Page 22 of The Reaper
Ryker hadn’t pushed. Just nodded, like he’d expected it, and handed me a card for a spot called The Palmetto Rose.
“Boutique hotel down the road. Clean. Discreet. Tell them I sent you.”
I’d taken the card and pocketed it without looking. “Thanks.”
He’d watched me walk away, that faint smirk still lingering, like he knew I’d bite eventually. I hadn’t looked back. The night air had hit hard outside the gates—salt-thick and humid—washing off some of the mansion’s weight. But not all of it.
Ryker’s words stuck, replaying in my head like a bad loop:Family. Trust. Blank check.What the hell did that even mean? And Nightshade—how had he known? That op was buried deeper than most graves I’d dug. Jensen and Baker—blood onmy hands—denials still ringing in my ears. I’d carried it alone for years. Until now.
The cab ride to The Palmetto Rose was short. The driver stayed silent, city lights smearing past like old memories. The hotel wasn’t flashy—grand porch, antique lanterns, crepe myrtles swaying in the breeze—but it felt grounded. Welcoming without the show. I checked in, dropped Ryker’s name, and the woman at the desk—Sasha, her tag read—upgraded me to a suite. No fuss, no explanation. “Second floor, corner room. Best light,” she said with a wink.
The bed swallowed me whole. I crashed hard but didn’t sleep right. Dreams came in jagged flashes—dark windows, ghost faces, a silhouette I couldn’t shake. That woman. That moment. Burned behind my eyes.
I was up before dawn, body clock still wired for early ops. The room stayed dark, but outside, the city shifted—quiet hums of a town not quite awake. I laced my shoes, threw on a tee, and hit the street.
Five miles. No direction. Just forward.
Charleston in the early morning had a different rhythm. King Street woke slowly. Vendors setting up, crates of bread and flowers stacked outside shopfronts. The smell of yeast and coffee cut through the coastal air. An old man in a newsboy cap nodded from a stoop, cigarette hanging loose, like we understood something without saying it.
Down at Waterfront Park, dog walkers strolled in pairs. Labs tugged leashes. Mutts barked at squirrels. Conversations drifted about weather, work, last night’s game. The pineapple fountain burbled steady behind it all. The normalcy of it hit hard.
I picked up pace toward The Battery. Sweat soaked my shirt, lungs pulling clean air. The harbor shimmered in the sunrise. Boats bobbed, lines creaking. A fisherman cast into the calm, cooler at his feet. On the side streets, kids biked past laughing,a woman in scrubs sipped coffee on her porch, scrolling her phone before work. It felt honest. Nothing hidden. No mission underneath.
But my mind refused to slow. Ryker’s voice followed every stride.
Prove yourself. Family. Blank check.
What did he want from me? No last name. No rank. But that look—steady, calculating. Had I seen him before? Syria? Kandahar? He had the operator’s posture. Scarred knuckles. Calm eyes. A man who’d made peace with violence. He wasn’t some tech guy or paper pusher. Private sector, maybe. But why pull me into this?
Five miles later, I circled back, lungs burning, muscles loose. I stopped outside the hotel, letting the sweat cool. Charleston had shifted into full gear—tourists with cameras, iced coffees, and sandals swarmed sidewalks. I slipped back upstairs, showered hot, but the steam didn’t clear the questions.
Ryker knew things he shouldn’t. That meant surveillance. Resources. Maybe even clearance I’d never had. He said family like it meant something, but I knew what family really looked like—six brothers, a ranch, dirt under our nails, Mom yelling for dinner through the screen door. Ryker couldn’t fake that. But a blank check? That was different. That was power. That could’ve saved Baker. Could’ve brought Jensen home. If Dominion Hall really had that kind of pull, I had to know more.
The rest of the day crawled. I parked myself by the pool to kill time. The Palmetto Rose had a peaceful setup—lap pool, shaded deck, chaise lounges scattered among palm trees. I found a spot in the shade and watched the world pass. Linen-clad couples sipping drinks. A solo traveler with a thick book, lost in the pages. I swam hard for a while, pushing my body past thought. Then dried off, ordered a local beer, crisp and clean. It didn’t answer anything, but it helped pass the wait.
That woman still haunted me. Window silhouette. Bold and bare. If that hadn’t been a dream, I was going to find out tonight. Promenade. Eight sharp.
At seven, I headed upstairs again. Another quick rinse, towel off, clean shave. I dressed in black slacks and a crisp button-down—simple, not showy. I didn’t know the dress code. The place didn’t even have a menu online. No hours. No chef bio. That told me enough. Exclusive. Hidden.
I could’ve asked Ryker about her. The girl in the window. But it would’ve sounded wrong. Like I’d been creeping. So, I didn’t.
At eight on the dot, I reached the gate at Promenade. The house looked just like before—white columns, gas lanterns glowing. As I stepped through the courtyard, the door opened. A blond guy, early thirties, solid build, stepped out.
“Caleb?”
I nodded.
“Finn. This way.”
The interior air was cool, rich with garlic, herbs, and something darker I couldn’t place. The dining room was understated—soft lighting, hardwood floors, minimal decor. Not sparse. Intentional.
She was behind the bar.
Wiping a glass. Hair up. Focused. She wore black like a uniform, and I saw right away that she ran the room. Sharp eyes, quiet command. And curves that hadn’t faded in memory.
I stopped short.
Finn glanced back. “You all right?”
