Gravity (Genesis: Savage Warriors #2)

Prologue

The air was damp, heavy with mildew and oil.

Stone pressed his back to the cold concrete wall, listening. Down the narrow hall, behind the steel door, came the unmistakable sounds of men preparing for war—the slam of magazines shoved into rifles, clips ramming home, the metallic clang of handguns being loaded in quick succession.

He knew those sounds. He’d lived them as an assassin, drilled them as Special Forces. They weren’t background noise—they were countdowns.

Real’s hand settled briefly on his shoulder, grounding him. Rip loomed at his other side, steady and ready, his gaze sharp even in the half-light.

Stone lifted two fingers, then pointed at the door. Breach.

Amazed that the doorknob turned beneath his hand and the door swung wide, Rip moved inside first, with Real following.

Gunfire exploded instantly. Muzzle flashes hit the walls in violent bursts. They surged in farther, rounds sparking off metal, concrete chips stinging exposed skin.

Shadows scattered, men shouting in chaos as they opened fire, diving for cover.

“Put your guns down!” Real’s voice boomed through the room.

Real shot the overheads out, plunging the underground room into darkness.

Stone didn’t flinch.

He welcomed it.

The dark had always been his ally. Where others stumbled, he thrived. He shifted low, sighting off the faint glow of muzzle flashes, squeezing off two precise rounds. One man dropped with a strangled cry. Another weapon clattered to the floor.

Real’s weapon snicked with suppressed rounds on his left, every shot deliberate, along with the flash of Real’s knife, clean, deadly. Rip moved beside them, fluid and silent, a predator with knives in each hand, cutting through confusion before it could organize.

But the noise didn’t stop.

Stone’s eyes adjusted, reading shadows in layers. That was when he caught it—the faint glow spilling from a far doorway.

Reinforcements.

Men surged in through the new entrance, heavily armed, boots thundering on the floor. Twice as many as before. Maybe more.

“Damn it,” Rip muttered, voice like gravel.

“Hold the line,” Stone commanded as they slid behind an overturned desk, reloading fast.

The firefight roared louder, rounds peppering the walls, ricochets screaming. Genesis might’ve been outnumbered, but numbers never mattered in the dark. This was where they lived.

Stone leaned out, aimed, and dropped another target clean through the chest. The man dropped in the faint glow, his weapon skittering across the floor.

But the surge from that far door didn’t stop. More boots. More rifles. More of Micky’s men poured into the underground bunker like a tide trying to drown them.

Stone’s gut tightened. Something about this wasn’t right.

The acrid bite of gunpowder hung thick, burning his nose, clawing down his throat.

Stone pushed forward, cutting low across the room, weapon firing. Another hostile dropped. He pivoted, sighted, and fired again—a clean shot to the throat.

But the doorway at the far end kept spitting men. Shadows spilling from light. One after another. Too many. Too many for one compound, for one man. Someone was feeding Mickey more than muscle.

“Send backup!” Real growled, pressing the mic at his ear.

“Copy! We’ll be there as fast as we can,” Viper’s voice, sure and almost comforting, came through the comms.

“Real, cover left!” Stone barked, sliding behind an overturned table as a hail of rounds shredded the wall.

“I’m on it!” Real’s weapon thundered, mowing down two who tried to flank.

Azrael materialized and, back-to-back with Real, cleaved through perps.

Boston and Freedom were there. All of the young assassins were fucking good. The young men may have been thrown into this way of life without a choice, but they owned it.

Rip ghosted through the chaos, twin blades flashing when gunfire wasn’t fast enough. Always hovering, never far from Boston. Men screamed and went silent, blood slicking the floor.

Stone fired again, muzzle flash lighting the grit on his face—until pain detonated in his shoulder.

The impact spun him back against the toppled table, air ripped from his lungs. His weapon slipped from numb fingers.

“Damn it—” His voice was ragged, shock flooding him.

Hot blood poured down his arm, soaking through his vest and shirt. He clamped his hand against his upper shoulder, but the pressure only made white fire explode behind his eyes.

Azrael noticed first and launched across the distance, shoving his knives into one perp and then another as he worked his way to where Stone had fallen.

“Shit!” Real’s voice cracked through the comms as he leaped after Azrael.

Boots scraped across hardwood—Real dropping to one knee beside him. Rough hands grabbed Stone under the arm, steadying him.

“Rip,” Real growled. “Come help me!”

“I’m here!” Rip roared at his side in seconds.

Rounds chewed the walls around them, sparks flaring. Stone tried to push himself upright, teeth clenched against the dizzying wave of pain. He’d taken hits before, but this one was deep—upper shoulder, through-and-through above the vest line. His fingers came away slick and hot.

“Stay with me,” Real snapped, yanking Stone’s arm across his shoulders. “Don’t you fuckin’ fade on me.”

“I’m not—” Stone started, but the words came out with a gasp.

Viper and Winter stormed in with Crow and Rebel close behind. Fierce and Freedom moved in to flank, weapons firing.

Through the haze of pain, Stone caught the roar of Genesis tearing into the room. They didn’t take fucking numbers. They didn’t come in stealthily—they came in with a force that Stone himself would describe as loud, savage, brutal.

Out for blood.

A flash of white light tore through the gloom—Boston’s grenade sending Micky’s men scrambling, their shouts rising above the gunfire.

“Move!” Viper barked.

Rip swung in, helping Real as together, they carried Stone toward the exit. Muzzle flashes burned behind them, shadows twisting, but Genesis’s fury held the tide back.

Every step was fire in Stone’s veins, vision blurring at the edges. He could hear the pulse pounding in his ears louder than the gunfire.

They left the room, the roar fading into muffled chaos. Real and Rip half-carried, half-dragged him through the corridor.

Stone’s knees buckled once, nearly sending them all crashing, but Real snarled, “Not today, brother. You’re not going out in this fuckin’ hole.”

The world tilted, lights flashing faintly from deeper in the compound. Voices shouted—Genesis pushing forward, Mickey’s men breaking. Stone’s head sagged against Real’s shoulder, the dark pressing tighter until it swallowed him whole.

When light came again, it wasn’t muzzle flash or grenades—it was sterile and steady, glaring down from a hospital ceiling. The sharp tang of antiseptic burned his nose.

“Gunshot to the upper shoulder,” a clipped voice snapped. “Get this vest off and prep for surgery.”

Dave’s face swam into focus above him. Jaw tight, steel-gray eyes raw with worry, his hand clamped around his like an anchor.

Stone tried to smile, but his lips barely moved.

“Hang on,” Dave rasped, rough and fierce. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

As Dave’s right hand, Stone knew his position was vital. But through the fog of pain, he hoped for more than duty.

Then his grip slipped as they wheeled him away. His last thought before blackness reclaimed him was stubborn, certain he had to stick around.

And if the powers that be gave him a choice, he wasn’t going anywhere.