Chapter Nine
The study smelled of salty air and paper—Sparrow’s drop spread wide across the desk, documents stacked in precise towers beside Dave’s elbow.
Sure, it was old school, but sometimes paper trumped electronics. Maps littered the surface, red-ink lines cutting up the California coastline, dots and arrows that all led north and south.
Dave rubbed a hand over his jaw, scanning the neat columns of shipping manifests Sparrow had annotated.
“Titus’s network is bigger than I expected. He’s not just stockpiling. He’s building a supply chain,” he said.
Stone leaned over the desk, forearms braced against the wood. His storm-colored eyes tracked the cities on the maps like a predator pinning prey. “Port Hueneme, Ventura, Oxnard. He’s setting up fallback lines.”
“Or choke points,” Dave agreed. “Either way, he’s in striking distance. And just so you know, I’ve mobilized Pegasus. They will have boots on the ground to help with this.”
“Sounds good,” Stone acknowledged.
For a beat, neither moved.
The papers lay between them, but the air burned hotter than anything the maps could hold.
Dave tried to look away, to break the tension crackling in the space—but Stone’s hand closed around the back of his neck, pulling him forward before he could move.
Dave went breathless. Sweet hell, was Stone going to kiss him again?
Before the thought even finished, Stone’s mouth crushed down on his lips—hard, stolen, pressing together with heat and hunger that burned through every wall Dave thought he still had.
This kiss was nothing like the light one on the beach. This was hard, possessive, and raw. It lasted several heartbeats, but it left him aching, hard, unsteady.
Stone pulled back just enough, eyes burning into his. His voice was low, rough. “Tell me you want this.”
Dave’s pulse thundered, lips tingling, but before he could form the words, the study door opened without a knock.
Clinton slipped in, posture perfect as always, hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Allen,” he said smoothly, “Law Steel has arrived. Shall I—”
“Send him in,” Dave cut off, not moving his gaze from Stone’s.
When Clinton disappeared, Stone licked his bottom lip, as if collecting Dave’s taste. Dave made a sound in the back of his throat and discreetly adjusted himself—no one but Stone could set his blood on fire.
Stone smirked.
Heat filled Dave’s neck. Voices came from the hall. He barely heard them. His pulse was still kicking too hard, his mouth still tasted of Stone.
Christ. One kiss. No, that had been two. Two kisses.
He eased back in his chair, adjusting himself under the desk, jaw tight. Subtle enough, but enough to make him scowl at his own body.
For years, he’d told himself the hesitation was strategy—that keeping Stone at arm’s length was about discipline, command, the weight of responsibility. But right now, every excuse felt like bullshit.
Truth was, he’d been holding Stone at bay because it was safer. Cleaner. Easier to keep the walls up.
Now, after the heat of Stone’s mouth on his, all those reasons seemed stupid. Silly. Bullshit.
Stone glanced at him from across the table, unreadable as ever, but Dave caught the flicker in his storm-colored eyes.
Dave looked away first, but the decision thudded solid in his chest. He wasn’t running from this anymore.
Footsteps and voices echoed in the hall before Law appeared—broad-shouldered and confident, dark hair threaded with gray and cropped military short. His jaw shadowed with matching stubble, whiskey-colored eyes sparkling as they swept the room.
Law should’ve been gracing the cover of GQ, not stepping into his study. The man carried himself like the years hadn’t touched him.
“Always did like a California view,” Law drawled, grin easy as he dropped into one of the armchairs without asking. His eyes flicked over them and then the documents.
“Looks like Titus is keeping you busy.”
Dave studied Law for a moment, measuring. “You’ll be busier. You’re staying here. Under my roof.”
Law arched a brow, gaze flicking between him and Stone. “Not at Stone’s place?”
“Here,” Dave said flatly. “You’ll work with Stone. Titus is your mess as much as ours.”
Law’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
Clinton reappeared at the edge of the study like a shadow, setting down a tray with coffee, his movements too smooth, too precise.
Law followed Clinton with his eyes, then rolled them deliberately, shooting Stone a silent what the fuck glance.
Stone’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you, Clinton,” Dave said, tone clipped.
Clinton inclined his head, but lingered a second too long, eyes sliding toward Stone as if measuring him against the polished lines of the room. Then, with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he withdrew.
Law snorted. “Who the hell was that?”
“Advisor of the year,” Stone muttered.
Dave ignored the jab, tapping the map. “Titus is pushing north and south. If Sparrow’s intel holds, he’s tied into port activity out of San Pedro that will eventually make its way up to Port Hueneme. We need to cut that line before it grows any longer.”
Law leaned forward, interest sharpening. “That means boots on the ground. Quiet, fast. He won’t expect us to hit that soon.”
“Agreed,” Dave said. “But you’ll coordinate through me. No freelance.”
Law’s grin widened. “Still issuing orders from the desk, huh?”
Stone’s eyes cut to him, sharp as knives.
“Careful,” Stone said evenly. “He’s the reason you’ve got a place at the table.”
The tension cracked the air for a beat, silence sharp enough to draw blood.
“Sorry.” Law tipped his head. No way he wanted to get on the bad side of the former SecDef. “No freelancing. Promise.”
Dave acknowledged the apology with the barest nod. Then his voice hardened. “You’re here because Titus doesn’t play small. I want every move cataloged, every contact traced, every supply choke-point cut. You’ll follow Sparrow’s lines and report through me. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
The study door opened again without ceremony.
“Christ, what is this, a family reunion?” Rip’s gravelly voice filled the room as he and Winter strode in. Rip carried his broad frame with casual authority, tattoos crawling up his forearms like warnings. Winter was his opposite—lean, sharp-eyed, sarcasm practically dripping off him.
Law’s grin returned, broader this time. “If it isn’t the circus.”
“Funny.” Winter dropped into a chair, stretching long legs out. “Didn’t know they were letting retirees back in the game. Or is this a make-a-wish op?”
Rip folded his arms. “Long as he can keep up, I don’t care if he came in using a walker.”
Law laughed, and for a second, the years peeled back.
Stone’s mouth ticked.
The banter carried the edge of men who’d shared ops before.
But Dave didn’t let it linger.
“Sit,” he ordered. “We’re moving fast.”
Maps shifted, chairs scraped. The group leaned in, listening as Dave laid out Sparrow’s intel, his finger tracing red lines from San Pedro, up through Santa Monica, and on to Port Hueneme, cutting up from Los Angeles to Ventura County like arteries.
“Viper says Titus isn’t just moving product,” Dave said. “He’s bringing in help.”
They all knew the “product” Dave spoke about was more than likely human trafficking victims—mainly children. Something hot lingered in the air.
“What kind of help?” Law chimed in.
“Contractors. Former mercenaries. Quiet names that don’t hit databases,” Dave again.
“Assassins?” Rip asked, tone low.
“More than likely some,” Dave said.
The words hung heavy, a chill crawling through the study as every man understood exactly what that meant.