Page 62 of Let Me In

CAL

I read her message twice.

Then again.

Phone screen pale against the dark. Light flickering across the edge of the glovebox. Across the compass still nestled inside—cold from the night air. The one she pressed back into my hand, eyes full of quiet trust.

I reach in and take it out, holding it between both hands, thumb grazing the nick in the casing she always touched.

Lift it to my mouth. Inhale.

Still smells like her—soft lavender and that hint of cedar from the cabin. The scent lives in the metal now, buried into its edges.

It steadies me more than it should.

God, I can hear it.

Her voice in those words. Small. Braver than she knows.

She didn’t tell me everything—I can see that.

But she told me enough.

She reached back.

And that’s what matters.

I tuck the phone into my chest pocket, close and steady.

Then step out into the night.

The water laps quietly against the edge of the dock.

No wind.

No boats moving.

Just the soft hum of current beneath the world.

I’ve been watching the yacht for hours.

Every light pattern. Every silhouette behind glass.

They think they’re invisible.

Untouchable.

But they’re not watching the water.

And they’re not watching me.

I lean against the edge of the marina, hood up, hands buried deep in my coat pockets. The cold settles into my knees, stiffens the joints in my fingers. Breath fogs against the wind, and I let it. Unmoving.

There’s one more shift change before dawn.

One more circuit I need to see.

After that—

It begins.

I’ll slip into the wetsuit. Silent. Low. No gear that makes noise. No tech they can trace.

Just the weight of memory.

And the knowledge that I have nothing left to prove.

Only something sacred to protect. Someone who’s given me more than any mission ever has.

I glance down the dock.

The streetlights buzz in the distance.

And I murmur it under my breath.

Just once.

Just to feel it settle in my chest.

“I’m coming home.”

The dock creaks once beneath my boots.

Just once.

Then nothing.

The wind is low tonight, barely moving the lines where the smaller boats sway.

The yacht is out past the narrows. Lit quiet. Guarded but not fortified.

Rich men always think silence makes them untouchable.

But I’ve lived in silence longer than they’ve lived in power.

They don’t know what it sounds like when it breathes back.

I settle onto the crate I’ve been using all night. One knee bent, the other foot planted. Elbows resting loose on my thighs.

Still.

I’ve barely moved in hours.

That’s how I used to be trained. Hours of stillness. Hours of watching.

But this isn’t about training.

It’s about her.

I reach into my coat.

I pull the compass from the duffel where I tucked it earlier, and turn it over in my hand. The casing is cold, worn, familiar. It points north, always. But tonight, it’s pointing home.

Back to the cabin. Back to her. Back to where my name doesn’t mean anything unless it’s on her lips. Where the word she gives me—Daddy—means more than any rank I’ve ever held.

I hold it steady for a long moment, then tuck it away. Not because I need direction, but because I already have one.

I have nothing to prove.

Only something to protect.

I breathe in once, slow, and feel it settle deep—into bone, into blood. A flicker of her voice stirs in my chest. Just one word.

Someone.

And that? That makes me more dangerous than I’ve ever been.

Because men like Lucian—men who move pawns across oceans, thinking they’re gods—

They don’t understand what happens when you give a man like me something soft.

Something sacred.

They think it makes him weak.

They think it gives them leverage.

But I don’t have pressure points anymore.

I only have her.

And I will not be moved.

I know this water. I know this kind of night. The moon is low. The tide’s with me. I’ll slip beneath the surface before anyone knows I’ve touched it.

The hour has come.

I stand slowly, body stiff but ready.

No adrenaline.

No heat.

Just breath. And clarity.

The yacht drifts in the distance, its lights dimmed now. Crew inside, still. Nothing moving on deck.

Exactly as I’d mapped.

I crouch beside the duffel. Pull it open.

One piece at a time—silent, practiced. The wetsuit’s interior drags slightly on my skin, cool and smooth like shadow. Velcro presses against my wrists. Each strap settles with a hushed snap, the kind that used to echo in briefing rooms and foreign nights.

Matte black. No straps that dangle. No reflective trim.

The gloves. The belt. The dive knife.

Each one slides into place like it belongs to my skin.

Because it does.

Because for one last night, I am this man again.

The shadow that slips beneath defenses.

The silence that walks through fire.

I close the truck quietly. Tuck the compass into the hidden inner pocket of my chest plate, just beneath the suit.

Not for luck, but because she held it last. And tonight, I need her steady hand on my heart.

The water is colder than it looks—always is—but it doesn’t slow me down. I move with the tide, not against it. Breathing even. Movements smooth. Every inch of the surface was memorized before I ever stepped into it.

