Chapter 6
LUCAS
Iwasn’t ashamed of what I’d done at Pelicangate. The aviator had it coming—slipping something into Lexi Montgomery’s drink like a lowlife predator. My fist meeting his sternum had been justice, swift and clean. Maybe I should’ve broken his leg, too.
My only regret was walking away after, leaving her to fend for herself in that chaotic swarm of phones and shouts.
I’d been trained to secure a situation, not abandon it.
But her presence—those eyes, that electric jolt when my arm brushed hers—had scrambled my senses.
For the first time in years, common sense had deserted me, replaced by an urge to run. Not from danger, but from her.
I’d met celebrities before. The good ones had gravitas, a weight that filled the room. Politicians, generals, even a few actors—they carried themselves like they knew their place in the world.
But Lexi Montgomery? She had something else, something I couldn’t pin down.
It wasn’t just beauty, though she had that in spades.
It was the way she moved, like she was holding a storm inside her, all that light and chaos barely contained.
It had hit me like a flashbang, and I’d bolted before I could process it.
Back in my room at The Palmetto Rose, I tried to shake it off. Another shower, hoping the hot water would clear my head.
It didn’t.
Her face kept flickering behind my eyes—her shock, her anger, the way her voice softened when she asked why I’d helped her.
I turned the dial to cold, full blast, and stood under the icy spray until my teeth chattered. The shock gave me a couple minutes’ respite, my mind blanking out under the assault. But when I stepped out, toweling off in the dim bathroom light, she was still there, burned into my skull.
I dressed for bed—boxers, nothing else—and lay on the crisp sheets, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come easy. My body was still on China time, my blood humming with adrenaline and unanswered questions.
Who was Noah?
Why Charleston?
And why the hell couldn’t I stop thinking about a woman I’d known for all of five minutes?
I forced my eyes closed, willing my heart rate to slow. Eventually, exhaustion won, dragging me under.
Morning came too soon. My phone buzzed at 0500, a habit from years of ops.
I slipped to the gym for a hard workout, then was back, showered, dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and my jacket to cover the pistol at my waist. The same driver from last night was waiting outside at 0700 sharp, the black SUV gleaming in the early light. I slid into the back.
“Where to?” I asked, my voice rough from lack of sleep.
“Dominion Hall,” he said, pulling onto the road.
“What’s that?”
He glanced at me in the rearview, a faint smile tugging his lips. “You’ll see.”
The drive took us through Charleston’s historic heart, past cobblestone streets and pastel row houses, then South of Broad where the city gave way to estates.
The harbor flanked the road, its surface glinting like polished steel under the rising sun.
Spanish moss hung heavy from live oaks, swaying in a breeze that carried the scent of salt and earth.
I’d seen a lot of places in my line of work—deserts, jungles, war zones—but this place had a pulse, like it was alive and watching.
Dominion Hall came into view as we turned onto a private drive.
I wasn’t often impressed, but this was something else.
The mansion rose like it had grown from the ground itself, its stone walls and sprawling verandas rooted in a way that felt ancient, unyielding.
It was massive, sure, but it wasn’t just size.
The place had weight, like it carried secrets in its bones.
Ivy climbed the walls, and the windows gleamed with a modern edge that didn’t quite match the antebellum grandeur.
Security was subtle but unmistakable—cameras tucked into eaves, probably motion sensors blending with the landscaping.
This wasn’t just a house; it was a fortress.
I stepped out of the SUV, my feet hitting the ground with a soft thud.
The air was thick, humid, already warm despite the early hour.
I felt small for a moment, not a sensation I was used to.
Dominion Hall didn’t just stand there; it loomed, like it was sizing me up as much as I was sizing it up.
There was power here— money, influence, the kind of place where deals were made that reshaped the world.
My gut told me I was walking into something bigger than I’d expected, and I didn’t know if that excited me or pissed me off.
Noah, the guy who’d brought the personal invite back in China, was waiting at the front door, leaning against a column like he owned the place. He was in jeans and a black polo now, still carrying that operator’s ease, his eyes sharp despite the casual smile.
“Morning, Lucas,” he said. “Flight treat you okay?”
“Long,” I said, not in the mood for small talk. “Why am I here?”
He chuckled, undeterred. “Straight to it, huh?” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and turned it toward me.
A grainy video played—Pelicangate, last night.
The crowd, the aviator, my fist slamming into his chest. Lexi’s face, half-hidden by her cap, frozen in shock.
“Busy night,” Noah said, his tone light but pointed.
My temper flared. “You following me?”
