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I’d setup a tail—quiet, ours—tracking her. Audio taps, if I could manage it. She was a problem. I didn’t give problems free rein.
I checked the feeds. She’d gone to her room after the pier.
I couldn’t shake her. That New York bite, the way she’d faced me down—daring me. Best of her generation, they said. I believed it.
She was too damn good. Too damn close. I had to stop her. To scare her off, shut her down, or whatever worked.
Family first. Company second. The rest could burn.
I switched screens and hit other outlets. Post and Courier, Channel 5—all parroting the gas leak line. It was the official story from local brass, and it was being swallowed whole.
No digging. No questions. Idiots. Claire was the only one poking holes—her podcast calling bullshit. The rest were blind or bought.
I scrolled X. The same gas leak crap was trending. Conspiracy nuts got drowned out fast. Nothing else was solid. Another week and the story would be fully played out.
Then 0ur Washington friends called. They weren’t so subtle. The who’s who we sometimes worked for—suits with secrets—wanted assurances. “Pier contained?” “Dominion clean?” “No blowback?”
I gave them what I had—the situation was locked, no leaks, we’re on it. I hung up before they dug deeper.
They didn’t trust us. They never had. They needed us, though. It didn’t stop the questions from stacking up.
It was a big fucking mess, and we were in knee-deep with no way out.
So why couldn’t I stop imagining her naked?
The vision hit me hard—Claire, stripped bare. Her leather jacket gone, her jeans off. Curves in a dark alley—raw, hot, all bite. Tits pressed to my face.
I pictured her on that steel table—legs spread, wrists pinned, breath hitching. Rough. Mine. I wanted to take her, to break her, and to hear her moan.
That voice from the pier cut me open—all steel and heat stirring shit I didn’t need. Not now.
I clenched my fists, jaw locked. I was the sentinel—eyes, ears, blade when it counted. No time for this shit.
Department 77 was a ghost. Claire was a live wire. Washington was on my ass.
Focus, damn it.
But there she was in my mind’s eye—naked, taunting. Recorder swapped for a gasp.Fuck.I shoved it down, buried it.
It didn’t matter how bad I wanted her, or how I’d make it good, rough, her breaking under me. She was a threat.
I checked the surveillance again. Her hotel feed was quiet, lights low. She’d be plotting. Same as me.
As I worked, my gut hummed louder—Department 77, her, the mess—all tied. I couldn’t see it yet. I simply had to trust it.
Radio crackled—Ryker. “Anything new?”
“Nada,” I said. “Claire’s holed up. Press buys the gas leak. Washington’s twitchy.”
“Keep her locked down,” he said. “No more bleeding.”
“On it.” Click.
I stood, pacing the ops room. My steps echoed off marble. The fortress pressed in—walls too thick, air too still.
Sullivan’s Island hit me—the sand, the waves, the life before this. I’d trade it all to ditch the weight and the blood.
But I couldn’t. Dominion Hall was ours—to holdand to fight for. Claire didn’t get that. She’d burn it for her truth.