Everything stopped.
The room—full of dangerous men who'd seen and done terrible things—went completely silent. Every eye turned to the man standing in the doorway, and the weight of their collective attention was almost physical.
For the first time since he'd stepped out of the marsh, Byron Dane looked nervous.
Not scared. Not uncertain. Just ... human. Fallible. A man facing the consequences of fifteen years of absence.
But he didn't duck his head. Didn't apologize with his posture or his eyes. He walked into that room like he had every right to be there, head high, shoulders back, and stopped at the head of the table.
"I know," he said, voice carrying across the silence, "you all want to know what the hell is going on."
Nobody argued.
He took a breath. Let it out slow. "I'll start with why I left. Because that's tied to everything else. To why you're all here. To why men like Sam Jarrow show up with bombs strapped to their chests."
My hands curled into fists under the table.
"There's an organization," Byron continued, "much more powerful than the now-defeated Department 77. It's called The Vanguard."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"Much like the meaning of the word," Byron went on, "the men and women who run it think they're leading the charge. Taking the steps that will ensure a humanity of the future of their choosing. They've been in power for many years. Some think since the First World War, when it looked like everything would end. I'm not sure. Their history is … carefully guarded."
He paused, hands resting on the back of a chair. "I was recruited because of my talents. And my beliefs."
His voice changed on that last part—went softer, more reverent. Like he was confessing something sacred. Something he'd carried alone for too long.
"This was a choice I made," he said. "A fateful one. Necessary, I believed at the time. I can't tell you everything. Not yet. Not for your own safety. But The Vanguard's motives ebb and flow with time, with leadership, with whatever they decide the world needs to become."
My jaw ached from clenching it.
"At first," Byron continued, "when I ran from Department 77 and took billions from them, I thought that was the only threat. The only enemy. But The Vanguard raised its head like some long-sleeping leviathan and pointed its gaze at the very program I'd spearheaded. One they’d funded and paid little attention to in the past."
He looked around the table, meeting eyes one by one. "All of you. My sons in this room. Your mothers. You were part of that program."
The room erupted.
Not loudly. These were controlled men. But voices overlapped, questions flying, curses muttered under breath.
Byron held up a hand. "I promise I'll say more. Soon. But now, it's not safe. Right now, we need to focus on getting the other Montana Danes here. In the fold. Protected."
"Protected from what?" That was Ryker—one of the Charleston Danes, dark-haired and intense, leaning forward with his hands flat on the table. "You taught us to stand together. Always. No matter what." His voice turned sharp, accusatory. "So, why the hell did you abandon us?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Byron's smile was sad. Broken. He gestured around the room at the assembled men. "You did what I taught you. You banded together. The fact that you're all here—Montana and Charleston, together—is proof of that."
"But you couldn't be part of it," Ethan said quietly. Not a question. A statement.
"No." Byron's voice cracked on the word. "I had to hide. For your sake. Because The Vanguard doesn't just target individuals. They target everything you love. Everyone you might protect. I couldn't be here without bringing that threat down on all of you."
"Sam Jarrow," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I'd meant. "How did he get pulled in?"
Byron turned to me, and something in his expression softened. "He was just a pawn. When The Vanguard saw you with Hazel, they did what they always do—they found leverage. The same as they'd done with Ethan. Lucas. Caleb. Jacob." His gaze swept the room. "They think we're pawns. But we're not."
The definitiveness in his tone was absolute. Final.
"Why now?" I asked. The question I'd been holding since the marsh. "Why come back now?"
