Page 85 of The Sentinel

Too late.

Always too fucking late.

And Dad. His shadow loomed bigger, darker, a wound that never closed.

I’d been deployed when he went dark—too far away to stop it, too disconnected to understand the secrets he’d buried with him. Hart’s taunts about him had ripped that scab wide open, and now Claire was paying for it. My past, my failures, bleeding into her present.

I growled, low and guttural, slamming the heel of my hand against the wheel. Not this time. I wouldn’t lose her, too.

I hit the access road hard, tires screaming as I took the turn. The van couldn’t be far—two minutes, maybe three ahead. I scanned the dark, searching for those taillights, for any sign of her. The island’s quiet streets stretched out, lined with oaks and manicured lawns, a mockery of peace when my world was shredding apart. Then I saw it—a glint of metal in the distance, a black van swerving onto a side road toward the marsh.

I floored it, closing the gap, the speedometer ticking past a hundred. The road narrowed, pavement giving way to gravel, crunching under the tires as I gained on them.

My pulse thundered, a war drum in my chest. I could see her in there—hooded, drugged, but fighting. She’d fight. Claire didn’t break. She’d claw, kick, tear at them with everything she had. I had to believe that, because the alternative—her still, her gone—was a wound I couldn’t take.

The van veered again, cutting toward a dirt track that snaked into the reeds. I followed, the Bugattifishtailing but holding, my hands steady on the wheel despite the chaos in my head.

I was close—fifty yards, then thirty. I could ram them, force them off, end this now. My finger hovered over the pistol on the seat beside me, ready to finish it the second I had a shot.

Then they pulled a move I didn’t see coming. The van’s back doors flew open, and a figure leaned out—big, masked, a rifle in his hands. Bullets sprayed, a staccato roar cutting through the air. I swerved, glass shattering as the driver’s side window blew out, shards slicing my cheek. The car spun, tires biting dirt, and I fought to keep it on the road, cursing as the van pulled ahead.

That’s when I realized my tires were shot. I tried straightening out, blood trickling warm down my face, and pushed harder on the gas.

Twenty yards.

I could still catch them.

I lost control as the Bugatti gave out to the flat tires and slippery road. I did a full 360 before she came to a stop.

I got out of the car thinking to run after the van. Then something glinted in the dark—a small, black shape that I’d seen tumble from the van’s open doors, hitting the ground and rolling into the grass. My gut twisted. I knew it before I saw it clearly—her recorder. The one she’d carried everywhere, clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

The van disappeared into the marsh, and I couldn’t chase it. My boots sunk into the soft earth as I ran to where it lay. My hands shook as I picked it up—scratched, dented, but hers. A sign. She was alive. She’d fought. Dropped it to mark her trail, to pull me to her.

I clutched it, my breath ragged, and straightened.The van was gone, lost in the maze of backroads and waterways, and I was standing there with nothing but a piece of her in my hands. Rage boiled up, hot and blinding, and I roared, the sound tearing out of me until my throat bled raw. They’d pay. Every last one of them.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me back. I yanked it out—Ryker.

“Where the fuck are you?” he barked, no preamble.

“Marsh road off Daniel Island,” I said, voice like gravel. “Lost them. They had a shooter. Took out my ride. She’s gone, Ryker.”

“Stay there,” he ordered. “We’re five out. Atlas is with me. He’s got drones in the air.”

I didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The fight had drained out of me, replaced by something colder, sharper. I slid the recorder into my pocket and leaned against the car, blood and glass crunching under my feet. Five minutes stretched like hours, the humidity pressing in. I replayed it all—her scream, the hood, the van—searching for what I’d missed, what I could’ve done.

Finally, Ryker’s truck rolled up, kicking gravel. He climbed out, all six-four of him radiating that quiet, lethal calm I’d seen in war zones. Atlas followed, his eyes already scanning the scene like a hawk. They didn’t say shit, just moved. Ryker clapped a hand on my shoulder, hard enough to ground me, while Atlas crouched by the tire marks, tracing the van’s path.

“She dropped this,” I said, holding up the recorder, my voice steady now, edged with ice. “She’s alive. Fighting.”

Ryker nodded, once, tight. “We’ll get her back.”

Atlas stood, brushing dirt off his hands. “Tracks head east—toward the docks, maybe. Drones are closing in. We’ll find them.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but something caught my eye—a glint in the grass, a few feet from where the recorder had landed. I stepped over, bending to pick it up. A burner phone, cheap and black, screen cracked but glowing. My stomach dropped as I thumbed it on—a single voice message waiting.

I hit play, and a voice slithered out, low and mocking. “Dane, you’re late again. Ask your father how this ends.”

The line went dead.

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