One Month Earlier
The war room went silent when Micah Dane stood.
Fourteen brothers filled the space. Atlas at the head of the table, solid as granite. Ryker leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Marcus sprawled in a chair, smirk already forming. The rest scattered throughout—Charleston and Montana Danes, brought together by blood they'd only recently discovered.
The family didn't gather like this unless it mattered.
"Question," Micah said. His voice carried the weight of a man who'd done things in the dark no one talked about. "Any of you ever known operators who got burned?"
Silence. Then nods. Slow. Heavy with recognition.
Micah let it settle. "I've been working on something. A network. Safe houses. Resources that don't exist on paper." He paused. "Protection for men the system used up and threw away."
Atlas shifted forward. "You have someone specific in mind."
"Nine of them." Micah pulled up no files, no photos. Operational security even here. "Tier-one operators. All with pasts that are catching up. There's a common threat hunting them. Methodical. Patient. Dangerous."
"Who's behind it?" Ryker's question was tactical, direct.
"Still running that down." Micah's honesty landed harder than deflection. "But I know enough to know these men are running out of time. One of them I served with. Good operator. Loyal. And he’s on the run."
Elias leaned back. "What do you need?"
Micah laid it out then. Just the framework. Resources that couldn't be traced. Protection for men who'd given everything and gotten nothing back.
When he finished, the room stayed quiet.
Then Marcus spoke, his usual smartass edge gone sharp and serious. "We're sitting on billions doing fuck-all. Why not use them for something that matters?"
No vote needed. The decision moved through the room like a current.
Ryker met Micah's eyes. A single nod. "Do it."
Ninety minutes later, Micah climbed the steps to the Dominion Hall jet, go-bag over one shoulder.
The pilot glanced back. "Destination?"
"Paris."
The jet engines hummed to life. Dominion Hall disappeared beneath clouds.
It was time to help Connor Ward.
3
CONNOR
Paris wasn't supposed to be like this.
I'd come here once before, a lifetime ago—fourteen years old with a school group, all of us strutting down cobblestones like we owned the place. We'd been idiots. Loud, cocky kids from Brooklyn who thought the world owed us something just for showing up.
I remembered my first sip of beer that trip, standing along the Seine at sunset, the bottle warm in my hand. One of the guys—Denny, I think—had pointed at a homeless man pissing against the stone embankment, and we'd all laughed like it was the funniest thing we'd ever seen.
Freedom. That's what Paris had meant back then. No rules. No consequences. Just possibility stretching out in every direction.
Now, I was back.
But freedom wasn't on the menu this time.
