A Bentley.
A fuckingBentley.
I'd only ever seen Bentleys through binoculars, tracking targets who thought money made them untouchable. And now one was waiting for me, gleaming black under the morning sun, the driver standing at attention like I was someone who mattered.
I walked down the stairs, backpack slung over one shoulder, and approached. The driver was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and a face that had seen some things. He opened the rear door without a word.
"Morning," I said, sliding in.
"Good morning, sir," he replied, his accent pure Lowcountry—soft, slow, like he had all the time in the world. He closed the door and moved around to the driver's seat.
The interior smelled like leather and money. I settled back, letting the seat swallow me, and watched Charleston roll past the windows.
It was … different.
Not loud like New York or gritty like Detroit or sprawling like L.A.
Charleston had weight. History. The buildings were old but maintained, painted in pastels that should've looked ridiculous but somehow didn't. Palmettos lined the streets, Spanish moss hanging from live oaks like something out of a movie. The air coming through the vents smelled like salt and earth and something green I couldn't name.
We moved through morning traffic—light, unhurried. People walked instead of rushed. No one honked. No one shouted.
It felt ... civilized.
Too civilized.
I leaned forward slightly. "Where are we going?"
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Dominion Hall, sir."
Dominion Hall.
I let the name roll around in my head. "That sounds ominous."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "It can be, sir. Depends on your perspective."
I grunted, settling back.
We headed south, the landscape opening up—marshes, waterways, estates tucked behind gates. The driver turned onto a private road, and suddenly the car was moving through a tunnel of live oaks, their branches lacing overhead, sunlight dappling the pavement.
Then the gates appeared.
Iron. Tall. Serious.
They swung open smoothly, and we rolled through.
Dominion Hall rose ahead like something out of another century. Stone walls, sprawling verandas, ivy climbing up the sides. It was massive—not just big, butheavy, like it had roots that went deeper than the foundation. Modern security was woven into the old architecture—cameras tucked into eaves, sensors probably hidden in the landscaping.
This wasn't just a house.
This was a fortress.
The Bentley pulled up to the front entrance and stopped. The driver came around, opened my door.
I stepped out, backpack in hand, and stared up at the mansion.
Private planes. Bentleys. Mansions.
I was a long way from MREs and sleeping on cold ground.
