It was like watching him step back into uniform. No one ran. No one shouted. Everyone took the news calmly—a call to war that we'd all been trained for, in different ways, in different wars.
Atlas stood first. "Caleb, take him to the armory."
The armory was exactly what I should've expected from Dominion Hall.
A converted basement room, climate-controlled, with racks of weapons lining the walls. Rifles. Pistols. Shotguns. Gear organized with military precision.
"Pick what you're comfortable with," Caleb said.
I went straight for the shotguns. Close-range work. The kind where you wanted stopping power and didn't have time for precision at distance.
I selected a Benelli M4, checked the action, loaded it with 00 buckshot. Nine pellets per shell, each one the size of a .32 caliber round. At close range, it would drop a man before he knew what hit him.
The others had already selected their gear. Unlike the movies, we weren't going in black tactical gear with night vision and infrared lasers. We were in normal clothes—jeans, boots, jackets to hide the body armor we strapped on underneath. Steel-eyed and ready, but looking like we could blend into any neighborhood in America.
Because that was exactly where we were going.
We left Dominion Hall in a small convoy.
Four SUVs, engines purring, GPS coordinates already loaded. Thirty-three minutes away. As we drove, the plan came together over the radio.
Full cordon. Montana Danes through the front. Charleston Danes from the back.
Elias had provided imaging—satellite, street view, property records. The target wasn't remote. It was a stately home in a neighborhood of stately homes. Old money. Quiet streets. The kind of place where neighbors noticed unusual activity.
"We go in with federal badges," Atlas said over the comms. "In case anyone gets curious. Today we’re DEA."
"Might get away without firing a shot," Silas added.
"Or not," Ryker said flatly.
I gripped the shotgun, running through scenarios in my head. Entry points. Fields of fire. Rules of engagement when you couldn't be sure who was a threat and who was just staff.
The approach was easy.
We parked two blocks out, converged on foot. The neighborhood was quiet—streetlights casting long shadows, houses dark except for the occasional porch light.
The target house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two stories. Colonial style. Lights on inside, shadows moving behind curtains.
We hit the sidewalk in front of the house.
That's when the shadows inside scattered.
"They made us," Jacob hissed.
"Go, go, go!" Atlas's voice crackled over the radio.
No time to lose.
We moved as one—Montana Danes surging toward the front, Charleston Danes peeling off toward the back.
My brothers looked to me. Ethan hefted the entry hammer.
I nodded.
The door crashed inward with a sound like muted thunder. We poured through the opening, shotguns up, moving in a tight stack.
The entryway was marble and hardwood, a chandelier overhead casting fractured light. A man appeared at the top of the stairs, raising a pistol.
