Page 49 of The Sentinel

She didn’t argue, just nodded and swung her legs off the bed, stretching in a way that made the shirt lift, exposing a sliver of skin I wanted to taste again. “Gimme five,” she muttered, padding toward her suitcase in the corner.

“Keep the shirt,” I said, voice low, and she shot me a smirk over her shoulder that hit me square in the chest.

We hit the road fast, the Bugatti eating up the miles between Sullivan’s and Dominion Hall. Claire sat shotgun, barefoot, legs tucked under her, still in that faded black tee and nothing else but a pair of jeans she’d yanked on. The windows were down, the marsh air whipping through, carrying the tang of brackish water and the faint rot of low tide. She didn’t talk much, just stared out at the blur of green and gray, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on her knee. I kept my eyes on the road, but my head was spinning—Hart, that envelope, the hotel break-in, all of it piling up like storm clouds ready to burst.

Dominion Hall loomed ahead as we crested the last rise, its gates glinting under the morning sun like teeth bared for a fight. I pulled in slow, the mechanism whining as the gate swung open, and drove through, gravel crunching under the tires. The place felt heavier today, like it knew what was coming.

I parked out front, cutting the engine, and Claireclimbed out before I could say anything, her bare feet hitting the ground like she owned it. That T-shirt fluttered in the breeze, too tight across her chest, too short to hide the curve of her hips, and I caught myself staring longer than I should’ve. She didn’t notice—or didn’t care—just strode toward the entrance, all New York sass in a Southern war zone.

The foyer hit us with its chill, marble floors gleaming under the cold light. I’d barely shut the door when Ryker’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and pissed, echoing off the walls.

“Marcus, what the fuck?”

He was waiting, pacing the ops room doorway, six-four of coiled fury in a black shirt and boots that looked ready to stomp through concrete. His eyes locked on me first, then flicked to Claire—still in my shirt, still barefoot—and his jaw tightened so hard I thought it’d crack.

“Ryker—” I started, but he cut me off, storming forward, his steps thudding like war drums.

“You bring herhere?” he snapped, voice low and venomous, stopping a foot from me. “After last night? After you let her walk off with that file? I told you to keep her on a leash, not drag her into the fucking heart of it!”

Claire stepped up beside me, chin lifted, unfazed. “Hey, ease up. It’s not what you think.”

Ryker’s gaze swung to her, dark and cutting, like she was a grenade he hadn’t decided to pull the pin on yet. “Not what I think? You’re a podcast journalist sniffing around our dirt, and now you’re standing in my house wearing his goddamn shirt. Lady, we’re in enough trouble without you stirring the pot louder than a fuckin’ tornado.”

“It’s different now,” she said, voice steady, meeting his glare head-on.

“How?” Ryker shot back, crossing his arms, his stance wide like he was ready to throw us both out.

I caught his eye, held it—long, deliberate, letting him see it wasn’t just some fling, wasn’t just me screwing around. This was more, deeper, and I wasn’t backing off. His brows twitched, a flicker of something crossing his face—disbelief, maybe, or just exhaustion.

He groaned, loud and rough, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck me, I must be as crazy as you two to even consider this.” He pointed at me, then her, his voice dropping to a growl. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. No podcasts, no reckless bullshit. We’re going after Hart—hard and fast—and you’re either in line or out the door.”

Claire didn’t flinch. “I’m in.”

I nodded once, sharp. “We’ve got a rough plan. Hart’s the target—crack her open, find the ties. We’ll sort the rest as it comes.”

Ryker exhaled through his nose, still eyeing us like we were a bad bet, but he didn’t push back. “Fine. But this stays tight—me, you, her. No one else until we know what we’re dealing with.”

We’d just hashed out the edges of it—nothing concrete, just a skeleton of intent—when Ryker’s phone buzzed in his pocket, a harsh vibration that cut through the room’s heavy silence. He yanked it out, glanced at the screen, and his face shifted, a shadow of concern passing over it.

“It’s Isabel,” he said, voice clipped, already stepping away. “I gotta take this.”

He moved toward the corner, phone pressed to his ear, but I caught the tension in his shoulders, the way hisfree hand flexed like he was bracing for a hit. Something was off—badly off—and my gut twisted, a cold thread snaking through me. Isabel didn’t call during working hours unless it mattered, and Ryker didn’t look like that unless it was serious.

Claire shifted beside me, picking up on it too, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. Ryker’s voice stayed low, a murmur I couldn’t catch, but his gaze darted to Claire—quick, sharp, loaded—and my stomach dropped.

He ended the call fast, shoving the phone back in his pocket, and turned to us, his expression carved from stone. He didn’t speak right away, just stood there, breathing hard, like he was weighing how to drop whatever bomb he’d just caught.

“Spit it out,” I said, stepping forward, my voice tight with a mix of dread and impatience.

Ryker’s eyes flicked between us, settling on Claire, and when he spoke, his words landed like a sledgehammer. “Isabel’s at The Palmetto Rose. With the police. I’m sorry, Claire. They found Diego Gil—face down in the pool. He’s dead.”

The air sucked out of the room, leaving a hollow roar in my ears. Claire froze beside me, her face draining of color, those gray eyes wide and unblinking. I felt it hit her—shock first, then something rawer, sharper, cutting through the steel she usually wore.

“Dead?” she whispered, barely audible, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. “Diego’s … dead?”

Ryker nodded, slow, his jaw tight. “Yeah. Cops are calling it an accident—drowning, too much booze. But Isabel’s not buying it. Said the camera footage was weird, and that it kept going in and out all night.”

My mind raced, gears grinding as the piecesslammed together. Diego—flirty, sharp, a loose end who’d been with Claire all night, who’d seen the file, who’d been at the masquerade. Department 77 didn’t fuck around. This was a message, a knife aimed at Claire, at us, and they’d carved it right through her best friend’s chest.

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