The yacht rises ahead like a silhouette, bloated and blind. No alarms. No patrol. Just the quiet arrogance of wealth. He thinks he’s safe. Thinks I’m still afraid.

I reach the hull. Press a palm to the steel, cold and slick with condensation. It hums faintly beneath my skin, same as every vessel I’ve ever infiltrated. Same as every mission where I became nothing but breath and shadow. But this one feels different. This time, it’s not duty. It’s not revenge.

It’s protection. It’s her.

I close my eyes.

And feel the blood in my body slow.

Not from fear.

But from focus.

This is what I was built for.

And this time—it’s for me.

For her.

The hull curves under my palm.

Steel. Cold. Familiar.

This close, you can hear it breathe.

Soft groan of shifting pressure. Pumps. Pipes. Footsteps two levels up.

I wait. Three breaths.

Then move.

There’s a maintenance grate just below the waterline.

I marked it on satellite weeks ago.

It’s not locked.

They don’t expect anyone to get this close without being seen.

They don’t expect me.

The latch gives with a soft click.

I slip inside, weightless in the dark.

The crawlspace is tight. Sharp with salt and metal. I move through it like breath through a crack in the wall.

I count each elbow bend. Each valve. Each floor support above.

Seven meters in—

An access panel.

I test the screws. Already loosened.

My work. Done earlier.

Quiet. Prepped.

This is how you kill an empire.

Not with rage.

With patience. The kind she teaches me just by trusting me to come back. The kind that sharpens, steadies—makes each breath quieter, each step cleaner. Because this isn’t about proving power.

It’s about earning peace.

I ease the panel open and drop through, landing without sound.

Lower deck. Storage level. No guards. No cameras. I walk heel-toe, slow, through tight turns and narrow metal walkways lit just enough to see.

I draw the knife from my belt. Not to threaten. Just to be ready. Everything else I need is already in place. Already done.

I’ve stood at the edge of moments like this before—not always this boat, but always this breathless stillness, right before the world shifts. The edge of breath before everything changes.

First crewman: silent. Taken at the junction corridor near the engine room. Arm around the neck, knife flat against the windpipe—not to cut. Just to press. The body slumps without a sound. I drag him into the dry storage and lock the door behind me.

Second one: sleeping in the lower bunkroom. I leave him breathing. Unconscious is enough.

I’m not here to waste time. Just precision. Just ends.

Up the narrow stairwell to the top deck, where the lights shift—warm, gold-edged, catching on polished wood and rich leather trim. Lucian’s world. The kind of silence you pay for. Expensive. Controlled.

I count the doors. Four on this floor.

Third door on the left: private suite.

The lights are on.

My boots don’t creak. They never have. I don’t open the door yet; I listen.

Voices inside—low, confident, unhurried. Not alarmed. Four, maybe five. Including Lucian. They’re drinking. Laughing.

They don’t know I’m already here.

I draw a breath. Steady.

Then I move.

The door gives under my hand without a sound.

Hinges silent. No creak, no pause.

The room is warm. Opulent. Wood-paneled. Persian rugs and crystal glasses and the soft hush of money so old it thinks itself immortal.

Five men. Three seated. One standing near the bar.

Lucian at the head of it all, cigarette in hand. He sees me first and doesn’t blink.

But the others—startled, slow. Too slow.

The first dies before he stands. Knife to the neck—clean, fast, final. His body hits the rug with a soft thud.

Second lunges, gun half-raised.

I’m already there. Disarm. Drive the elbow back into his throat. He drops.

Third pulls a blade—a nice one. Polished steel. Something meant to impress.

I take it from him with two moves. Break his wrist. Let him scream once—then silence him.

The fourth, Lucian’s right hand, makes it furthest. He bolts for the balcony. Mistake. I follow, fast, flat-footed, controlled. Tackle him through the glass door. We hit the deck hard. His head cracks against the railing.

Blood pools fast. I don’t check for breath.

And then...

Silence.

Except for Lucian. Still seated, still smoking, his glass untouched. Like he’s been waiting for this the whole time.

Lucian doesn’t flinch, doesn’t reach for a weapon, doesn’t stand. Just watches me with a calm so absolute it brushes up against defiance.

I shift my weight forward slightly, blood still wet on my gloves. My grip tightens—not from rage, but from the stillness coiled deep in my spine.

He watches me approach like a man watching a tide roll in.

Unstoppable. Familiar. Inevitable.

His cigar burns low between two fingers. Smoke curling like breath between us.