Chapter Five
The following night…
The mission was supposed to be easy—apprehend the perp in charge of the mercenaries who threatened the Nevada bunker.
It might have started simply, but nothing had gone as planned.
The mercenaries had more help than they’d first thought…help that was now dead, but help nonetheless.
And their leader had bolted.
Stone was already in pursuit—careening around corners, pounding down the busy Nevada streets.
Steven Morrison was fast for his size, but he was sloppy—breathing hard, giving away every move. Stone cut him off through an alley, boots hammering the pavement.
Morrison burst from the walkway and Stone was already there. The merc slammed into him, three hundred pounds of fury, but Stone braced, twisted, and let the guy’s own momentum do the work. They crashed to the ground, Morrison on top.
The pain in his shoulder was instant, but Stone was already moving, blocking it out. He jammed an elbow up under the bastard’s jaw, knee driving into his gut.
“Big mistake,” Stone growled, forcing him sideways, flipping their weight with brute force. Morrison hit the pavement with a roar, Stone’s forearm—his good arm—crushing down across his windpipe.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” Morrison snarled, a rasp, spit flying. His breath reeked of adrenaline and blood. “Franklin owns this desert. You’re dead already.”
Stone’s eyes narrowed. The name meant nothing yet, but he filed it away like a loaded round. He hammered a fist into Morrison’s temple—once, twice—until the fight bled out of him. He wrenched Morrison’s arm behind his back, twisting until the man grunted in pain.
Law jogged up with a grin, and gave a golf clap. “Well, shit. Still manhandling assholes like it’s foreplay, huh?”
Stone pressed Morrison harder into the ground, not even sparing Law a glance. “You always did have shitty timing.”
“Or perfect,” Law countered, producing the zipties. He crouched, snapped them around Morrison’s wrists, then straightened, eyes dancing with amusement. “Glad to see you haven’t gone soft. At least not in the field.”
Stone stood, dragging Morrison up with one hand like dead weight. The merc spat, voice raw. “You’re both dead men!”
“Not today,” Stone said coldly, shoving him forward.
Law took hold of Morrison, and Stone rolled his shoulder to ease the ache from where Morrison had plowed into him. His shoulder throbbed with a dull thud, but he kept his face blank.
“You’re getting old, my friend,” Law said, his gaze sharp.
“Fuuuck you,” he volleyed back, even though Law knew about his injury. “If anyone is getting too old, it’s you.”
Law only laughed. “Finally, some truth out of your mouth.” He patted Stone on the shoulder before shoving Morrison forward.
Stone grimaced, rubbing at his shoulder as he followed.
He studied his friend. Law was in his late forties. The man’s hair was threaded with prematurely gray strands, and laugh lines crinkled the sides of his eyes, but that only enhanced his handsome face.
“What?” Law’s whiskey-colored eyes squinted at him. “You missing this?”
The words were loaded, and Stone shook his head with a smirk.
“Franklin’s coming for you both,” Morrison spat as they walked him back to the lot where they’d parked their vehicle.
“Shut the fuck up before I gag you,” Law growled.
Opening the back door of the black SUV, Law tossed Morrison inside. The man landed face-first onto the seat and then rolled, wedging into the space between the seats and the floorboards.
“Get me upright, you motherfuckers!”
Law only cackled and shut the door so fast that Morrison had to bend his knees to keep his feet from getting crunched.
“Don’t maim him,” Stone cautioned after he slid behind the wheel, and Law jumped into the passenger seat.
Hell, they’d slipped back into a comfortable rhythm that Stone remembered from their past. He no longer had romantic feelings for Law, but he did consider the man a good friend and a hell of an operative.
“Why not?” Law said, snapping his seatbelt.
“Because Viper has a few questions for him. Like how they found the location of the bunker.”
“He can still talk, can’t he?” Law said, and reaching between the seats, the assassin patted Morrison on the head.
The mercenary spat a string of profanity at them, but all of it was muffled by the back seat.
“Yeah?” Law smacked Morrison harder this time. “I hope your lack of air kills some of your brain cells.”
Stone grunted. “You think he has any?”
Law snorted. “Probably not.”
Stone was glad to be in the field…Being out here with Law took his mind off of…stuff.
“I didn’t realize you had ties to the ranch,” Stone said as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Well, I don’t. But Viper wants me to consider sticking around,” Law said.
“So…what, you been busy elsewhere?”
“Yup.” His friend’s response was noncommittal, and Stone didn’t press.
“It’s good money at the ranch,” Stone pointed out.
“That’s what I hear.”
