Page 15 of The Captain
They led me through the maze of Dominion Hall, corridors branching off like arteries, each one lined with details I cataloged: cameras tucked into corners, their lenses discreet but active; a heavy oak door with a biometric lock; a window overlooking a courtyard where a groundskeeper trimmed hedges with surgical precision.
My head throbbed, but I kept my face impassive, my stride steady. Recon was recon, hungover or not.
I noted a glass enclosure in one alcove, a black viper coiled inside, its scales glinting like oil under the light.Obsidian, a plaque read. A pet or a warning, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.
The hall opened into the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen—stainless steel counters stretching like runways, a massive island in the center, burners that looked like they could melt steel. Copper pots hung from a rack, polished to a gleam, and a Sub-Zero fridge hummed quietly in the corner. The windows faced the harbor, dawn painting the water gold, and I caught the faint scent of fresh bread, like someone had been baking before the sun came up.
Ryker moved to a coffee station, pouring a mug from a French press, the dark roast’s aroma cutting through the fog in my head. He slid it across the island, and I took it, the heat scalding my palm.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. It was strong, bitter, exactly what I needed.
Ryker leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Navy’s in hot water with the environmental folks,” he said, his tone dry, like he was stating a fact he didn’t particularly care about. “With us as liaisons, they’re supposed to do everything they can to appease the formidable Dr. Camille Allard.” He paused, his eyes locking on mine. “But you already know that.”
I didn’t react, just took another gulp of coffee, the burn grounding me. The image of Camille’s head tilted back, my cock halfway down her throat, flashed through my mind.
I shoved it down. Hard. I didn’t do that—didn’t let women unravel me, didn’t let desire cloud the mission. Being an elite operator, a leader of Marines, left no room for free-range sex, no matter how much I loved the raw, messy beauty of a woman’s body.
Last night had been an exception, a lapse, and I wasn’t about to confess it to these men. They didn’t need to know.
“Is that why I’m here?” I asked, keeping my voice even. “To help the Navy?”
Ryker and Atlas exchanged a look, quick but loaded, like they were passing a silent message. Atlas spoke, his voice calm but heavy, and in fluent French he said something about my reputation as a joint special forces leader preceding me, that they were possibly in the hunt for a man like me to help with a delicate task.
I wanted to slam my mug down, demand answers. They’d torn me from a mission—real stakes, national security implications, lives on the line—for what? A recruitment pitch? A fucking getaway?
My jaw tightened, but I kept it locked, my face a mask. I was here to learn, not to burn bridges before I knew what they were building.
Atlas smiled, faint, like he’d read my thoughts. Then, in fluent Mandarin, he said, “You’ll spend some time with our brother Marcus. He’ll give you the full dog-and-pony show.”
My brows lifted slightly—Mandarin wasn’t a language I advertised, but I spoke it, picked up from ops in places where it paid to listen. I didn’t let on that I understood, just nodded.
What else did they know about me?
Ryker chimed in, his tone dry. “Keep an eye on your wallet, though. It’s Marcus.”
Atlas chuckled, a low rumble. “He’s not wrong.”
They led me out of the kitchen, back through the maze of corridors, and toward the harbor side of the compound. I noted more details: a framed map of the Eastern Seaboard, old but precise, hanging in a hallway; a faint hum of electronics from behind a closed door; the way the floors gleamed, not a speck of dust, like someone swept them hourly.
My head throbbed, but the coffee helped, sharpening my senses. The viper’s enclosure caught my eye again as we passed—its tongue flicked, tasting the air, its eyes unblinking. I filed it away, another piece of the puzzle.
We stepped outside, the morning air hitting me like a slap, humid but cooler by the water. The harbor stretched before us, gold and gray under the rising sun, and a massive yacht was pulling up to the private dock, its hull sleek and black, cutting through the water like a knife. A man stood at the railing, blonde hair catching the light, a wetsuit clinging to a frame that looked like it belonged in a surf magazine. He waved at us, a big, kid-like grin splitting his face, like he was greeting old friends at a barbecue.
Atlas nodded toward him. “That’s Marcus. Listen to Ryker. Keep your valuables hidden.”
I studied the man—Marcus—his energy bright but not careless, his movements fluid as he helped tie off the yacht.
My mind churned with questions. Who were these men? What was Dominion Hall? Why me? Why now?
The Navy thing didn’t add up—Camille’s fight was real, but I wasn’t here to play eco-warrior. There was something bigger, something they weren’t saying. My training screamed to demand answers, to map the threat, but I kept my mouth shut. Recon meant watching, listening, waiting for the pieces to fall into place.
Marcus vaulted over the railing, landing lightly on the dock, and jogged toward us, his grin unwavering. Up close, he was younger than I’d thought, maybe early thirties, with eyes that sparkled like he knew a secret and couldn’t wait to spill it.
“You must be Jacob,” he called, voice carrying over the water. “Ready for the grand tour?”
I nodded, keeping my face neutral. “Lead the way.”
Ryker and Atlas fell back, their presence still heavy, like shadows you couldn’t shake. Marcus gestured toward the yacht, his energy infectious but not enough to crack my guard.
