Page 50 of The Sentinel

Claire’s breath heaved, a sound that sliced into me, and she took a step back, her bare feet scuffing the marble. “No. No, that’s not—he wouldn’t—” She stopped, swallowing hard, her hands trembling now. “He was fine. He wasfinewhen we left him.”

“Claire,” I said, low, reaching for her, but she jerked away, her eyes blazing with something wild—grief, fury, guilt, all tangled up and spilling over.

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice cracking. “Don’t tell me it’s okay. It’s not fucking okay.” She turned to Ryker, her stance shifting, like she was gearing up to fight. “You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure it’s him?”

Ryker’s nod was curt, unflinching. “Isabel ID’d him. No mistake.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, muffling a sound—half sob, half growl—and I saw it: the moment she locked it down, shoving the pain somewhere deep where it couldn’t touch her yet. Her shoulders squared, her jaw set, and when she spoke again, her voice was cold, lethal. “This isn’t an accident. They did this. Department 77. Hart. Someone.”

“Yeah,” I said, stepping closer, my own anger simmering, a slow burn igniting in my gut. “They’re tightening the noose. Hitting where it hurts.”

Ryker’s eyes flicked to me, dark and unreadable. “If they’re bold enough to take out her friend, we’re not just in trouble—we’re fucked. They know she’s with us now. They’re not playing defense anymore.”

Claire’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “Then we don’t either. We go after Hart—now, harder. She’s the key—I’ll rip her apart if I have to.”

I caught the edge in her voice, the way it trembled just under the surface, and I knew she wasn’t just talking strategy. This was personal now, a wound bleeding fresh, and she’d tear through anything to make it right. I’d seen that look before—in war zones, in men who’d lost brothers—and it scared me, because I couldn’t let her burn herself out. Not her.

“Claire,” I said, softer this time, grabbing her arm, forcing her to look at me. “We’ll get them. But we do it smart—we don’t charge in blind, too fast.”

She yanked free, eyes flashing. “Smart? Diego’s dead, Marcus. They’re not waiting for us to besmart.”

“She’s right,” Ryker cut in, voice flat but heavy. “They’re moving fast. We’ve got no time to pussyfoot around Hart. But we’ve got to be precise—hit where it counts, not just swing wild.”

I nodded, the three of us locked in a silent pact, the air thick with unspoken stakes. Diego’s death wasn’t just a blow—it was a flare, lighting up how deep we were, how close they’d gotten. Hart was the thread, the one we could pull to unravel this, and we’d do it together—me, Claire, Ryker. No plan laid out yet, just the raw intent to bury her and whoever she answered to.

Claire’s hands balled into fists again, her bare feet planted like she was ready to storm out right then. “I need to see him. I need to?—”

“No,” Ryker said, sharp, stepping in front of her. “You go near that hotel, you’re a target. Isabel’s handling it—let her. I’ve got our guys looking out for her.”

“She’s right,” I added, hating the way Claire’s facetwisted, like I’d betrayed her. “They’ll be watching. Waiting for you to show.”

Her eyes met mine, and for a second, I saw it—the crack in her armor, the grief she couldn’t hide. Then it was gone, replaced by that cold, cutting resolve. “Fine. But I’m not sitting here doing nothing. We move on Hart—today.”

“Agreed,” Ryker said, glancing at me, a silent question in his eyes. I gave him a nod—small, firm. We were in, all the way, and whatever came next, we’d face it head-on.

The room pulsed with tension, a live current tying us together—anger, loss, purpose—and I felt it settle into me, a weight I’d carry as long as Claire was beside me. Diego’s death was fuel now, and we’d burn it all down to get to the truth. Hart didn’t know what was coming, but she’d feel it soon enough.

21

CLAIRE

The grief was raw. A jagged wound inside me, gaping and unrelenting. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, silent and still, staring at the floor of Dominion Hall as my pulse thudded dully in my ears. The weight of what had happened settled over me, pressing, suffocating.

Marcus and Ryker were near—close enough that I could feel their presence, their intensity—but neither of them spoke. The air in the vast space was thick with something unspoken, something I couldn’t name.

I should have cried.

Normal people would have.

When I’d heard the news, when Ryker’s words had reached my ears in a voice that didn’t sound real—flat, clinical, shattering—I should have broken. Should have felt my knees buckle, should have felt the tears come, hot and endless.

But there was nothing.

No sobs, no shaking, no flood of grief to drown in. Just an empty, hollow kind of numbness. A slow-buildingpressure in my chest that felt more like anger than sadness.

Was that wrong?

WasIwrong?

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