Chapter Six
The Santa Barbara estate was quiet. Too quiet.
A muffled burst of laughter drifted up from the pool wing.
Boston. The kid had been hanging around the estate for a few weeks, taking a break from the Nevada ranch.
Dave hadn’t pressed for details—he didn’t have to. Stone had filled him in: Boston needed space, mostly from Rip. First heartbreak was a mean son of a bitch.
Dave sat alone in the study, one hand curled around a mug of coffee, the other tapping impatiently against his desk.
The early morning light streamed in through the tall windows, painting pale gold streaks across shelves stacked with old leather-bound books and folders full of operations past and present.
He should have been at the ranch, coordinating the debrief, checking Stone’s report on the Morrison capture. But his gut told him to wait for something else, and when his private line buzzed, that instinct proved right.
“Talk,” Dave said, the mug clinking softly as he set it down.
Viper’s voice came through, clipped but steady.
“We’ve got movement. Morrison’s cracking under pressure.
He named a handler—Hank Franklin. But he also named Titus.
Morrison spilled that Franklin takes orders directly from Titus and that they are looking to set a few bases up from Nevada to the West Coast.”
“Bases? As in human trafficking hubs?”
“He wasn’t specific, but what other kinds of business does Titus run? Weapons, maybe?” Viper said bitterly.
Dave sat forward, tension in his shoulders tightening like steel cables. “No. You’re right. It has to be trafficking kids to sell or turn them into killers. They probably need the weapons to arm mercs.”
“True. So, one of the places Morrison named was Port Hueneme. And Stone didn’t look thrilled when he heard it mentioned. His cousin’s out there, isn’t he?”
Dave’s jaw locked. “Creed.”
“Yeah,” Viper confirmed. “What did Sparrow find out?”
“I put in a call, but haven’t heard back yet.”
“Okay. On our end, Morrison’s story checks out just enough to warrant digging deeper. I’ll keep pressing, but I figured you’d want the heads-up on what we found.”
“Good call.” Dave’s voice was low, flat. “Keep me updated.”
The line went dead. For a long moment, he stared at the phone in his hand, Viper’s words echoing in his head.
Titus. The name wasn’t new. Dave’s gut tightened. Titus was a fucking ghost at the edge of their op, always out of reach, always pulling strings. Viper knew that firsthand.
Dave had never met Titus face-to-face—but Viper had.
The closest Dave had ever come to a Titus encounter had been when Genesis raided Micky’s compound—the fallout was enough to know Titus was no ordinary threat.
He wasn’t going to take any chances about Port Hueneme and Creed being so close to possible fallout. Creed was Stone’s family.
Once again, in the span of a day, he dialed a number very few people had. It rang once before Sparrow’s gravel-edged voice answered.
“I got your first message. I thought I had more time.”
“Sorry, but I need everything you have on Titus and also a Hank Franklin. It looks like they are moving close to Port Hueneme,” Dave said.
“My information says that Titus was last seen in Kansas, but I found out a few days ago that he has ties to Southern California. Titus is dirty as hell.”
“Anything in your database about a Hank Franklin?”
Fingers tapped on a keyboard on Sparrow’s end. After a moment of silence—Sparrow’s tone darkened.
“Yeah. Some of my informants have heard whispers of that name. Give me a day. I’ll run him through my channels and send you a drop on both men.”
“As fast as you can,” Dave said.
“Always. You’ll have it before dawn.” Sparrow paused. “One thing—if Titus is making moves in Port Hueneme, he’s not just setting up shop. He’s probably recruiting more lieutenants. He’ll need weapons and supplies. I’ll check into that.”
The line went dead.
Dave leaned back in his chair, whiskey untouched now, the fire in his chest burning hotter. He hated how personal this was becoming—Stone’s blood was in Port Hueneme. Not to mention that Ventura County was home to Pegasus and many of their operatives.
Titus was brushing too close to everything Dave had sworn to protect.
Topeka, Kansas
The sky over Topeka was gunmetal gray, heavy with clouds. A convoy of blacked-out SUVs idled along the dirt lot, engines rumbling low.
Titus stood apart, coat collar turned against the wind, eyes sharp as broken glass. Walt Beckman hovered close, folder tucked under his arm, scanning the men with a soldier’s unease.
“Franklin’s been making noise,” Beckman said finally. “Pushing harder than he should. Wants more territory. More control.”
Titus didn’t turn his head. “Franklin wants a crown he hasn’t earned. He forgets who built the throne he’s standing on.”
Beckman hesitated, then lowered his voice. “He’s not the only one. Something’s bleeding out of our lines. Details are leaking before they should. Someone’s talking.”
“It can’t be Franklin,” Titus murmured.
“Agreed. It has to be one of them.” Walt’s chin tilted slightly towards the men.
Titus’s jaw flexed. His eyes tracked the men climbing into the SUVs, laughter and exhaust rising with the cold air. One of them was feeding information to the wrong side—he just didn’t know who yet.
“Find me proof,” Titus said at last, voice flat as steel. “Until then, Franklin plays the loyal dog. And the mole keeps breathing… for now.”
The engines roared as the convoy pulled away, chewing through mud.
