one thing was clear: Lexi Montgomery wasn’t just a star. She was trouble.
And I’d just stepped knee deep in it.