Page 44 of The Sentinel

“Because she’s in it,” I said, leaning closer, the space between us shrinking. “Caught her on camera tonight, staring at that file in your hand like it was a loaded gun. She’s tied to Department 77—don’t know how deep, but she’s not just a bystander.”

Claire’s lips parted, processing fast, that hunter’s glintI loved sharpening her features. “You think she’s the one who broke into my room?”

“Probably not. I’ll bet she’s got people who did.” I scrubbed a hand through my hair, the weight of it settling in. “Point is, she’s moving, and she knows you’ve got something. That note—‘pack of liars’—it’s them trying to turn you against me. And it almost worked.”

She smirked, a flicker of that New York steel cutting through. “Almost.”

I laughed, short and rough, the tension easing just enough to breathe. “Yeah, well, you’re still here.”

“For now,” she shot back, but there was no bite in it—just a challenge, daring me to keep her there.

I held her gaze, the air between us crackling again, different this time. Not just heat, not just the pull that’d landed us naked in that tunnel. This was something else—trust, fragile and untested, but there. I’d given her a piece of me, more than I’d meant to, and she hadn’t run. Not yet.

“Tell me about Will,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice steady but curious. “What happened?”

I leaned back in the seat, staring out at the dark water, the waves glinting under moonlight. “He was one of ours—Dominion through and through. Ryker’s shadow growing up, damn near a brother. Izzy’s actual brother, blood and all. Department 77 snatched him—clean op, no trace. We tried everything to get him back. Then, the pier. The pier was their kill shot—blow him and Ryker sky-high, send a message. Ryker got out with Will, alive. Lucky.”

Her brows knit, piecing it together. “And you’ve been chasing them ever since.”

“Every damn day,” I said, voice low, the ache of it still raw. “They’re ghosts—slippery, connected, alwaysahead. Until tonight. Hart’s the first solid thread I’ve had.”

Claire nodded, slow, like she was slotting it into her own puzzle. “So you planted the file to see who’d bite.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, glancing at her. “Didn’t expect it’d be her. Or that they’d come for you so fast.”

She snorted, a dry laugh. “Guess I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” I said, sharper than I meant. “They’re not playing. That hotel stunt? That’s a warning—or worse.”

Her smirk faded, replaced by something harder, resolute. “Then we hit back. Hart’s the key—dig into her, find the cracks. I’ve got sources, ways to pull strings you can’t.”

I raised a brow, caught off guard again. “You’re in?”

“I’m already in,” she said, simple, like it was a done deal. “You just made it official.”

Fuck, she was something else. I grinned wider, leaning toward her, close enough to catch that sharp floral scent of hers that’d been driving me crazy all night. “All right. Partners, then.”

“Partners,” she echoed, her voice dropping, a glint in her eyes that said she wasn’t done pushing me yet. “But don’t think this means I trust you completely.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back, matching her tone. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

She laughed—soft, real, cutting through the heavy air—and it hit me low, stirring that mix of want and something deeper. I’d brought her here to come clean, to pull her back from the edge, but now? Now she was diving in with me, eyes wide open, and I wasn’t sure I could keep her safe from what was coming.

“Let’s get inside,” I said, nodding toward the house. “Figure out our next move.”

She didn’t argue, just grabbed her clutch and stepped out, the silver dress catching the moonlight as she moved. I followed, my mind racing—Hart, Department 77, the mess I’d just dragged Claire deeper into. But as I watched her climb the porch steps, that stubborn tilt to her chin, I knew one thing for damn sure: I wasn’t letting her out of my sight. Not tonight. Not until this was done.

The old Dane home creaked under our weight as we stepped inside, the smell of salt and wood hitting me like a memory. The living room was sparse—faded sofa, a scratched coffee table, a few framed photos of us as kids before it all went to hell. Claire glanced around, taking it in, but didn’t comment. She just dropped onto the sofa, kicking off her heels with a sigh, and looked at me expectantly.

“All right, Dane,” she said, folding her arms. “Hart. Spill it.”

I paced to the window, staring out at the black water, the horizon lost in the dark. “She’s mayor—elected three years back, all smiles and promises. Too clean, like I said. Husband’s a shipping guy, controls half the docks. Brother’s ex-military, black-ops type, maybe. Not confirmed. And tonight, she couldn’t take her eyes off that file. She’s in—maybe running point, maybe just a cog, but she’s tied to them.”

Claire leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Shipping’s a goldmine for smuggling—drugs, weapons, whatever Department 77’s moving. And black-ops? That’s not a coincidence.”

“Sure,” I said, turning to face her. “She’s got the connections to make it work. But we need more—proof, something solid.”

“I can get it,” she said, voice steady, that glint back in her eyes. “I’ve got a contact in D.C.—old-schooljournalist, owes me a favor. He’s dug into worse than Hart before.”

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