Page 23 of The Sentinel

Ryker leaned in, his voice low and lethal. “And if Department 77’s already here? Watching us while you’re playing dress-up with your reporter?”

I didn’t flinch. “Then we’re ready. This place is a fortress. Let ‘em try.”

He didn’t buy it. I saw it in his jaw. “Short leash, Marcus. One slip, and I’m not cleaning up your mess.”

“Understood,” I said, holding his stare.

He turned back to the laptop, muttering something I didn’t catch. Charlie was already back to pacing, Atlas was plotting in that quiet way of his, and I was left with the hum of the monitors and the weight of tomorrow night. Masks, shadows, elite chatter. Claire in that silver dress, digging where I pointed her. Department 77 might show. My gut said they would. I’d be ready—watching her, watching them, every move locked down.

I left the ops room and headed for my car. I neededmore air. The masquerade was set—caterers, security, the works—all arranged in a day because that’s how we rolled. Money, money, money. Charleston’s elite would swarm, desperate for a peek at Dominion Hall, and Claire would be right in the thick of it, thinking she was the hunter. I’d let her run, let her feel the thrill, then spring the trap. She’d bolt for New York City, story half-baked, and we’d be clear.

I slid into the Bugatti, my door slamming shut, and that was when I saw it—an envelope on the passenger seat. It was thick and unmarked, just sitting there like it belonged. My gut clenched—that same hum I’d been ignoring too long. I grabbed it, tore it open, and seven photos spilled out.

Fuck.

Me—grainy, recent, caught mid-stride outside The Battery Club. Ryker—outside Dominion Hall, eyes sharp, Izzy at his side. Atlas—leaving a meeting downtown, posture tight. Charlie—on a run, mid-step, sweat gleaming. Three more—each brother, each one a fresh shot, taken in the last week. No note, no name, just the pictures staring back at me like a middle finger from the dark.

Department 77.

They weren’t just ahead—they were fucking here. Ten steps didn’t cover it—they had us pinned, scoped, and tracked like prey. My pulse kicked up. It wasn’t fear. It was anger, hot and sharp. I slammed a fist into the steering wheel. The horn blard, echoing off the gates. How the hell had they gotten this close? Cameras, tails, my own damn eyes—and they’d slipped through, left this right under my nose.

I shoved the photos back in the envelope, then shoved the envelope into the glovebox. I fired up theengine, peeling out toward The Battery Club. I needed a drink. Needed to think. Claire’s dresses, her kiss, the masquerade—all of it was still in play, but this changed shit. Department 77 wasn’t just a ghost. They were a blade, and it was already at our throats.

I hit the bar—same corner stool, same whiskey order. The bartender poured, quick and silent, and I slugged it back, the burn grounding me. Claire was in my head—silver dress, gray eyes daring me, that kiss I couldn’t shake. I’d toy with her tomorrow—push her, pull her, watch her burn bright before I sent her running. But now it wasn’t just about her. Department 77 was watching, waiting, and I had to figure out how to turn this trap around.

They thought they had us. They didn’t know me.

I sipped slow, staring at the bar’s grain. My plan shifted. The masquerade was still on, Claire was still bait, but now I was hunting, too. They’d show—my gut screamed it—and when they did, I’d be the one springing the trap.

Fuck, I was deep. And I wasn’t letting go.

11

CLAIRE

The second Diego suggested flying down, I should have shot it down.

I should have reminded him that this wasn’t some luxury vacation or one of our drunken New York nights where we crashed an Upper East Side gala just for the free champagne. But the moment I told him about the masquerade ball, he’d declared that I was absolutely not going without him.

“It’s investigative journalism, Diego,” I had argued, pacing my hotel suite, the invitation still clutched in my hand.

“It’s a masquerade ball, Claire,” he’d shot back. “And you’re telling me Marcus Dane personally invited you? I’m coming.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And why, exactly?”

“To protect you from yourself,” he said, dead serious. “And to see you in a ballgown. And maybe to make your military billionaire stalker seethe with jealousy, just for fun.”

I had groaned but relented, mostly because I knew Diego well enough to know there was no stopping him. And, if I was being honest with myself, having an extra set of eyes on me at that party wasn’t the worst idea.

Which was how I ended up at the airport the next morning, waiting for him to strut through the arrivals gate in his signature too-expensive sunglasses and perfectly tailored linen blazer, looking ready to conquer Charleston.

When he spotted me, he spread his arms wide. “Ah, there she is. My reckless, slightly self-destructive best friend. You look stressed. It’s hot. I hate it.”

Diego Gil—my best friend, my producer, and the only person on Earth who could keep up with me—lowered his sunglasses just enough to give me a once-over. “And you, oh fearless leader ofThe Unseen, look like a woman knee-deep in a bad decision.” His lips curled. “Tell me it’s about a case and not the ridiculously sexy billionaire breathing down your neck.”

I rolled my eyes as he pulled me into a quick but firm hug, the familiar scent of his expensive cologne wrapping around me. “Welcome to the South.”

He pulled back, eyes sweeping over me. “You need a drink. But first, tell me everything. And I mean everything.”

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