The ranch was a two-hour drive from where they’d apprehended Morrison, and Stone pulled over to the side of the road so they could put a hood over the perp’s head and sit him upright in the seat.
Pulling through the back gate of the ranch, Stone parked next to a building, and Law yanked Morrison out of the back seat.
Two of Genesis’s soldiers stepped up and marched Morrison toward the interrogation building.
Stone caught Law’s arm before he could follow.
“I’m sorry…about before,” Stone said.
“You mean about dumping me for Dave?” Law smirked. The silence stretched between them and Stone sighed.
“Don’t be,” Law continued. “I understood. I hope that it’s worked out for you two.”
“It hasn’t. But maybe after he retires, it will.” Stone grimaced at the uncertainty in his own voice.
Law, being who he was, noticed and thankfully said nothing.
Inside the interrogation barn, the air smelled of sweat and old wood. Morrison slumped in the chair, cuffs biting into his wrists, blood crusted at his temple where Stone had put him down.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” Morrison spat again, eyes wild. “Franklin owns this desert. He owns all of you. You’re dead already.”
Stone leaned in, resting both palms on the table, voice low and edged like a blade. “Funny. You don’t look like a man in charge. You look like a man begging for someone else to save his ass.”
Morrison bared bloody teeth. “You’ll see. He doesn’t lose.”
“Who? Franklin…or Titus?” Stone dropped the name and watched the shock settle over Morrison’s face.
Before Stone could shove harder, the door opened and a young man slipped inside. Twenty-five, quiet as a shadow.
Curly, bright blond hair fell into his forest-green eyes, at odds with the way he carried himself.
Those eyes missed nothing—always watching, measuring, never at ease.
Slender but wiry, he moved with the kind of stride that came from surviving streets where hesitation meant getting dead.
Every glance said he’d seen too much, every shift of his shoulders said don’t fuck with him.
Sage. One of Tanis and Solomon’s boys a long time ago—now sharpened from years on the streets. Quick, precise, hardened beyond his age, he’d merged into the YA team at the ranch like a blade finding its sheath.
“I’ll need his phone,” Sage said quietly, holding out a slim hand.
Law arched a brow but dug into Morrison’s pocket, fishing out a cell phone and handing it over. “Don’t fry it. We might need what’s inside.”
Sage didn’t flinch. He held the phone up to Morrison’s face and unlocked it before dropping into the corner of the room. Pulling tools from his jacket, he worked the device with swift, practiced movements. Watchful. Efficient.
Morrison thrashed against his zip-ties, spit flying. “You think some fucking kid’s gonna save you? Titus…er Franklin will gut you motherfuckers before you know he’s coming!”
“So, you do know Titus?” Stone said.
“Fuck you!”
Stone straightened, towering over the man. “Keep stalling. It only makes me want to shut you up permanently.”
Viper’s voice cut in, calm but steel-edged. “Stone.”
Stone backed off a step, but his stare stayed locked on Morrison until the merc dropped his eyes.
Minutes passed, the only sounds Sage’s quick taps and Morrison’s ragged breathing. Then, with a faint click, Sage handed the phone to Viper.
Viper scanned the screen and smirked. “And now we have Franklin’s general location. It’s not only this desert—it’s all of the West Coast. And we have confirmation that Titus is in charge.” He waggled the phone at Morrison. “Thanks for the info.”
A plethora of profanity spewed from Morrison.
“I’ll call Dave,” Stone said, exhaling through his nose.
He stepped outside, pulled his phone, and hit Dave’s private line. The ring cut off fast.
“David Allen’s line,” Clinton’s clipped voice answered.
Stone’s jaw locked. “Where’s Dave?”
“He’s unavailable,” Clinton said smoothly. “Can I take a message?”
Stone’s pulse hammered. All he’d wanted was to tell Dave the name, maybe hear his voice, maybe remind himself the man was still tethered to him. Instead, he got Clinton—always Clinton.
“Forget it,” Stone growled. He ended the call before Clinton could reply.
Reentering the barn, he found Viper waiting, arms folded.
“What did he say?” Viper asked.
“Not a goddamned thing,” Stone growled. “You can relay it. If Dave needs details, you can give them to him.”
Viper’s eyes flickered, but he only nodded.
Law drew his gaze from where it was locked on Sage and frowned at Stone.
Stone clenched his teeth, turned on his heel, and stalked out, boots heavy on the gravel, the Nevada cold pressing through his coat.
The need to hear Dave’s voice lingered like an ache he couldn’t shake, but silence was all he got.