Page 17 of The Sentinel

I held my ground and didn’t blink. “She’s good, Ryker. Knows people, digs where we can’t. She’ll find them.”

“Or bury us!” His fist slammed the table. Steel rang. “You’re playing with fire—her mic, her ears—she’ll link it back!”

“She won’t,” I said, cold, steady. “I’m steering her, blind. She’ll never know it’s us.”

He grabbed my shirt and yanked me close, his breath hot. “You’re betting our necks on a reporter? After I said to make her gone?”

I shoved him back, hard and fast. “Back off, Ryker. She’s a tool—the sharpest one we’ve got, for now. Give me time.”

He didn’t swing. He wanted to, his fist clenchedwhite. “And if she talks? If she ties us to this mess—terrorism, feds, all of it?”

“She won’t,” I said again. “I’ve got her locked—feeds, tails, every move. If she steps wrong, I end it.”

He glared, black ice cutting deep. “You’re too close, Marcus. I saw her in the lobby. Saw you look.”

Heat hit low. Claire flashed again, naked, pinned. I buried it. “Doesn’t change shit. She’s a means. Family first.”

“Short leash,” he growled, stepping back. “All of us—her, you, this plan. One fuckup, and we’re done.”

I nodded. “Understood.”

He didn’t buy it, though. I saw it in his jaw, his stance. “What’s your next move? She’s got Department 77—now what?”

I smiled—slow, sharp, with a predator’s edge. “I’m inviting her to a masquerade ball.”

Ryker froze, staring like I’d lost it. “A what?”

“A masquerade,” I said, my grin widening. “Charleston’s elite at a big event. Dominion’s hosting. We open the doors wide open. She’ll bite at a chance to poke, prod, and get close.”

He didn’t blink. “You’re dangling her in our house? With feds circling?”

“She’ll dig there—quiet, controlled,” I said. “I’ll watch her, steer her, then use her to smoke out 77. Maybe offer to help. She’s too good to waste.”

“Too good?” His voice dropped. “Or too hot?”

I smirked. I couldn’t help it. “Both.”

He lunged, his fist cocked, his eyes wild. I sidestepped fast, then caught his arm and twisted it back. “Easy, brother.”

He yanked free, breathing hard. “You’re playing a game. If it ends bad, it’s on you.”

“I know,” I said, my voice steel. “Trust me. I’ve got this.”

He didn’t trust me. I saw it in his glare and his fists. “Short leash,” he said again. “One slip, Marcus—one—and I bury her myself.”

He turned and stormed out. The door slammed, echo ringing. I stood there, my jaw tight, my pulse steady.

Ryker was right—the heat was rising. Senator Holloway, intel sniffing, and terrorism whispers were all bad for Dominion Defense Corporation. Not to mention, feds being in town flipped the script. We watched, not them. We were used to it. We always had eyes out, not in. Now Claire had Department 77, and I’d dropped it right in her lap.

My plan was risky as hell—feds, Ryker, her mic. One wrong move, and we’d bleed.

I pictured her again—the pier, the lobby, that blouse tight, jeans hugging. The vision of her naked flashed in my mind—raw, mine, legs spread on that steel table. Heat hit him. I wanted her pinned, breaking, and moaning. The thought thrilled me—her hunting, me watching, danger close.

Then that kick hit again. I wouldn’t let her burn. My gut snarled.Keep her safe, asshole.Why? Fuck if I knew.

I left the ops room, then drove back to The Battery Club. I needed air and space. The valet took the Bugatti—same kid, same stare. Inside—dark wood, leather, bourbon hum.

I sat at the bar on the same corner stool, the exit clear. “Whiskey,” I told the bartender. He poured, quick and silent.

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