Page 55 of The Captain
“Morning, Marine,” he said, leaning back, hands behind his head. “You look like you slept better than you should’ve.”
“Cut the shit,” I said, my voice low, steady. “What’s the Navy up to? I’m supposed to be your liaison with Dr. Allard, but I’m working blind. No brief, no intel. Give me something.”
His grin faded, just a fraction, but he didn’t move. “You want the Navy’s dirty laundry? That’s above my pay grade. And yours.”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snapped, stepping closer, my hands clenching. “You’re the glue in this town, you said so yourself. You know what’s going on—sonar, strandings, whatever’s got Dr. Allard ready to burn the fleet down. I can’t do my job if you’re holding out.”
Marcus tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided to solve. “Whose side you on, Jacob?” he asked, his tone light but sharp, that smartass edge cutting through.
I bristled, my jaw tight. “I’m trying to do the job you tasked me with. You dragged me to Charleston, threw me into this mess, and now you’re dodging. Why the hell am I here?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on mine. “You tell me. You’re the one pressing like you think there’s a bomb under the table.”
I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “Because thereisa bomb. You’re not telling me shit, Marcus. Why am I in Charleston? And what the hell does my brother Caleb have todo with it?” My pulse was hammering now, paranoia creeping in like a tide. The room felt too small, the walls too familiar, like I’d walked these halls before, in another life, another mission. Marcus, Ryker, Atlas—they were operators, same as me, but there was something else here, something I couldn’t pin down. It was like staring at a target through a busted scope, the edges blurry but the threat real.
Marcus didn’t answer, just stared at me, his grin gone, his eyes unreadable. I wanted to scream, to grab him by the collar and shake the truth out of him. My hands twitched, ready to move, when the door behind me creaked open. I spun, my body tensing, and there he was—Caleb, my brother, striding in with a wry grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I told you he’d keep pressing,” Caleb said, his voice light, like he was commenting on the weather.
Marcus laughed, a sharp, bright sound that grated on my nerves. “Officers,” he said, shaking his head. “Always sniffing.”
I turned on Caleb, my blood hot. “What the hell is going on?” I demanded, my voice low, dangerous. “You’ve been here, and you didn’t say a damn thing. What are you mixed up in? Do they have something on you?”
Caleb leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, his posture too easy, like he’d taken a chill pill and forgotten to tell me. His clothes—black polo, jeans, boots—matched Marcus’s, like he’d been issued the same uniform. He looked different, not just older but settled, like he’d found something I hadn’t.
It pissed me off more than I wanted to admit. My brother, my blood, standing there like he was in on a joke I’d never heard.
Marcus motioned to Caleb, his grin back. “You want to tell him, or should I?”
Caleb shook his head, his grin widening. “Nah, I want to see the look on his face. Need my hands free, too, in case I want to take a picture.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning. “What the fuck, Caleb? You drop off the map, show up here looking like one ofthem”—I jerked my head at Marcus—“and now you’re playing games? What is this?”
Marcus leaned back, his eyes glinting. “What do you remember about your father, Jacob?”
The question hit like a gut punch, my breath catching. My father, Byron Dane, was a ghost in my memory—always gone, always chasing something I never understood. “What kind of head shit is this?” I snapped, my voice rising. “That’s none of your damn business.”
I turned to Caleb, expecting him to back me up, to tell Marcus to shove it. But he just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me like I was a stand-up comic bombing on stage.
“Caleb,” I said, my voice tight, “what the hell have you gotten me into?”
He shook his head, his grin fading to something softer, almost pitying. “Wasn’t me, Jake. It was Dad. Answer the question.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My hands clenched, my pulse hammering so hard I felt it in my throat. I turned back to Marcus, my voice shaking with anger.
“You know what I remember? Dad was always gone—missions, trips, whatever the hell he was doing. Then he died, left us with nothing but a shitty house in Montana and a mom who worked herself to the bone. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”
Marcus laughed—actually laughed, the sound sharp and reckless, like he was daring me to swing. I was half a second from doing it, my fist twitching, when he held up a hand.
“You never asked me my last name, Jacob. Or Ryker’s. Or Atlas’s.”
I froze, the words hitting like a slug to the gut. My breath caught, my mind racing. “What the hell are you saying?”
Marcus leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine, no trace of his usual grin. “You can ask now.”
I swallowed, my throat dry, the room tilting. “What’s your last name?”
“Dane,” he said, the word dropping like a stone.
