Chapter 6
GIDEON
I crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the edge of the bed.
The mattress sagged under my weight, springs groaning like they resented the intrusion.
I leaned forward and stared at the faded wallpaper—vines twisting up the wall like they were trying to escape the same way I suddenly wanted to.
Women had never been complicated for me. A night on leave, bodies colliding in the dark, no names if I could avoid it, no lingering. Clean. Efficient.
But Hazel ... those green eyes that sliced right through the silence, that red hair spilling from its knot like it had a mind of its own. Beautiful didn't touch it. She was a live wire in a storm, all delicious edges and hidden heat.
And her story—the will, the year, this crumbling inn—it hooked something in me I didn't let out often. Intrigue. The kind that settled low and refused to budge. The inn itself pulled at me, too, with its leaning beams and salt-soaked air, like it was breathing, waiting.
I rubbed a hand over my beard, confusion twisting in my gut.
Flirty cracks weren't my play. I was the loner—silent, watching, gone before the echo faded. One touch of fingers, one shared meal, and I'd slipped. Her quiet laugh when Maude had teased her. The way she’d moved the shrimp around her plate like it was a problem to solve. Order, she’d called it.
Predictability. I understood that cage. Lived in it.
But beneath her control? Fire. The kind that could scorch, if you got too close. I could feel it.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet. I snatched it up. Need to move our meeting up. Come to Dominion Hall tonight, as soon as you're able. —Elias
Direct. No fluff.
I cursed under my breath for skipping the rental car at the airport. I didn’t do Uber. Cab it was. I dialed the local service, voice low. "Bradford Inn on Kiawah. Pickup to Charleston. I'll give the address when you arrive."
Twenty minutes.
I had the patience of a hunter—hours in the blind, waiting for a breath out of place. But when the call came, I moved. Always.
Eighteen minutes later, I gave the room one last scan: bed still made, window cracked to the low hum of the marsh. Down the stairs I went, steps placed carefully on the creaking wood.
No sign of Hazel—relief and regret in equal measure. Maude might've been in the kitchen, but the foyer stood empty. I slipped out the front door, the bell above it tinkling soft as I pulled it shut.
The cab rolled up under the porch light, a faded sedan with salt corrosion on the fenders. The driver was Middle Eastern, mid-forties, turban crisp, eyes sharp in the rearview. No small talk. "Where to?"
I recited the Dominion Hall address. He didn't punch it into GPS—just nodded once and pulled away.
The road curved back through the live oaks, Spanish moss hanging like gray curtains in the headlights.
Kiawah slipped behind us, gated mansions giving way to open marshes, then the long causeway over the intracoastal, water black and glittering under the rising moon.
Charleston lights grew on the horizon, the sky a deep bruise of purple.
We hit the city edges, traffic thin. The driver navigated without a word, like the route was burned into memory. I watched the shift: historic homes with wrought-iron balconies glowing under streetlamps, palm fronds rustling in the breeze, the battery's old cannons silhouetted against the harbor.
Money hung in the air, thick as the humidity. But Dominion Hall—when the gates loomed, massive iron flanked by stone walls topped with discreet cameras—they swung open without a signal. The driver let out a low grunt, almost appreciative, and eased down the oak-lined drive.
The estate rose at the end like something out of a different world.
Wealthy wasn't the word. This was empire money.
Three stories of mass and white columns, wings sprawling wide enough to swallow the night.
Warm light spilled from tall mullioned windows, a fountain murmuring in the circular drive.
I paid in cash, no change needed for the silence, and stepped out.
The cab's tires crunched gravel as it vanished back down the drive.
The front door opened before my boot hit the top step.
A man filled the frame—built like me, broad and solid under a plain black tee, blonde hair cropped military short.
But the glasses, wire-rimmed and sharp, gave him a bookish edge, like he spent his days behind screens instead of in the field.
His eyes assessed quick, efficient. "Gideon. Elias."
No handshake. He tilted his chin toward the side of the property. "This way."
I fell in beside him, matching his stride. The path was flagstone, manicured lawns rolling out to the tree line. No conversation. Crickets filled the gaps, the harbor breeze carrying salt and night-blooming jasmine.
A helipad appeared ahead—concrete pad softly lit, a sleek helicopter waiting like a predator at rest. Elias stepped onto the pad, and the rotors whined to life, blades slicing the air into a building roar.
