Chapter Two
Three days later…
The Nevada air carried a dry bite, the kind that came with early winter in the valley.
The cool high desert stretched wide and empty around Nightfall Drifters Ranch, the sky painted in swirling purples and fading gold.
Out here, the silence wasn’t polished like it had been at Dave’s estate—it was raw, edged with wind sweeping across dry grass and the distant cry of a hawk.
The government had snapped up another five hundred thousand acres around the original one eighty-six, pushing the fence line deep into nowhere.
Most of Nevada was BLM land anyway—forty-eight million acres of it, wide and empty, government-owned on paper but belonging to no one.
It made the place even quieter. Even the Chinooks coming and going barely stirred the air out here.
Stone told himself he had come because Dave had asked him to. The former SecDef wanted eyes on the younger assassins, a fresh evaluation of their progress, and Stone had agreed. That was the official reason.
The truth was harder to name.
After their last conversation in Santa Barbara—the half-smile at his words of just us—the promise of a walk by the water that never came.
Stone needed distance.
The distraction of work. A place where he could bury what he didn’t want to think about.
He hadn’t expected Dave to jump at the chance, not really. But some part of him had wanted it all the same. Wanted to know what it would feel like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder without the weight of missions between them.
To hear Dave laugh—not the clipped version he gave his teams, but something real. He shoved the thought down, burying it beneath the distant crack of gunfire that split the evening and echoed off the jagged hills beyond the range.
The closest training yard was alive under the floodlights.
Winter and Black moved through the obstacle course with precision, shadows cutting sharp lines under the beams, while Rip leaned against the fence with his arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.
Stone watched them for a moment before crossing the yard, boots crunching on gravel. He had fought beside most of these men long enough to know their rhythms.
Rip was built like a machine, all raw muscle coiled tight. Winter, sleek and silent, with icy blue eyes taking in everything. Black, newer, but steady as a mountain, lethal without ever raising his voice.
Each one of them dangerous.
Stone shifted his weight, rolling his left shoulder once. Six months on, the scar still tugged when the cold set in, a reminder more than a weakness. He ignored it, same as always. Pain was background noise—weakness wasn’t an option—not for him.
He returned his focus to the men in front of him. What mattered most was how he did his job.
He needed to keep his head in the game right now, but his thoughts kept drifting back to California. Back to the study, where Dave had brushed him off with that half-smile and promised later. A walk. To the beach. Sunlight and salt air instead of duty.
Stone had known, even then, it wasn’t going to happen. He hadn’t expected it, not really. But some part of him had wanted it all the same. The problem with Dave wasn’t timing, or duty, or even the endless phone calls—Stone could live with those. The problem were the walls Dave never let down.
Rip noticed him first. The grin widened. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up. I thought you were still glued to Dave’s side.”
“Bet they were comparing retirement plans. Candlelight, spreadsheets, the works,” Winter said, sheathing a blade, his smirk faint.
Even Black chuckled, shaking his head.
Stone flipped them the finger without breaking stride. “You two are hilarious. Ever think about quitting your day jobs?”
Rip laughed. “Nah, we’d miss watching you sulk every time Dave’s name comes up.”
Winter added smoothly, “Don’t worry, Rip. Stone’s working on his love letter. He just hasn’t found the right stationery yet.”
Black’s grin widened. “Pressed flowers. Definitely pressed flowers.”
Stone shot them a look sharp enough to cut steel, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
“You three done acting like idiots?” he asked.
“Not even close,” Rip fired back, grin unshaken.
“Yeah, laugh it up.” Stone flipped them the finger again just to shut them up.
Because the truth was, they weren’t wrong.
He was considered to be among the most dangerous men to ever walk on Nightfall Drifter soil, but when it came to Dave—one look, one word, one promise that never came true—Stone wasn’t sure he’d ever win that fight.
He glanced once at the phone in his pocket, remembering how often Clinton intercepted Dave’s calls whenever he tried to reach him. The assistant was always there, hovering with files or water or a quiet word, and Stone noticed the way his attention lingered.
Maybe Dave brushed it off as professionalism.
Stone wasn’t so sure.
The night had settled deeper, and rather than travel back to California, Stone decided to stay at the ranch for another night.
The bunkhouse sat down the lane from the main ranch house—close enough to see its lights, far enough to feel private. Inside, it was sharp and modern: steel-frame beds, a low stone fireplace, gear lockers along the walls. Heat from the vents and fire kept the desert chill at bay.
It wasn’t uncommon for November nights to fall below freezing. Inside was quiet now, with only him and Rip there. The laughter from the other guys on their way out to the mess hall had faded into the hum of the heater and the occasional crackle of charred wood.
Stone sat back in a chair near the long table, boots planted firm, the firelight inside throwing warm shadows across the walls, finger swiping his phone, scrolling.
The sun had long set, shadows deepened through the windows—night had fully settled, and that was when he heard it—measured footsteps crossing the porch. Boots, heavy, deliberate. A moment later, the door swung open, and the weight of authority came with it.
Viper.
He filled the doorway before stepping inside, tall and imposing, the lamplight catching on his dark hair and the sharp lines of his face.
Gray eyes swept over the room like a blade, cool and commanding, before settling on Stone.
The man carried power the way others carried weapons—effortlessly, unshakably.
Major. Active Military. Commander of Genesis. Still in uniform, still bound by the chain of command—but out here at Nightfall Drifters Ranch, he was more than just a soldier. He was the authority that tied the assassin’s world to the military might.
The air shifted as soon as he entered. Even Rip, lounging on his bunk, straightened a little.
“Stone.” Viper’s voice was low, steady, and absolute.
Stone didn’t move, just lifted his gaze from his phone and met those storm-grey eyes head-on.
“Viper,” he said.
Viper crossed the room, each step controlled, until he stood opposite Stone at the table.
The firelight carved hard edges into his chiseled jaw, made the muscle stacked on his frame look even heavier, more lethal.
And being the leader of some of the most dangerous men in the military world made Viper a man to respect.
Viper was one badass motherfucker.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Viper said.
Stone arched a brow, leaning back in his chair.
A leader of military Viper may be…but Stone didn’t answer to anyone but Dave.
“Don’t you have an entire unit for that?”
The faintest flicker of a smile crossed Viper’s mouth. “Not this one. This one’s yours.” His pause was deliberate, heavy. “You’ll be meeting up with Law.”
The name landed like a strike.
Law.
Stone kept this expression unreadable, but inside, something old stirred—memory, loyalty, the kind of history you didn’t easily walk away from.
“When?” Stone asked, his tone even.
“Soon.” Viper’s gaze sharpened. “He asked for you by name.”
Stone gave a slow nod. “Then I’ll go.”
For a moment, the two men held each other’s stare, silence thick with unspoken things. Then Viper dipped his chin once in finality and turned, boots thudding across the floor as he left the bunkhouse the same way he’d come in—controlled, certain, unstoppable.
The door shut behind him, leaving the warmth of the fire and the echo of his words in the still air.
Stone sat back in his chair, eyes on the flames.
Law. Of all the ghosts in his past—it had to be him.
His phone lay face up on the table, screen black. More than once, he thought about calling Dave just to hear his voice.
Just to know he was still there, steady, alive.
He didn’t.
Instead, he sat with the silence, staring at the flames, the weight of unspoken things pressing heavier than the night around him.