Page 38 of The Sentinel

I rewound the clip, played it again. Same beat—Claire moving through the crowd, file in hand, Hart’s gaze lingering like a predator clocking prey. The AI had caught it, flagged the anomaly: her stare held 2.7 seconds longer than the average glance in the room. Subtle, but damning.

I scrubbed through more footage, pulling every angle.

There—11:52 p.m., Hart slipping away from the bar, phone pressed to her ear, her posture tight. Again at 12:19 a.m., lingering near the terrace doors, eyes darting back to Claire like she was waiting for something.

Holy shit.

Had we underestimated her? Was Evelyn Hart not just some figurehead mayor coasting on charm and old money? If not, she was in this—deep, dirty, and connected. That former CIA director in the file?Suddenly didn’t feel so random. Hart could have the pull, the access, the kind of quiet power that could tie a ghost like Department 77 to a city like Charleston. But for what? And she’d reacted to Claire—to that file—like it was a live grenade.

I stood, pacing the ops room. My mind was racing, piecing it together.

Claire had the file now, and Hart knew it. That meant the mayor was either scared, pissed, or both—and she’d move soon. I’d wanted Claire to stir the pot, and fuck, she’d done it without even trying. But this—this was bigger than I’d planned. Hart wasn’t just a loose thread. She was a damn fuse, and Claire was holding the match.

I should’ve been pissed. Should’ve stormed out, tracked Claire down, ripped that file from her hands before she lit the whole thing up.

But I wasn’t.

I grinned wider, a sharp, feral thing cutting across my face. This was it—the break I’d been chasing. Department 77 wasn’t just a shadow anymore. It had a face, and it was one I could hit.

Hart didn’t know I’d seen her. Claire was out there, digging, hunting, and Hart would come for her—whether to shut her up or snatch the file back. And when she did, I’d be there, waiting.

But Claire—fuck, Claire. Naked Claire flashed again, her body arching under me, her voice breaking as she came.

I stopped pacing, jaw tight, heat spiking again. I couldn’t shake her—didn’t want to. She was in my head, under my skin, driving me half-mad with want even now, with all this shit crashing down. Part of me wanted to find her, drag her back here, fuck her senseless on that steel table until we both forgot the mess we were in.

The other part—the sentinel part, the one forged in war and blood—knew I had to focus. Had to play this right.

I dropped back into the chair, pulling up Hart’s profile on another screen. Fifty-two, married, two kids, elected three years back on a platform of “cleaning up Charleston.”

Bullshit.

Her history was spotless—too spotless. No scandals, no dirt, just a string of photo ops and vague promises. I’d never dug deep because she’d never pinged as a threat. But now? Now I saw it—the cracks. Her husband was a shipping magnate, tied to half the docks on the coast. Her brother was ex-military, some black-ops stint he never talked about.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion warring with adrenaline. The night was done, but the war was just starting. Claire was out there with that file, Hart was watching her, and Department 77 was closer than ever. I’d let her take it—wanted her to—and now it was paying off.

But it was a tightrope, and one slip could bury us all. Ryker’d lose his shit when I told him—probably already sensed I was playing too loose.

It didn’t matter. This was my call, my move, and I’d see it through.

I leaned back, staring at the frozen frame of Hart’s face on the screen—cool, composed, but with that telltale glint of something darker.

Claire had no idea what she’d kicked up. She’d dig, push, chase that story until it bit her—and it would. Hart wasn’t some small-time crook. She had reach, resources, the kind of power that could crush a podcaster like Claire without breaking a sweat.

But Claire was mine to wield. Mine to protect.

That thought hit hard, unbidden, and I growled low, shoving it down.

She wasn’t mine—not like that. She was a tool, a weapon, the sharpest damn blade I’d ever held. I’d steer her, point her, and keep her safe while she cut through the dark. Hart wouldn’t touch her—not if I got there first.

I grabbed my phone, shot a text to Norton:Mayor Hart. Dig. Deep.

He’d get it—fantastic cop—knew everyone. Then I pulled the Bugatti keys from my pocket, the weight of them grounding me. I needed air, needed to move.

Claire was out there, plotting her next step, and Hart was watching her. I’d watch them both—closer now, tighter.

The game had shifted, and I was all in.

Fuck, I was deep. And I wasn’t backing out.

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