Custom bird: matte black fuselage, leather visible through the open door. Far cry from the rattling military crates I knew.
We climbed aboard, doors sealing with a solid thunk. Elias handed me a headset. "Welcome aboard. Apologies for the short notice."
I slipped it on, the engine's thrum vibrating through my chest. No questions yet—answers came when they came, or not at all. The pilot flashed Elias a thumbs-up. Elias nodded, and we lifted, the estate falling away below.
Elias pointed out the window as we banked.
"Dominion Hall property lines." From the air, it was vast: the main house a centerpiece, guest wings branching off, stables and outbuildings scattered like chess pieces, pools catching glints from the moonlight.
At the private pier, two enormous yachts lay moored—sleek black beasts, easily over a hundred feet each.
I tapped the glass. "Those part of the package? "
"Dominion assets," Elias said, flat as reciting a balance sheet. No nonsense.
We climbed higher, banking north over the city, as Elias pointed out landmarks from memory.
Charleston spread out accurate and alive below: the Ravenel Bridge arching graceful over the Cooper River, linking to Mount Pleasant's sprawl.
The historic district glowed with colorful row houses, church steeples piercing the night.
We skimmed the battery, cannons lined like ancient guardians, then over the harbor where Fort Sumter hunkered low in the water, waves lapping at its base.
The Ashley and Cooper Rivers met inland, marshes threading between like dark veins.
James Island to the south, Folly Beach's long pier jutting into the Atlantic.
Further out, Kiawah and Seabrook as thin barriers against the sea.
Elias kept the tour clipped like: "Charleston Peninsula—King Street for shopping, the Market for tourists. Waterfront Park with the pineapple fountain. North to Daniel Island, newer builds. West Ashley for the suburbs."
Landmarks rolled off like code: the Angel Oak on Johns Island, its massive limbs sprawling centuries old; Boone Hall Plantation's iconic avenue of oaks; the USS Yorktown anchored at Patriots Point, a gray giant from another war.
The coastline curved gentle, beaches fading to gold in the moonlight—Isle of Palms, Sullivan's Island with its striped lighthouse standing sentinel.
The flight stretched near an hour, the helo cutting smooth through the night air. I took it all in—a visual map tattooed in my mind.
Elias finally broke the rhythm. "We brought you in because we're hunting someone."
"Who?"
"Not clear yet.” He spouted off a bunch of tech terms I didn’t understand, stuff he was working on.
"When do you pin it?"
"Soon. We hope. It's layered work." The tech jargon flowed—firewalls, dark web scrapes, encryption breaks. I nodded, storing what stuck.
"Until then, you're on standby," he continued. "Room here at the Hall, or the Palmetto Rose downtown. Your pick."
"Already set at the Bradford Inn on Kiawah."
Elias didn't flinch, like he'd bet on it. "You’ll be reimbursed, naturally. Full access to the Hall and everything tied to it."
We began descent, rotors slowing. I patted the leather seat beneath me. Elias caught the question. "Fleet. Aircraft, yachts, vehicles. Whatever you need."
That landed heavy. Cartel compounds in South America, sheik palaces in the Middle East—that level of flash. What was this operation? Nothing off yet—no tells in his posture, no shift in his eyes. Just clean efficiency.
We touched down soft, doors opening to the cooling night. Elias led the way back toward the front, path lights guiding subtle. "Anything you need while you wait?"
I did. Mobility. "A car. Nothing flashy."
His first smile—small, real. "Follow me."
We took a new path, bricks underfoot, massive oaks arching overhead like guardians.
A structure emerged, disguised as an old carriage house, huge doors blended into the facade.
Elias pulled his phone, tapped twice. Four bays yawned open in perfect sync, interior lights flooding on.
Racks rose four high, depths vanishing into shadow: Range Rovers in midnight black, Bugatti Chiron shimmering blue, Lamborghini Aventador in screaming orange, McLaren 720S sleek silver, Pagani Huayra BC carbon fiber menace, Koenigsegg Jesko stark white, Rimac Nevera humming electric threat.
Machines I'd only seen in target dossiers on high-value marks.
Elias nodded to a black Pagani Huayra R. "That’s my current favorite."
I shook my head, still trying to make sense of it all. For some reason the Montana wind ghosted through my mind—open ranges, Daisy's mane whipping in my face. "Got any motorcycles?"
His grin sharpened with a smartass edge. "Do you have a brand preference?"