Titus stayed behind, staring toward the horizon. One lone SUV waited, idling.
California was next.
Tatum was already moving west. And when his brother showed his hand, Titus would be there to cut it off.
Santa Barbara estate.
The door creaked open, breaking into Dave’s thoughts.
“Sir?” Clinton’s voice. Smooth. Polite. A little too careful.
Dave didn’t look up right away. He’d learned long ago that Clinton never interrupted without a reason.
“What is it?”
Clinton stepped inside, closing the heavy wood door behind him. “I was going through the roster. Something caught my attention. This…Lawson Steel. Law. Operative out of Vegas. You brought him back into rotation?”
Dave glanced at him, one brow arched. Law wasn’t from Vegas, but he didn’t correct the fact.
“Viper did. Why?”
Clinton lingered by the fireplace, feigning casual interest. “Just curious. Are Stone and Law close?”
Dave grunted, but said nothing.
“Of course,” Clinton went on smoothly, “close is good. Makes for efficiency. Trust. But I thought I’d mention it, since it wasn’t in the primary file. They have history, don’t they?”
Dave’s hand tightened around the glass. “Yes.”
Clinton tilted his head, the perfect mask of curiosity. “Romantic history?”
Dave shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing, sir. Only—” Clinton let the silence stretch, then shrugged lightly. “Only that sometimes old connections resurface. Especially when working together. People…slip back into old habits. This makes them the perfect match.”
Dave’s jaw clenched. He hated how easily the words hit home, how fast his mind conjured up an unwanted image—Stone laughing with Law.
Clinton must’ve seen enough. He dipped his head. “Apologies if I overstepped. I’ll leave you to your work.”
With a soft click, the door shut behind him, but the echo of suggestion lingered.
Dave stared into the glass, his reflection fractured in the amber. Old rhythms. Old connections. He’d told himself he didn’t care about Stone’s past, that what they had was steady enough, solid enough.
But it wasn’t solid now, was it?
Because they didn’t have shit.
He and Stone had parted with only a soft goodbye.
According to Viper, Stone was done with his assignment with Law. Morrison was in custody, and the bunker was secured before the perps could locate the entrance.
But Stone hadn’t checked in.
Dave had come back here, chasing intel, pretending it was only the mission driving him.
The truth sat heavier.
He hadn’t wanted to see Stone return to the ranch with Law at his side. Not when thoughts of Stone and Law’s easy partnership stirred something ugly in his chest.
What he did want—what kept flashing back uninvited—was last night at the paddock fence. The way Stone had crowded in close, big body brushing against him, heat searing through the November chill. Dave hadn’t moved. He’d let himself feel it—let himself want it.
He didn’t hate the memory; he hated how badly he wanted more. And he hated worse that Clinton’s poison made him question whether Stone wanted it too, or if it was only him replaying that moment.
He finished the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down harder than necessary.
The fire in the grate snapped. The logs shifted. He watched the flames twist and spit, his thoughts doing the same.
Morrison was gone from the board. Franklin was small in the scheme of things.
Titus was the name now. Morrison’s and Franklin’s boss. The man at the center. The pieces were shifting faster than he liked, but did they really have time to waste?
Hell no.
But underneath the mission, beneath all the intel and strategy, was something he couldn’t shake.
Clinton’s words. Stone and Law, together.
The seed was already rooting.
The next morning, just before dawn, Sparrow’s drop arrived.
A plain wooden box, placed exactly where it should be—in the hollow of the old cypress tree on the edge of the estate.
The Secret Service carried it in. Back in the study, Dave sliced it open. Files. Photographs. Names and numbers scribbled across maps.
One thing was clear from the information.
Titus was worse than Franklin had ever been.
Titus was not just a handler of men, but a builder—networks, merc contracts, international human trafficking supply lines of children.
And Port Hueneme wasn’t just a target of convenience.
It was central. A pressure point where they might set up a new compound.
Dave’s hands curled into fists. Creed. Kellum. The boys. And Stone—Stone caught in the middle of it all without even realizing how close Titus already was.
His first instinct was to pick up the phone and call Stone.
Warn him. Hear his voice. Anchor himself.
His hand hovered over the phone.
But he stopped.
Stone was in the field with Law. Stone hadn’t called him. And Clinton’s words were still there, coiling in the back of his mind like a venomous snake. Old connections. Old rhythms.
He shut his eyes, forcing the ache down. He couldn’t make this about them. Not now. Not when Titus’s net was tightening.
When he opened his eyes, he didn’t call Stone.
He called Ace.
The line connected. Ace’s voice came through, calm but sharp. “Sir.”
Dave’s tone was iron. “Titus has resurfaced. He has a second-in-command, Hank Franklin. I’ll send you the intel on both. Titus is building something big, and has Port Hueneme in his sights. I want Pegasus on alert. Full burn.”
“Understood.” No hesitation. Just the steel Dave expected from the Pegasus commander.
The call ended, but the weight remained.
Dave set the phone down, staring at the fire again. Flames twisted, shadows stretched, and in the silence of the study, one truth settled heavier than all the rest…
The mission was closing in. Titus had moved into play.
And whether Dave liked it or not, Law—and all the history Stone carried with him—was moving back into the center too.