Page 99 of The Scout

Will thought we were targets because of what we might know. But that was the problem.

We didn’t know shit.

My father, Byron Dane, had never told us what he really did. We’d pieced together fragments of his past, learned just enough to know he’d been involved in farmore than simple freelance work for the government. But we didn’t know the specifics. Didn’t know why someone had wanted him dead—or if he was even reallydeadat all.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “So that’s it? You got grabbed before you learned anything real?”

Will hesitated, guilt flashing across his face.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s it.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, finally, I sat back in my chair, rubbing a hand down my face.

“Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

Will frowned. “What do you mean?”

I let out a slow breath, tilting my head back, staring at the ceiling.

“We’ve been at this for years,” I said. “Hitting dead end after dead end. Chasing shadows.” I dropped my gaze back to his. “But now? Now we have something real. A real enemy. A real threat.” My jaw tightened. “A real war.”

Will watched me carefully, then gave a slow nod.

The shitstorm had only just begun.

And I was ready to burn it all down.

EPILOGUE

ISABEL

The old Dane home sat on the edge of Sullivan’s Island, where the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and pluff mud, where the sound of the tide lapping against the shore was as familiar as breath. It wasn’t like Dominion Hall—no towering fortress, no state-of-the-art security, no imposing gates keeping the world at bay.

It was simple. Timeless.

A two-story Lowcountry house, weathered gray with salt and time, the wraparound porch lined with rocking chairs and a hammock swaying lazily between two posts. Spanish moss draped the live oaks at the edge of the yard, their gnarled branches reaching toward the water like old sentries standing watch. The private dock stretched into the intracoastal, a few boats bobbing gently in their slips, the wooden planks creaking under the weight of footsteps.

The Danes didn’t come here often, not when Dominion Hall had everything they needed. But when they wanted to breathe, when they wanted to feel theirfather’s presence, this was where they came. The house had been his, a place he had refused to sell, no matter how much money he had secretly amassed. It had been his escape, and now it was theirs.

And today—it was for celebration. For survival. For remembering that even in the wake of war, there were things worth holding onto.

The fish fry was in full swing, the long wooden table on the porch covered in newspaper, piled high with golden-fried flounder, hush puppies, and baskets of hot, crispy fries. There were bowls of coleslaw, Charleston red rice, and butter beans, pitchers of sweet tea sweating in the heat, coolers stocked with beer and bourbon. A pot of Frogmore stew bubbled away on the outdoor burner, shrimp and corn floating to the surface, the scent thick with Old Bay and spice.

I’d never been here before, but it felt like home.

A bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s 23-Year stood at the edge of the table, its dark amber liquid catching the glow of the string lights overhead. No one made a big deal about it, but I noticed the way Marcus poured himself a careful splash, how the others treated it with a quiet reverence. A bottle like that wasn’t just expensive—it was nearly impossible to find. The kind of thing collectors hoarded, auctioned off for small fortunes. But here, it was just another drink among brothers, another quiet display of wealth.

Beyond the porch, parked beneath the sprawling limbs of an ancient oak, sat an old Chevy K5 Blazer—perfectly restored, every inch gleaming despite the years. I recognized it from old pictures of their dad, the same truck he’d driven them around in when they were kids, back when life had been simpler. Marcus had spent years bringing it back to life, but he never drove it. It just satthere, pristine and waiting, a piece of their father frozen in time.

Everything here carried a story. The house, the whiskey, the truck. A quiet legacy of power, wealth, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

I leaned against one of the porch railings, sipping my drink, letting the warmth of the evening settle into my bones. The sun was dipping low, casting the sky in hues of deep orange and indigo, the marsh grass swaying in the soft, humid breeze.

I glanced at Will, who sat at the end of the table, looking healthier than he had any right to after what he’d been through. His bruises were fading, the cuts on his face healing, but there was something else—something deeper that hadn’t faded. My brother was a changed man.

I took a slow breath. “Would you ever leave? Find another job?”

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