Page 67 of The Shield
The next day, the afternoon sun struggled to pierce the thinning clouds as I made my way to the docks where Dominion Hall kept its fleet, the rain having finally relented. The sleek black yacht bobbed gently against the pier, a marvel of luxury that caught me off guard—polished teak decks gleaming under a fresh coat, chrome railings reflecting the gray sky, and interiors I’d glimpsed through open hatches that promised plush leather and polished wood, a world far removed from the rugged Montana plains I’d known. I hadn’t expected this opulence, but it suited the power I’d begun to associate with my new brothers.
Jacob and Caleb were already aboard, having navigated the Dominion Hall gauntlet—whatever trials or tests had brought them into this fold—and to my surprise, they looked almost at ease, lounging on the deck with a confidence that spoke of adaptation.
Jacob had shed his usual flannel for a tailored navy jacket, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms tanned from years outdoors, his dark hair slicked back with a casual elegance. Caleb, younger and leaner, wore a crisp white shirt open atthe collar, his boots traded for deck shoes that hinted at his acceptance of this new life, his hair catching the light.
I’d missed them immensely, the ache of those ignored calls and the years apart hitting me like a physical blow as I stepped onto the yacht. For a moment, regret gnawed at me—leaving them behind, turning away from the Montana ranch to roam as a nomad, had cost me more than I’d admitted. But then I remembered the promise Natalie and I had made—Forward only—and I let the guilt slip away, settling into the moment with my siblings.
The yacht’s engine purred to life, a low hum beneath my feet, and we cast off, the Charleston harbor unfolding around us, its waters choppy but calming as we moved. I leaned against the railing, the salt air mixing with the yacht’s polished scent, and turned to them.
“What about the others? The rest of the Montana crew?”
Jacob sipped a beer, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Bringing them in one at a time makes sense. Especially now, with this new threat looming. Lucas is next—Noah’s already reaching out.”
Caleb nodded, his grin wry. “Yeah, and with that gray-suited bastard’s body gone when Dominion Hall’s people got there, it’s spookier than hell. Atlas called it, but it still chills the blood.”
The disappearance of the body had indeed been eerie, a silent confirmation of the operative’s reach, and it fueled our conversation as we settled into the yacht’s plush lounge, the leather creaking under us. We tossed around guesses about the threat—who it could be, what it wanted—but it was all speculation, a web of maybes that led nowhere.
The real weight hung on the question of our father. Was Byron Dane really alive? The story of the Charleston Danes’ mother, who had reappeared after years away only to pass recently in the collapse of Department 77, lingered in my mind. Had she known something about Dad’s fate? The uncertaintygnawed at me, a soul punch that deepened with each unanswered question.
The conversation shifted, lightening as we spoke of Natalie, then to Jacob and Caleb’s fiancées—Camille and Megan—strong women they’d met through their own journeys. They turned to me, Jacob raising an eyebrow. “Planning to propose to Natalie? Seems to be the new family tradition.”
I shrugged, a noncommittal gesture that drew a laugh from them. “What, no grand speech?” Jacob teased, his smartass grin flashing.
I flipped them the middle finger, a brotherly retort that earned a chuckle, the familiar banter easing the tension.
Caleb leaned back, his beer resting on his knee. “What about this mayor thing? How do you feel about it?”
I met his gaze, the honesty coming easily. “I’m good with it. There’s plenty to do with Dominion Hall, and having a friend at City Hall could keep Charleston safe. Atlas and Ryker approached me about campaign money—said it wouldn’t hurt to have influence there. I’ve agreed to run it by Natalie.”
Caleb laughed, a rich sound that filled the lounge. “The Danes could finance the campaigns and careers of most mayors in the country. You don’t doubt that, do you?”
I didn’t. The power of the Dane billions had been a quiet undercurrent since Atlas had mentioned it before this trip, a revelation that I’d soon be added to the list of heirs. I’d discussed it with him, the idea of inheriting a fortune I’d never anticipated, and now I shared it with my brothers.
“Atlas told me it’s time to sign the papers, to be part of all this. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
Jacob and Caleb exchanged a glance, then grinned, lifting their drinks. “We’ve lived paycheck to paycheck long enough,” Jacob said. “Time to enjoy the fruits of our new fortune.”
“To our new fortune, to our new family,” Caleb added, and we clinked glasses, the sound a soft chime over the yacht’s hum. I smiled, the irony not lost on me—this was the last place I’d imagined myself when I’d first ridden Flapjack along the beach, a nomad with no ties, now anchored by wealth, family, and love.
The yacht glided through the harbor, the city’s skyline a wet silhouette against the fading light, and I felt a rare peace settle over me, the past and present weaving together in a bond I hadn’t known I needed.
EPILOGUE
NATALIE
Election Day
The Lowcountry had woken soft that morning, the marsh flat as glass, the sun rising gold over the live oaks at Middleton Place. We had chosen the spot on purpose—close enough to Charleston to get back in time for the day’s madness, but steeped in history and quiet, a private pocket where the only sounds were hooves in wet grass and the hush of Spanish moss in the breeze.
Flapjack tossed his mane like he knew what day it was. He had Ethan in his saddle, long frame folded into the leather, looking both too big for the horse and exactly right at the same time. I rode alongside on one of the Middleton geldings, the scent of wet earth and horses in my lungs, the ribbon of the Ashley River flashing silver in the distance.
“This is the only way I was going to survive today,” I said, tipping my face into the morning sun.
“Not champagne in bed?” Ethan asked, grinning like he knew the answer.
“Champagne’s for later. Right now I need hooves and air.”
He leaned forward, rubbing Flapjack’s neck. “He likes it here. No cameras, no sidewalks. Just space.”
