No sign of Hazel—relief and regret in equal measure. Maude might've been in the kitchen, but the foyer stood empty. I slipped out the front door, the bell above it tinkling soft as I pulled it shut.
The cab rolled up under the porch light, a faded sedan with salt corrosion on the fenders. The driver was Middle Eastern,mid-forties, turban crisp, eyes sharp in the rearview. No small talk. "Where to?"
I recited the Dominion Hall address. He didn't punch it into GPS—just nodded once and pulled away. The road curved back through the live oaks, Spanish moss hanging like gray curtains in the headlights. Kiawah slipped behind us, gated mansions giving way to open marshes, then the long causeway over the intracoastal, water black and glittering under the rising moon. Charleston lights grew on the horizon, the sky a deep bruise of purple.
We hit the city edges, traffic thin. The driver navigated without a word, like the route was burned into memory. I watched the shift: historic homes with wrought-iron balconies glowing under streetlamps, palm fronds rustling in the breeze, the battery's old cannons silhouetted against the harbor.
Money hung in the air, thick as the humidity. But Dominion Hall—when the gates loomed, massive iron flanked by stone walls topped with discreet cameras—they swung open without a signal. The driver let out a low grunt, almost appreciative, and eased down the oak-lined drive.
The estate rose at the end like something out of a different world. Wealthy wasn't the word. This was empire money. Three stories of mass and white columns, wings sprawling wide enough to swallow the night. Warm light spilled from tall mullioned windows, a fountain murmuring in the circular drive. I paid in cash, no change needed for the silence, and stepped out.
The cab's tires crunched gravel as it vanished back down the drive.
The front door opened before my boot hit the top step. A man filled the frame—built like me, broad and solid under a plain black tee, blonde hair cropped military short. But the glasses, wire-rimmed and sharp, gave him a bookish edge, like he spenthis days behind screens instead of in the field. His eyes assessed quick, efficient. "Gideon. Elias."
No handshake. He tilted his chin toward the side of the property. "This way."
I fell in beside him, matching his stride. The path was flagstone, manicured lawns rolling out to the tree line. No conversation. Crickets filled the gaps, the harbor breeze carrying salt and night-blooming jasmine.
A helipad appeared ahead—concrete pad softly lit, a sleek helicopter waiting like a predator at rest. Elias stepped onto the pad, and the rotors whined to life, blades slicing the air into a building roar.
Custom bird: matte black fuselage, leather visible through the open door. Far cry from the rattling military crates I knew.
We climbed aboard, doors sealing with a solid thunk. Elias handed me a headset. "Welcome aboard. Apologies for the short notice."
I slipped it on, the engine's thrum vibrating through my chest. No questions yet—answers came when they came, or not at all. The pilot flashed Elias a thumbs-up. Elias nodded, and we lifted, the estate falling away below.
Elias pointed out the window as we banked. "Dominion Hall property lines." From the air, it was vast: the main house a centerpiece, guest wings branching off, stables and outbuildings scattered like chess pieces, pools catching glints from the moonlight. At the private pier, two enormous yachts lay moored—sleek black beasts, easily over a hundred feet each. I tapped the glass. "Those part of the package?"
"Dominion assets," Elias said, flat as reciting a balance sheet. No nonsense.
We climbed higher, banking north over the city, as Elias pointed out landmarks from memory. Charleston spread out accurate and alive below: the Ravenel Bridge arching gracefulover the Cooper River, linking to Mount Pleasant's sprawl. The historic district glowed with colorful row houses, church steeples piercing the night. We skimmed the battery, cannons lined like ancient guardians, then over the harbor where Fort Sumter hunkered low in the water, waves lapping at its base. The Ashley and Cooper Rivers met inland, marshes threading between like dark veins. James Island to the south, Folly Beach's long pier jutting into the Atlantic. Further out, Kiawah and Seabrook as thin barriers against the sea.
Elias kept the tour clipped like: "Charleston Peninsula—King Street for shopping, the Market for tourists. Waterfront Park with the pineapple fountain. North to Daniel Island, newer builds. West Ashley for the suburbs."
Landmarks rolled off like code: the Angel Oak on Johns Island, its massive limbs sprawling centuries old; Boone Hall Plantation's iconic avenue of oaks; the USS Yorktown anchored at Patriots Point, a gray giant from another war. The coastline curved gentle, beaches fading to gold in the moonlight—Isle of Palms, Sullivan's Island with its striped lighthouse standing sentinel.
The flight stretched near an hour, the helo cutting smooth through the night air. I took it all in—a visual map tattooed in my mind.
Elias finally broke the rhythm. "We brought you in because we're hunting someone."
"Who?"
"Not clear yet.” He spouted off a bunch of tech terms I didn’t understand, stuff he was working on.
"When do you pin it?"
"Soon. We hope. It's layered work." The tech jargon flowed—firewalls, dark web scrapes, encryption breaks. I nodded, storing what stuck.
"Until then, you're on standby," he continued. "Room here at the Hall, or the Palmetto Rose downtown. Your pick."
"Already set at the Bradford Inn on Kiawah."
Elias didn't flinch, like he'd bet on it. "You’ll be reimbursed, naturally. Full access to the Hall and everything tied to it."
We began descent, rotors slowing. I patted the leather seat beneath me. Elias caught the question. "Fleet. Aircraft, yachts, vehicles. Whatever you need."
That landed heavy. Cartel compounds in South America, sheik palaces in the Middle East—that level of flash. What was this operation? Nothing off yet—no tells in his posture, no shift in his eyes. Just clean efficiency.
