Page 7 of The Reaper
I missed the ranch sometimes—the way we’d gather after deployments, beers around a fire, stories traded in half-sentences because some things didn’t need full light. But duty called, and we answered. Always.
The humidity didn’t bother me much. Reminded me of Bangkok—flash and smells, sweat-soaked streets alive with neon and chaos. There, it was street food vendors hawking pad thaiand mango sticky rice, tuk-tuks weaving like madmen, the Chao Phraya River churning brown and relentless.
Here, it was more subdued. Lowland swamp vibes, Spanish moss dripping from oaks like forgotten veils, the Ashley River murmuring secrets to the Cooper. No neon, but the gas lanterns on King Street flickered with their own kind of fire.
I stopped for coffee at a corner spot—black, no sugar, strong enough to wake the dead. The brew impressed me. Rich, bold, with a hint of chicory that lingered. Charleston had teeth in its caffeine, at least.
I sipped as I walked, eyes scanning. Checking for tails was second nature. A glance in a shop window reflection here, a pause at a crosswalk there. No one stuck. No shadows mirroring my pace, no faces repeating in the crowd.
Good.
Whoever pulled me here was connected, but if they were watching, they were pros.
Better than me? Doubtful.
I thought again about ignoring the whole thing. Bailing on this Dominion Hall, letting these pricks chase their own tails. But my boss’ words echoed:Well-connected. Tantamount to an order.
I wasn’t one to buck chains of command—not without a damn good reason. And curiosity? That was a reason, even if it tasted like ash.
The sun dipped lower as I looped through the French Quarter, past galleries and bistros spilling laughter onto sidewalks. The architecture was a mix—Georgian facades with wrought-iron balconies, hints of antebellum grandeur cracked by time. I caught whiffs of jasmine and frying shrimp, horse carriages clopping by with tourists gawking.
It was quaint. Too quaint. Made my skin itch, like the prettiness hid sharper edges. I’d seen it before in places likeVienna or Dubai—polished surfaces over dark deals. My boots ate miles, sweat beading on my neck, but I kept moving. Recon cleared the head, sharpened the senses.
Night fell, stores closed, and still, I walked.
That’s when I passed it.
Promenade. Tucked on South Battery, overlooking the harbor. From the outside, it didn’t scream anything special—stained white columns, gas lanterns flickering low, a courtyard gate half-hidden by vines.
But something pulled.
I’d seen private clubs worldwide: smoky dens in London where suits cut billion-dollar deals over Scotch, back-alley spots in Moscow where oligarchs met mistresses with diamonds and disdain, cartel haunts in Medellín where coke was cut on marble tables and plans whispered in Spanish.
This felt like that. Exclusive. Guarded. The kind of place where entry wasn’t about money—it was about knowing. About being made.
I lingered longer than I should have. Made a slow loop around the block, eyes tracing the lines of the building. Windows dark upstairs, but a faint glow from what looked like a dining room below. No sign out front, no valet, no buzz. Just presence.
Intrigue gnawed at me, though I couldn’t pin why. Maybe the isolation—the way it stood apart from the tourist traps. Or maybe it was the pull of something forbidden, like the order that dragged me here.
I slipped into the shadows across the street, blending with the hedge line, breath steady. Old habit. Watch first. Act later.
That’s when I saw her.
She appeared at the upper window, framed like a goddamn vision. Naked. Bold as brass. Skin glowing under soft light, curves that hit like a rifle recoil—strong shoulders, sharpcollarbones, a body honed for endurance, not show. Stunning. Absolutely fucking stunning.
Long, dark hair loose, maybe damp from a shower, falling over one shoulder. She stood there, unapologetic, staring out into the night like she owned it. Like the darkness bent to her will. There was no shame in her, only stillness. Power wrapped in beauty.
I couldn’t help but stare. Heart kicked up a notch, blood humming. She was fire wrapped in silk—resolute, even from this distance. Eyes scanning the harbor, or maybe the street below. I knew she couldn’t see me; the shadows were my domain, always had been.
But damn if it didn’t feel like she could. Like her gaze pierced the dark, locked on mine, challenging.Who are you?it seemed to say.What do you want?
It wasn’t a question. It was a warning.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just watched. The way she held herself—chin high, no flinch, no cover-up. It stirred something deep, primal. Hunger I hadn’t fed in months, buried under missions and orders.
Women like her didn’t cross my path often. Or if they did, it was fleeting—a night in a hotel bar, no names, no repeats. But this? This lingered.
She shifted, gaze hardening, resolute as steel. Then she disappeared, stepping back into the room, gone like smoke. And I stood there like an idiot, pulse jackhammering in my ears, jaw clenched like I’d been sucker punched again—this time by beauty.
