Page 84 of The Sentinel

I kicked harder, dug my nails in, tried to scream against the gloved hand muffling my mouth?—

Marcus roared my name.

I caught a flash of him through my wild, thrashing panic—his face murderous, his body already moving toward me?—

And then the world went black.

A hood. Tight. Suffocating. A sharp sting in my neck.

The last thing I heard was Marcus’s voice, furious, desperate?—

And then, nothing.

32

MARCUS

Ididn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Just moved.

The spa door slammed shut behind Claire’s muffled scream, and I was already on the second bastard—his gun skittering across the tile as my fist cracked his jaw. Blood sprayed, hot and wet, splattering my shirt, my face, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. The first guy groaned from the wrecked reception desk, clutching his gut where I’d slammed him, but I didn’t stop to finish him. They’d taken her.Takenher. My Claire.

I roared her name again, voice tearing out of me like shrapnel, and bolted for the back door they’d dragged her through. The blonde at the desk shrieked—useless, fake, probably in on it—but I didn’t give a shit. My boots pounded the polished floor, slipping in some asshole’s blood, and I caught the frame just as the service hallway loomed ahead. Dark. Narrow. A fucking trap, and I’d walked us right into it.

“Claire!”

No answer. Just the echo of my own rage bouncingoff concrete. I drew my pistol, barrel steady despite the tremor in my hands, and charged in. Shadows moved—two of them, big, hauling something limp between them. Her. Hooded, slumped, but alive—I’d know her shape anywhere, even in the dark. My vision tunneled, red and black, and I fired. One dropped, a clean shot through the shoulder, his scream cut short as he hit the ground. The other spun, dragging her faster, disappearing around a corner.

I ran harder, lungs burning, every step a promise—I’d kill them. All of them. Rip their spines out and choke Hart with the pieces for daring to touch what was mine. The hallway split, and I caught a flash of movement—tires squealing outside, a door sliding shut. I burst through the service exit into humid air, gun raised, but they were gone. Van taillights flared red, then vanished down the access road.

Gone.

I stood there, chest heaving, the Bugatti waiting fifty yards away where I’d parked it. My fist slammed into the wall—concrete bit my knuckles, splitting skin, but I didn’t feel it. She was gone, and I’d let it happen. Right in front of me. My fault. My fucking fault.

I could still hear her—her sharp gasp, the scuffle of her feet as she fought, the way she’d twisted against them before they took her down. I’d been too slow. Too fucking slow. I’d seen the trap coming—felt it in my gut the second we stepped into that spa, the air too still, the blonde too calm—but I hadn’t moved fast enough. Hadn’t gotten her out.

I yanked my phone out, blood smearing the screen, and dialed Ryker. He picked up on the first ring.

“She’s gone,” I snarled, voice raw. “They took her.Daniel Island Club. Hart’s goons. I need everyone—now.”

A beat of silence, then his voice, cold and hard: “On it. Stay put.”

“Fuck that,” I snapped, already moving for the car. “I’m going after her.”

“Marcus—”

I hung up, slid into the driver’s seat, and gunned it. The engine roared, a beast waking up, and I tore out of the lot. They had a head start, but I’d find them. I’d tear Charleston apart street by street, burn every shadow until I had her back. And when I did? Hart and whoever she worked for—Department 77, God, the devil himself—would beg for a mercy I wouldn’t give.

The Bugatti ate the road, asphalt blurring beneath me as I pushed it past ninety, weaving through traffic. Horns blared, headlights flashed, but I didn’t care. My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, blood dripping onto the leather from where I’d split them open.

I couldn’t stop seeing her—gray eyes wide with that hunter’s glint, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, the way she’d smirked at me in the ops room like she owned the damn world. She’d been mine to protect, mine to keep, and I’d failed her.

Jason hit me then, unbidden, a memory slicing through the haze. Iraq. Sand in my teeth, heat baking my skin, his laugh cutting through the tension as we rolled out on patrol.

“You’re too pretty to die, Dane,” he’d said, clapping my shoulder.

Two hours later, he was gone—IED, no warning, just a flash and a crater where my brother-in-arms used to be.

I’d felt it then, too—that cold grip on my spine, the instinct screaming something was wrong.

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