I climbed into my truck, the ribbon in my pocket a cold weight, and started for Sullivan’s Island. I hadn’t made it halfway when a McLaren roared up beside me, its engine alow growl. My hand went to my pistol, instincts kicking in, but the tinted window rolled down, and there she was—my mother, Caroline Dane, her graying hair pulled back, her storm-gray eyes sharp in the sunlight.
She motioned for me to follow, her expression unreadable. I hesitated, my heart thudding, but nodded, pulling behind her.
Her route was winding, deliberate, cutting through backroads and doubling back twice, checking for tails. I kept pace, my eyes scanning for threats, the ribbon burning in my pocket.
She was careful, too careful, and it made my gut twist. What was she afraid of? Who was she running from?
She parked in front of a modest condo, half a mile from Dominion Hall, its beige exterior blending into the quiet street. I pulled up behind her, got out, and followed her to the door. She unlocked it, her movements swift, and held it open for me, her smile faint but warm.
“Come in, Silas.”
Inside, she set the alarm, the beep sharp in the silence, and led me upstairs to a living room smaller than my bedroom at Dominion Hall. The decor was tasteful but sparse—white walls, a gray sofa, a coffee table with a single vase of lilies. No photos, no personal touches, just clean lines and shadows.
She turned to me, her eyes softening. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” I said, then changed my mind, my nerves raw. “No, something stronger.”
She smiled, a flicker of the woman who’d raised me, and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with two rocks glasses, each a quarter full of amber liquid—bourbon, by the smell. She handed me one, raising hers.
“Here’s to mud in your eye,” she said, her voice light but tinged with something old, familiar.
I laughed, the sound rough, easing the tension in my chest. “You know, I’ve heard that a hundred times and still don’t know what it means.”
She shrugged, her smile wistful. “Something my grandfather used to say. Never explained it either.”
We sat on the sofa, the bourbon burning my throat as I sipped, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. I watched her, her face older but still hers, the woman who’d called meMy Silas, who’d vanished and left a hole in my heart.
The questions burned, but I waited, letting her set the pace. She stared at her glass, her fingers tracing the rim, her eyes drifting to the window like she was seeing something I couldn’t.
I couldn’t wait anymore. “Why are you back, Mom?” I asked, my voice low, urgent. “Why now?”
She didn’t answer at first, her gaze still on the window, her expression distant. Then she turned to me, her eyes sharp, cold, the spy I’d never known staring back.
“It’s time to burn it all down,” she said, her voice steady. “Department 77, my father’s memory, all of it.”
My breath caught, my mind spinning. “How?”
She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with calculation. “We carve out the heart.”
I stared, my pulse hammering. “What does that mean?”
“77’s on its last legs,” she said, her voice low, precise. “But still dangerous. Without their Washington links, they’re untethered. No leash. No rules. That makes them unpredictable, desperate. They’ve got nothing to lose, Silas, and that’s when they’re most lethal.”
I leaned back, the bourbon glass cool in my hand, my thoughts racing.
“What’s your role in this? You said you stayed with 77 to protect us, but what are you to them?”
She shrugged, the motion nonchalant, but her eyes were steel. “I’m Number 2. Heir apparent.”
The words hit like a slug, my mind flashing to the past—Ryker nearly killed on that pier, Will and Claire kidnapped, my brothers targeted by 77’s operatives.
We’d spilled blood to stop them, thought we’d gutted their network, but now our mother sat here, their second-in-command.
“What part did you play?” I asked, my voice hard, my fists clenching. “When they came for Ryker, for Claire, for us—what were you doing?”
Her face softened, but her eyes didn’t waver.
“I shielded you, Silas, in ways you’ll never know. I have people inside—loyal people—who did the dirty work when I couldn’t. Killed their own, sabotaged missions, nudged scopes off target. I proved my loyalty to 77 over and over, but they suspect me now. I’ve played every card, and I’m running out.”