He laughed, a real laugh, not the fake shit people used to defuse tension. “Nah, man. This is all over the internet. Good thing nobody can tell it’s you.”
Relief hit me, sharp and unexpected. What the hell had I been thinking? Stepping into a bar brawl, in public, with a celebrity? Delta operators didn’t make headlines; we didn’t exist in the spotlight. If that video had shown my face clearly, I’d be burned, my career a smoking crater.
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, my heart rate ticked up. “Lucky me,” I said, my voice dry.
Noah pocketed his phone and gestured for me to follow. “Come on. Let’s talk.”
He led me through the house, and I took it all in—polished floors, chandeliers that looked like they cost more than my life, walls lined with art that screamed wealth but not pretension. It was lived-in, not a museum. The kind of place where power felt comfortable.
We passed through a set of glass doors onto a massive back lawn, the harbor stretching out beyond it.
The grass was manicured to a fault, sloping down to an impressive dock where a midnight-black yacht was moored, its lines sleek and predatory.
The water lapped gently against the pilings, the air heavy with salt and the faint tang of diesel.
A woman in a cook’s apron appeared from a side path, her smile warm but professional. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?” she asked.
“Coffee for two,” Noah said, his tone easy. “And your special breakfast spread, if you don’t mind, Clara.”
She nodded, her eyes flicking to me with curiosity before she disappeared back toward the house.
Noah guided me to a lounge area—teak furniture, cushions that probably cost more than my gear—set under a pergola draped with wisteria.
We sat, the harbor glinting in the morning light, and I felt that same sense of weight again.
Dominion Hall wasn’t just a place; it was a statement.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Enough games, Noah. Why am I here?”
He tilted his head, studying me. “When’s the last time you took a vacation, Lucas?”
I snorted. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Before I came back to Charleston, I went three years, seven months without a break. Didn’t realize what it was doing to me, working nonstop. You feel it, don’t you? The grind. The way it hollows you out.”
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “This a vacation? You pull me off an active op for some R&R?”
“No,” he said, his smile fading. “But there are perks.” He nodded toward the yacht, its hull catching the sun. “That’s yours to use while it’s here. Helicopters, planes, vehicles—free rein. Whatever you need.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. “What the hell is this place?”
Noah’s expression turned thoughtful, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“Trust is everything, Lucas. You can’t buy it, can’t steal it.
You have to earn it.” He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine.
“When I got the call to come back to Charleston, I was about to put a bullet through the skull of a piece of shit who thought Germany would be better off without their chancellor. I was pissed—furious—that I’d been yanked from that op.
But in time, I saw the upside. Now, I live the upside. ”
I raised an eyebrow. “What, you’re a playboy now? Sailing yachts, sipping martinis?”
He laughed again, the sound warm but edged with something harder. “Hardly. Since I came to Dominion Hall, I’ve put away more bad guys than I could’ve in five military careers. We’re doing real shit here—real world, real consequences. And we need men like you.”
His words hit me like a slow-rolling wave. I loved Delta—there was no higher calling in my mind. The brotherhood, the mission, the clarity of purpose.
But Noah’s voice carried weight, like he’d found something bigger. It gave me pause, a crack in my certainty.
“What’s the play?” I asked, my tone softer now. “What comes next?”
Noah’s smile returned, sharp and knowing. “There are things Dominion Hall needs you to do. In the process, it’ll become clear—to you and to us—if this is a fit.”
Before I could press him, Clara returned with a silver tray. Two steaming mugs of coffee, a spread of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, toast, and a small jar of what looked like homemade blackberry jam. The smell hit me—rich, warm, grounding. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, until that moment.
Noah gestured to the tray. “Eat up. We’ve got places to be in an hour, and I’ll brief you on the way.”
I nodded, grabbing a mug and a piece of toast. The jam was sweet, tart, bursting with flavor that reminded me of Montana summers, picking berries with my brothers under a sky so blue it hurt.
“I can make the time,” I said, meeting his gaze. “See if it’s a fit.”
“Good,” Noah said, his grin widening. “I promise, you won’t be bored.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. Not yet.
I took a bite of eggs, the yolk rich and perfectly cooked, and let the moment settle.
The harbor sparkled, the yacht bobbed gently, and Dominion Hall loomed behind us, its presence like a pulse in the air.
Whatever this place was, whatever Noah wanted, I’d figure it out. I always did.
But as I sipped my coffee, Lexi Montgomery’s face flashed in my mind again—those eyes, that spark.
Charleston was pulling me into its web, and I was starting to wonder if the trap had already been set.