The Palmetto Rose wasn't what I expected.
Not that I'd expected much. A bed. Four walls. Maybe a window that locked. The basics.
What I got was something else entirely.
The building sat tucked into a quieter section of downtown Charleston, brick facade weathered in a way that suggested history without trying too hard. Understated. Elegant. The kind of place that didn't need a sign to tell you it cost money.
The driver pulled up to the curb and nodded toward the entrance. "They're expecting you."
I grabbed my bag—light, always light—and stepped out into the afternoon air, humidity wrapping around me like a wet blanket.
Inside, the lobby was all dark wood and soft lighting, tasteful without being pretentious. A woman behind the desk looked up as I entered, her smile professional but genuine.
"Mr. Dane," she said. "Welcome to the Palmetto Rose."
I stopped. "How do you?—"
"We were told to expect you." She gestured toward a set of keys already laid out on the counter. "Top floor. Corner suite. Everything you need should be there. If not, just call down."
I took the keys without another word and headed for the elevator.
The suite was excessive.
King bed. Sitting area with a sofa that looked more comfortable than most beds I'd slept in. Kitchenette stocked with basics. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Charleston's rooftops and the harbor beyond. Bathroom with a shower big enough for three people and a tub I'd never use.
Luxury I wasn't used to.
Luxury I didn't deserve.
I dropped my bag by the door, crossed to the windows, and stared out at the city. The sun caught on church steeples and rooftops, gilding everything in light that felt too clean for someone like me.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number:Laptop and initial paperwork in the closet. Start whenever you're ready. Background check will take 48-72 hours. -S
Silas.
I found the laptop exactly where he said it would be—sleek, black, already powered on. When I opened it, a single folder sat on the desktop labeled:Start Here.
I sat on the sofa, balanced the laptop on my knees, and clicked it open.
Three documents. That was it.
The first was a standard NDA—pages of legal language that basically said if I talked about anything I saw, learned, or did while working with them, I'd spend the rest of my life in a hole somewhere. Standard stuff for black ops work. I'd signed a dozen like it.
The second was a background disclosure form. Pages of questions about my history—military service, contracts, aliases, arrests, known associates. They wanted everything. Which meant they probably already had everything and were just seeing if I'd lie.
I wouldn't. I’d lived their reach already.
I filled it out methodically, every mission I could remember that wasn't classified beyond my ability to admit, every name I'd worked under, every country I'd operated in. If they wanted to know who I was, they'd get the truth.
Or at least, as much truth as existed on paper.
The third document was simpler. A preliminary agreement. Essentially:We're interested. You're interested. Let's see if this works. Here's what the next week looks like.
Background check. Medical eval. Psych eval—though that one made me almost laugh. If I passed their psych eval, their standards were lower than I thought.
Then, if everything cleared, a formal offer.
