Chapter 13
THE VANGUARD
The binoculars were military grade—German optics, nitrogen-purged, with enough magnification to count the nails in the porch railing from half a mile out. He swept them slowly across the Bradford Inn, tracking movement through the lit windows.
There. The big one. Broad shoulders, controlled movements, the kind of awareness that came from training.
Another Dane.
He lowered the binoculars and pulled out his phone, hitting the encrypted line. Two rings.
"Tell me." The voice on the other end was sharp, impatient.
"Gideon Dane. Charleston. Kiawah Island."
A pause. "You're certain?"
"Positive. And he's not alone—there's a woman. Redhead. Owner of the place." He raised the binoculars again, watching Gideon's hand settle possessive on her back. "He's already attached."
"So, we use her. Draw him out."
"My thought, exactly." He smiled, cold and precise. “I have an idea.”
Silence stretched. Then: "Do it. Quickly."
The line went dead.