Page 62 of The Sentinel

I pulled out my phone, firing off a text to our logistics guy, terse and to the point:Get the Gulfstream airborne. JFK pickup, Diego Gil’s parents. Now.

He’d handle it. Always did. But my gut twisted as I hit send. This wasn’t like arranging a dust-off for a wounded brother or calling in a favor for Ryker. This was personal, messy, and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I’d spent years keeping people alive—my family, my team—but comforting strangers? Helping Claire carry this? I was out of my depth, and it pissed me off how much I wanted to get it right.

She turned back to the screen, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides, and I watched her—really watched her. The way she stood there, spine straight, jaw tight, refusing to break even after that call. She was a goddamn force, stronger than I’d ever expected, and it hit me hard. I’d seen men crumble under less—hell, I’d carried their pieces myself—but Claire? She was steel wrapped in fire, and it made something ache deep in mychest. Made me want to pull her close, hold her, never let her go.

That wasn’t me. Not usually. I’d chased plenty of women off before—quick flings, guest-room nights, a smirk and a wave as they left at dawn.

Easy.

Clean.

But Claire wasn’t them. She was under my skin, in my blood, and the thought of her staying—really staying—unsettled me in a way I wasn’t used to.

Part of me wondered if I should just tell her to go. Pack her bags, get on that plane with Diego’s parents, get the hell out of Charleston and away from this war. Be safe.

I could do it—cut her loose, scare her off like I’d done before. But the idea of her leaving twisted something sharp inside me, and I knew I wouldn’t. Not her.

“How long?” she asked, breaking the silence, her voice steady despite the faint tremor in her hands.

I glanced at my phone, doing the math. “Jet’ll take off soon. Couple hours to JFK, load up, couple more back, barring delays.”

She nodded again, slower this time, her gaze drifting to the floor. “Perfect. Because I can’t sit around anymore.”

I raised a brow, stepping closer. “What do you want to do?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, sharp and blazing, like the grief had burned away everything soft and left only edges. “I want to pay the mayor a visit. Now.”

My gut clenched. Evelyn Hart. The name alone was a live wire, and Claire wanted to walk straight into the current. “Claire?—”

“Don’t,” she cut me off, her tone hard, final. “I’m not asking permission.”

I didn’t like it. Not one damn bit.

Hart was a snake—slippery, connected, and dangerous as hell, if our assumptions were right. Department 77’s shadow hung over her, and Claire marching in there was like waving a red flag in a war zone.

But the look in her eyes told me I wasn’t talking her out of this—not unless I tied her up and locked her in my room. My mind flashed to that—her wrists bound, her body pinned under mine, that fire in her gaze daring me to try. Heat licked low in my stomach, and I shoved it down hard. Later. When we were alone. For now, she was calling the shots, and I’d have to deal.

“Fine,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t waste time. She grabbed her bag from the chair, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door, all purpose and no hesitation. I followed, nodding to Izzy as we passed—her lips pressed into a thin line, like she knew this was a bad idea, too, but wasn’t about to stop us.

We hit the parking lot, the midday sun beating down, humidity sticking my shirt to my back as I unlocked the Bugatti. Claire slid into the passenger seat without a word, her jaw set, her hands folded tight in her lap. I climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out, the low growl of the car cutting through the thick Charleston air.

She didn’t speak as I drove, her silence heavy, loaded, like a storm brewing just under the surface. I wanted to ask what her plan was—hell, I wanted to demand it—but I didn’t. My M.O. was watching, waiting, striking when the moment hit. Killing, if it came to that. Herswas questioning, digging, peeling back lies until the truth bled out. This was her show, and for now, I had to trust her to run it.

The city complex loomed ahead—a squat, modern building that clashed with Charleston’s old-world charm, all glass and concrete and bureaucratic bullshit. I swung into the parking lot and killed the engine. My phone dinged before I could even unbuckle—a sharp chime that made my jaw tighten. Ryker. I yanked it out, scanning the text.

Might have an ID on the hotel guy. Working it now.

I glanced at Claire, her hand already on the door. “Ryker says they might have something on the mystery man from the footage.”

She nodded, barely a flicker of reaction, her eyes locked on the building ahead.

“Good.”

Then she was out, slamming the door, marching straight for the entrance like she was storming a fortress. I followed, a step behind, my pulse kicking up despite myself. She was a force—hair swinging, shoulders back, that tank top and shorts combo somehow making her look more dangerous than if she’d been in full combat gear.

I caught myself thinking the only thing hotter would be her with one of those old-school mics, shoving it in Hart’s face, demanding answers. Fuck, that’d be a sight.

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