Page 5 of The Captain
“Thanks again,” I said. “Night’s on me.”
The chief grinned, gave me a short salute, already spitting into his bottle again as the diver climbed aboard. The chopperlifted, blades slicing the air, and I watched it disappear down the coastline.
That’s when I saw her.
She was in the middle of the crowd, commanding it without trying. Not dressed for the beach—rubber boots, shorts, a soaked shirt clinging to her in ways that made my pulse kick. Water had molded the fabric to her curves, her nipples sharp against the cotton, and I had to force my eyes up to her face. She moved with purpose, directing people, her hands steady on a towel draped over something in the surf. Not a shark. A dolphin, maybe, its gray shape half-hidden by foam. She wasn’t yelling, wasn’t frantic, but every gesture said she was in charge. The crowd parted for her like water for a blade.
I shook my head, salt stinging my eyes, and turned away. Fetched my duffel from the dune, the sand warm under my feet.
Another swim, another miss. How many times would I dive into the deep, chasing something I’d never find? How many times would I come back empty?
I didn’t know. Didn’t particularly care. About anything.
The rental car was a black Jeep, parked where I’d left it, keys tucked in the duffel’s side pocket. I tossed the fins and goggles in the back, pulled on a dry shirt, and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine growled to life, and I pointed it toward Dominion Hall. Time for recon.
The drive was short, but Charleston’s streets had a way of slowing you down—cobblestones rattling the Jeep, tourists clogging the intersections, the air thick with jasmine and decay. Dominion Hall wasn’t hard to find. It sat on the harbor like it owned the damn water, all stone and glass and iron, sprawling across grounds that screamed money. The kind of place that didn’t need a sign because if you didn’t know what it was, you didn’t belong.
I parked a couple blocks away, blending the Jeep into a row of SUVs, and went on foot. Old habit. Never roll up to a meet without knowing the lay of the land.
The gate was black iron, heavy, with cameras tucked into the eaves—discreet but not invisible. The driveway stretched long enough to give defenders time to react. No guards in sight, but I felt them. Eyes on me, same as any hot zone. My skin prickled, but my pulse stayed even.
The mansion itself was a beast—stone walls cut sharp, windows reflecting the harbor like they were daring you to look too long. It wasn’t just a house; it was a statement. Power. Control. The kind of place where deals were made in whispers and bodies disappeared without a trace.
I’d seen compounds like this before—Dubai, Bogotá, places where men with my skill set were either hired or hunted. I wasn’t sure which I was here.
I circled what perimeter I could, keeping to the shadows of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, playing the tourist. The air smelled of salt and money, the kind that didn’t flash but pressed on you like a hand on your chest. I noted exits—side gate, service entrance, a dock with a sleek boat tied off. The place was a fortress, no question, but every fortress had a crack. I just hadn’t found it yet.
My watch read 1430. Plenty of time before 0600 the next day. I could’ve gone in, knocked on the door, played the good soldier. But I didn’t trust orders without context, and this whole setup reeked of strings I couldn’t see. Meachum had said “well-connected,” and that wasn’t a phrase he threw around lightly. Whoever was behind this had pull—Pentagon-level, maybe higher. That didn’t make me eager; it made me cautious.
I thought about the water again, the way it had held me an hour ago, indifferent but honest. Out there, it was just me and the deep. No games, no agendas. Just the fight to keep moving.I’d have gone back in right then, swam another hour, if it didn’t mean another chopper ride and a bar tab I’d already promised.
Instead, I leaned against a tree, out of sight from the cameras, and pulled a protein bar from my duffel. Unwrapped it, took a bite. Tasted like cardboard and regret, but it’d keep me sharp.
My eyes stayed on the mansion, mapping it, memorizing the rhythm of the place. A groundskeeper moved through the courtyard, clipping hedges with a precision that felt military. A car rolled out from a side garage—black, tinted, heavy. I clocked it, filed it away.
The woman from the beach flickered in my mind, unbidden. Her soaked shirt, the way she’d moved like she owned the sand under her feet. Something about her had stuck, like a hook in my gut. I didn’t like it. Didn’t have room for it. But it was there, same as the salt still drying on my skin.
I finished the bar, crumpled the wrapper, and tucked it back in the duffel. The sun was lower now, painting the harbor gold, the mansion’s shadow stretching long across the lawn. I’d seen enough. Time to move, find a diner, choke down some coffee, and figure out what the hell Dominion Hall wanted with a man like me.
I headed back to the Jeep, my steps silent on the pavement, the weight in my chest heavier than it should’ve been. Another swim, another miss. Another day carrying the shadow I couldn’t shake. I didn’t know what I’d find at Dominion Hall the next day. Didn’t know if I’d see her again—out there, in the deep, or somewhere closer.
I didn’t know which time might be the one I didn’t come back.
And part of me—the part that still dove into the dark, chasing ghosts—didn’t care.
I made a decision right then and there. I was getting drunk tonight. That’d drive away the ghosts and give me a few minutes to breathe.
Breathe, I thought. What a simple word with so many connotations.
3
CAMILLE
By the time the hazard lights strobed through the glare, the chaos had gone quiet. The crowd thinned to the dunes, the ocean pretended innocence, and the shake in my hands announced the adrenaline had slipped its leash—small, private tremors that made plastic crackle and needle caps stubborn.
Wet cotton cooled against my skin, salt tightening everything it touched. Triage was over. Now came the math, the part where hope had to stand up to numbers, and I followed the gurney to the truck.
At the truck, I drew blood from the peduncle, the vein rolling true under my fingers, and the tube filled a bruised red that told me more than I wanted. Becca read out the lactate when the portable analyzer beeped, and I swore softly in French. Miguel didn’t ask me to translate.
