Chapter 27 #2
He paused, hands resting on the back of a chair. "I was recruited because of my talents. And my beliefs."
His voice changed on that last part—went softer, more reverent. Like he was confessing something sacred. Something he'd carried alone for too long.
"This was a choice I made," he said. "A fateful one. Necessary, I believed at the time. I can't tell you everything. Not yet. Not for your own safety. But The Vanguard's motives ebb and flow with time, with leadership, with whatever they decide the world needs to become."
My jaw ached from clenching it.
"At first," Byron continued, "when I ran from Department 77 and took billions from them, I thought that was the only threat.
The only enemy. But The Vanguard raised its head like some long-sleeping leviathan and pointed its gaze at the very program I'd spearheaded. One they’d funded and paid little attention to in the past."
He looked around the table, meeting eyes one by one. "All of you. My sons in this room. Your mothers. You were part of that program."
The room erupted.
Not loudly. These were controlled men. But voices overlapped, questions flying, curses muttered under breath.
Byron held up a hand. "I promise I'll say more. Soon. But now, it's not safe. Right now, we need to focus on getting the other Montana Danes here. In the fold. Protected."
"Protected from what?" That was Ryker—one of the Charleston Danes, dark-haired and intense, leaning forward with his hands flat on the table. "You taught us to stand together. Always. No matter what." His voice turned sharp, accusatory. "So, why the hell did you abandon us?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Byron's smile was sad. Broken. He gestured around the room at the assembled men. "You did what I taught you. You banded together. The fact that you're all here—Montana and Charleston, together—is proof of that."
"But you couldn't be part of it," Ethan said quietly. Not a question. A statement.
"No." Byron's voice cracked on the word. "I had to hide. For your sake. Because The Vanguard doesn't just target individuals. They target everything you love. Everyone you might protect. I couldn't be here without bringing that threat down on all of you."
"Sam Jarrow," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I'd meant. "How did he get pulled in?"
Byron turned to me, and something in his expression softened. "He was just a pawn. When The Vanguard saw you with Hazel, they did what they always do—they found leverage. The same as they'd done with Ethan. Lucas. Caleb. Jacob." His gaze swept the room. "They think we're pawns. But we're not."
The definitiveness in his tone was absolute. Final.
"Why now?" I asked. The question I'd been holding since the marsh. "Why come back now?"
Byron's hand landed on my shoulder—heavy, warm, real. "Because I couldn't watch anymore. And The Vanguard's tactics only get stronger as they get closer to what they want."
"What do they want?" That was Atlas—biggest of the Charleston Danes, built like a tank, voice like gravel. He stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Byron pointed to himself. "Me. Everything I know. The program. The beliefs. The leverage."
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
Marcus—another Charleston Dane, younger, angrier—slammed his fist on the table hard enough to make the wood jump. "Then it's time to fight. Find the sons of bitches and kill them. That'll make them see."
"It's not that easy." Byron's voice was gentle but firm. "There's no headquarters to storm. No figurehead to kill. The Vanguard is as much an idea as it is an organization. Cutting off one head doesn't stop it. It just grows back stronger."
"So, what do we do?" Lucas asked. "Just wait for them to come after us?"
"No." Byron straightened, and for a moment he looked like the man I remembered from childhood—the one who could walk into a room and command it without saying a word.
"I need to figure out a way to turn their attention.
Like turning a freighter on open ocean. Redirect their focus so you can all be safe. Once and for all."
"How?" I asked.
"I'm working on it." He looked around the table again, meeting each gaze. "But I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. I'm here. And I'm staying."
The words seemed to settle the room. Not ease it, exactly. But anchor it. Give everyone something solid to hold onto in the chaos.
Everyone except me.
I sat there with my father's hand still on my shoulder and felt like I was being torn in two. The boy who'd spent fifteen years missing him wanted to grab hold and never let go. Wanted to believe every word, trust every promise, fall back into the safety of having a father who fixed things.
But the man I'd become—the operator, the killer, the one who'd learned the hard way that people left and promises broke and safety was an illusion—wanted to shake off his hand and walk away.
Wanted to punch him in the face and demand to know how he could justify any of this.
How he could create two families and abandon both.
How he could watch from the shadows while we bled and fought and nearly died.
I didn't know which impulse was stronger.
Didn't know which one I should listen to.
So, I sat there, frozen between them, and felt like I was drowning all over again.
My father was back.
And I had no idea what the hell to do about it.