Page 14 of The Captain
I planned to be the one to hear it first.
6
JACOB
The bungalow’s sheets were still warm when I woke, tangled in the scent of whiskey, salt, and her.
Camille.
She’d been true to her word, slipping out before dawn like a shadow, leaving me alone in her bed with nothing but the memory of her body under mine.
My head throbbed, a dull hammer behind my eyes, the hangover clawing for attention. Part of me wanted to hunt down a greasy diner, choke down eggs and bacon, and drown myself in water and coffee until the haze lifted. But the clock on my phone read 0530, and Dominion Hall was waiting. I had to move.
I rolled out of bed, my muscles stiff from the night’s exertion—her nails on my skin, her thighs around my waist, the way she’d demandedharderlike it was a mission I couldn’t fail. My cock twitched at the thought, and I cursed under my breath, pulling on my clothes. Jeans, boots, a black T-shirt that smelled faintly of the ocean. I splashed water on my face in her bathroom, the mirror showing a man who looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a ghost and lost. My jaw was shadowed withstubble, a nick from a hasty shave yesterday still raw. I didn’t have time to care.
I grabbed my keys, locked her door behind me, and jogged—then stopped short at the curb, remembering my Jeep was still sleeping it off at the bar. I called a cab, then watched the bungalow’s porch light wink out behind me like it wanted me back. Ten quiet minutes later the driver rolled into the gravel lot at Salty Mike’s, tires crunching. My Jeep sat where I’d left her, unbothered. I paid cash, jogged across the stones, climbed in, and turned the key. Time to move.
Charleston was still half-asleep, the streets quiet except for the hum of early delivery trucks and the distant clatter of crab traps being stacked on the docks. The air was thick, heavy with the promise of heat, and my head pounded with every turn of the wheel. I pushed the Jeep hard, weaving through the cobblestone streets, the harbor glinting in my peripheral vision.
Dominion Hall loomed in my mind, a fortress of questions I didn’t have answers for. Meachum’s voice echoed—well-connected, do your job—and I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing the memory of Camille’s mouth out of my head. Focus, Dane.
I pulled up to the property at 0558, the black iron gates of Dominion Hall already swinging open, silent and smooth, like they’d been expecting me. I parked under a live oak, its Spanish moss dripping like a warning, and stepped out, sprinklers tick-tick-ticking as they doused the manicured grass. The mansion sprawled before me, stone and glass catching the first light of dawn, its reflection on the harbor sharp.
My pulse steadied, training kicking in. I was here to learn, to map the terrain, to figure out what the hell these people wanted with a Marine like me. I straightened, face impassive, and walked toward the portico.
The door opened before I reached it, a man in a tailored suit nodding once, his eyes scanning me with precision. I stepped inside, the cool air hitting my skin like a command to stand down. Then I saw her.
Camille. Standing under the portico, her dark hair pulled back, a skirt clinging to her legs like she’d just walked out of the sea.
What the hell was she doing here?
My jaw tightened, but I kept my face blank, years of staring down bad guys teaching me to bury surprise.
She looked at me, her eyes catching mine for a split second—recognition, heat, something unspoken—before she turned away, speaking low to a woman in a Navy uniform. My chest tightened, the memory of her gasping under me flashing unbidden. I forced it down, but not before I caught the eyes of two men nearby.
They were the real deal. Hardened, not by posturing but by the kind of life that left scars you didn’t show. One was broad, coiled, moving like a scout who’d seen too many ambushes to trust a clear path. The other was massive, a bearded mountain of a man whose stillness felt like a storm waiting to break. Their faces were placid, stern but gracious, like hosts who knew how to welcome you while measuring how fast they could take you apart. They’d seen the recognition between me and Camille. No question. Their eyes didn’t linger, but I felt the weight of their assessment, like a scope on my back.
Camille stepped past me, her gaze cutting sideways. “Try not to drown today,” she said, her voice light but edged, like she was tossing a grenade and walking away.
I let my mouth curve, just enough to match her. “Breathe,” I said, low, almost under my breath. “You’re better when you do.”
Her lips twitched, a lean little smile, and then she was gone, moving toward her SUV with a stride that said she ownedthe ground under her feet. The Navy woman jogged after her, handing her a folder, their voices fading into the morning.
I didn’t watch her go. I didn’t need to. The memory of her was already burned into me, her taste still lingering on my tongue.
The man in the suit gestured me forward. “This way, Captain.”
I followed, my steps echoing on the polished floor of the foyer. The space was massive, chandeliers glinting like they cost more than ten of my entire careers, oil paintings lining the walls—storms and ships, all framed in heavy wood that screamed money. The air smelled of cedar and polish, with a faint undercurrent of salt from the harbor outside.
Two men stepped out from a side corridor, the same ones I’d clocked outside.
“Ryker,” the scout said, his voice low, clipped, like he didn’t waste words. He wore a dark shirt, worn but tailored, the kind of fabric that said money but didn’t shout it. His eyes were sharp, scanning me like he was mapping my edges.
“Atlas,” the big one said, his voice deep, resonating like a bass note. His beard was neat, his clothes—dark pants, a henley—looked lived-in but expensive, the kind of gear that could take a beating and still cost a month’s pay. He offered a hand, his grip firm but not crushing, a test I passed by not flinching.
“Jacob,” I said, keeping it simple. “Got coffee?”
Ryker’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “This way.”
