Page 10 of The Shield
“Beer?” he asked, already pulling two bottles from a fridge that looked like it cost more than my life.
“Yeah,” I said.
I needed something to ground me in this place, this fortress that felt like it could swallow me whole. He handed me a bottle, cold and heavy, the label in a language I didn’t read. I took a sip, and it hit like a memory—crisp, foreign, expensive. Like a night in the Swiss Alps, years ago, when I’d been someone else for a while.
“Food’ll be ready in thirty,” the cook said, not looking up from her work. “Want it out by the water?”
“That’d be fine,” Atlas said, polite but firm, like he was used to giving orders that didn’t need repeating.
We moved through more rooms, each one heavier with that same quiet power. A library with shelves that climbed to the ceiling, books bound in leather that looked older than my family’s ranch. A hall with windows that framed the harbor, the water glinting silver in the late afternoon light.
I sipped the beer, letting the details sink in—the way the floorboards didn’t creak, the way every piece of furniture looked like it had a story, the way Atlas moved like he owned every inch of this place without needing to say it.
We stepped outside, and the view stopped me cold. The lawn rolled out forever, manicured to a fault, green as a lie that worked. Beyond it, the harbor stretched wide, the water so still it looked painted. Moored at a private pier was a jet-black yacht,sleek and massive, the kind of thing you saw in movies, not real life. Two helipads sat off to the side, their markings crisp against the grass.
I couldn’t hold it in. “What is this place?”
Atlas took a pull from his beer, his eyes on the water. “Home. For me and my brothers.”
“Brothers?” I asked, turning to him.
He nodded, but didn’t explain, his silence as deliberate as mine ever was. A man of few words, like me. I let it go, my gaze drifting back to the yacht. It was a beast, all sharp lines and quiet menace, like it could vanish into the horizon or start a war, depending on the day.
We walked down to the pier, the air cooler now, carrying the clean bite of the harbor. I set my beer on the railing, the bottle sweating against my palm. “Why am I here?” I asked, blunt.
Atlas didn’t answer right away. He turned, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw it—the moment he’d been waiting for, rehearsed, planned. I knew that look. I’d worn it myself, in places where words were weapons and trust was a gamble. My gut hummed, the way it did when I was a kid, watching, listening, internalizing everything before I acted. It had kept me alive more times than I could count.
“Dominion Hall’s the epicenter,” he said finally. “Where we plan missions. Make deals. Vet new blood.”
I raised an eyebrow. “New blood? And that’s me?”
He shrugged, casual but not careless. “We have ways of finding people.”
“How?” I asked, my voice low. I didn’t like being found. Not by anyone.
Another shrug. “We have ways.”
I wanted to push, to ask what the hell that meant, but I didn’t. Not yet. “This a job offer? Or a test?”
“Not traditional,” he said, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been amusement. “Make yourself at home in Charleston. There’s a room waiting for you at The Palmetto Rose.”
“Flapjack?” I asked, because he was the only thing that mattered as much as answers.
“Stables on the other side of the property,” Atlas said. “Fully stocked. Staff’s probably already spoiling him. You can visit him whenever you’d like.”
I nodded, letting that settle. “I’ve got questions.”
Atlas clapped me on the back, his hand heavy but warm, and laughed—a sound that felt like it could shift the ground under my feet. “Plenty of time for that.”
We boarded the yacht, settling into the aft lounge, all sleek wood and leather that smelled like money. The cook’s promise of food lingered in my mind, but for now, it was just me, Atlas, and the view. The harbor stretched out, endless and calm, the yacht rocking gently beneath us. I sipped my beer, letting the silence stretch. Atlas was comfortable in it, same as me, and that told me more than his words had.
But something nagged at me. He felt familiar, like a face I’d seen in a half-remembered dream. Had we met? I didn’t think so, but the feeling wouldn’t quit. And this place—Dominion Hall, with its stone and secrets—felt like it knew me, too.
I’d grown up scraping by on a Montana ranch, me and my six brothers pitching in when our father was gone on his endless work trips. We’d never had money like this, never known power like this. But something in the air here, in the weight of the walls, felt like it fit somewhere.
Then, unbidden, she came back to me. The woman from the beach. Not as she was, badge and all, but in a flowing dress, standing on this very yacht, a glass of champagne in her hand.Every curve of her body sharp and alive, calling to me like a siren song I didn’t know I could hear.
I shook it off, hard, focusing on the beer, the harbor, Atlas’s quiet presence. Questions piled up in my head—about this place, about him, about why I was here. I started listing them, trying to sort them by weight, but that was for later.
