Chapter Fourteen
The house smelled of coffee and sea air when Dave stepped into the dining room. Morning fog pressed heavily against the windows, Pacific gray bleeding into the glass, and the winter bite carried even through the old wood and stone of the estate.
Most of the team was already gathered at the long table.
Sparrow hunched over a scatter of papers, fork idle on his plate.
Black ate with precise, methodical movements, eyes sharp even when he didn’t seem to be looking.
Rip leaned back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankles, spinning some story loud enough to make Boston laugh.
Law sat across from them, amused, while Sage was half-listening, half-eating, his focus split between the noise and his plate.
For a moment, Dave just stood in the doorway, taking it in—controlled noise, familiar weight. A family, if he allowed himself the word. Then he crossed the room and took a seat at the table.
Stone followed a beat later, brushing past him, his arm brushing Dave’s shoulder before he slid into the chair beside him.
Not across the table. Not apart. Close enough that Dave could feel the heat of him even through the chill.
The room shifted in small ways—Rip’s grin edging sly, Sparrow’s quick glance before he ducked back to his notes, Law’s shrewd eyes catching it all with a knowing smirk—but no one said a word. They didn’t need to.
An unexpected heat spread through him. Just being near Stone felt… different. Oh, he’d always been attracted to Stone—but after last night, that attraction felt supercharged, like it crackled in the air between them. So much so that he’d had to adjust himself more than once.
Last night had been incredible, and he was kicking himself for waiting so damn long. He’d never felt that kind of connection with another human being—physical, emotional, absolute.
Stone leaned back, one arm draped casually across the back of Dave’s chair, and Dave swore he could feel the heat of it through his shirt. When Stone started trading barbs with Rip and Winter, the table broke out in laughter, but for the life of him, Dave didn’t hear a word.
Cookie set a fresh cup of coffee in front of him, and Dave wrapped his hands around it like an anchor. Control—that was what he prided himself on. Always had.
“You okay?” Stone murmured, his breath warm against Dave’s ear.
Dave turned, caught those smoke-colored eyes, and smiled slowly. “I am.”
“Me too.” Stone’s fingers brushed the hair at his nape, and just like that, the room leveled out again.
A few of the kitchen staff came in with plates for both of them, and for the first time in years, Dave realized he was starving—for food, sure, but more than that, for the quiet peace of this.
Of him.
The table hummed with quiet chaos—steam, clatter, the warm scent of butter and spice.
Dave managed to finish half his plate, which said plenty; he seldom ate breakfast. Setting his fork down, he glanced around the table at his men.
Without Clinton’s constant interruptions, the mornings felt easier. Quieter. Almost normal.
And Clinton was one issue he needed to address, but he didn’t need to do it now. For once, he let himself relax and enjoy the easy rhythm of his team around him.
Several minutes passed as Stone downed eggs, bacon, and potatoes, and ate like he hadn’t seen food in a week.
“You gonna finish that?” Stone asked after a while, nodding toward Dave’s unfinished omelet.
Dave slid it over with a slight smile.
It drew a few quiet smiles from the ones who’d seen it before.
Stone smirked and dug in, one hand brushing against Dave’s under the table. The touch was small, easy, but it steadied him more than the coffee ever could.
War Room—Later that same day
The war room carried the mix of coffee and printer ink. Maps littered the table, Sparrow’s scrawl crowding the margins with arrows and notes.
“California just lit up,” Sparrow said, tapping the map. “With a trail converging in Port Hueneme.” His finger landed on the coast.
Stone leaned forward, frown sharp. “That safe house holds command-and-control nodes. Comms, intel webs, and failsafes.”
Sparrow nodded and looked at Dave. “If Franklin secures that, we’re in trouble.”
“Don’t you mean Titus?” Boston asked from the far side of the table.
“Same difference,” Rip said before Sparrow could answer. “We follow Franklin, and eventually we get Titus.”
Law crossed his arms. “Why don’t we squeeze Morrison again. He’s still holding something.”
Before Dave could answer, Sage raised a hand. The young man was perched at the corner of the table, Morrison’s phone spinning between his fingers. “He is. Hidden comms, coded embeds. This isn’t just burner chatter.”
“Well, break those open,” Law growled.
Sage didn’t blink. “This is high tech, not your smash-and-grab routine. It takes finesse and time.”
Law’s mouth twisted. “Excuses already?”
“Just stating the facts, Muscles,” Sage shot back.
Viper lifted a hand, silencing both before it broke wider. His gaze cut to Sparrow. “Stay on target.”
Sparrow nodded, flipping another sheet across the table. “Franklin’s movements run from Bakersfield down toward Port Hueneme. Looks like he’s greased the local channels—he’s not exactly being subtle.”
Sage suddenly sat upright, phone frozen in his hand. “Ah ha!” His grin spread as he turned the screen. “I cracked it.”
A string of numbers and symbols glowed on the display, patterns locked in red.
Law leaned just far enough to glance at it, a smirk curling at his mouth. “Cute. Took you long enough.”
Sage rolled his eyes but didn’t stop smiling. “Worth the wait.”
Dave watched them all, the weight of what Sparrow had laid out sinking deeper with every passing second. Port Hueneme. Franklin. Bunkers built not just for war, but control.
And his team, sharp as ever, was circling closer to the fire.
Topeka, Kansas…
The warehouse lights flickered, buzzing against the cold. Oil and rust clung to the air, steel crates stacked like barricades.
Titus stood at the end of a scarred table, a map spread wide before him. Roads, supply lines—every mark another failure.
Walt Beckman shifted beside him, arms crossed. A roomful of men lingered in the shadows of the large room—quiet, armed, waiting.
They weren’t Genesis, but they weren’t street muscle either. Trained. Loyal. Handpicked by Beckman and Titus from the ones still willing to risk their lives on the idea that Titus wasn’t the devil his brother had become.
“Every angle, every lead—and Tatum still slips the net,” Beckman muttered, ignoring the others. “Keep this up, and no one’s going to see the difference between you and him.”
Titus didn’t look up. “Then we change tactics.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes on the manifests scattered across the table. Lines of numbers and shipping codes, routes bleeding from Nevada through to the coast.
“They got Morrison. What do we do now?” Beckman sighed.
“Have you cracked Morrison’s old phone?”
Walt shot a grimace at the only guy in the room who’d boasted about knowing technology, still bent over the device they’d pulled from Morrison’s apartment.
“If that guy knows enough tech to break into that phone, then I’ll eat my shoes.” Beckman rolled his eyes.
“Genesis has high-tech people,” Titus muttered, half to himself. “Someone who can slip through firewalls and pull out the truth.”
“So, you’re saying you want Genesis in on this?” Beckman sounded incredulous.
“Yes. The former SecDef—Dave Allen, specifically. If we can also get Franklin’s laptop and smartphone, and Allen’s people can crack them, then we can get to Tatum.” Titus’s voice hardened. “My brother’s days of human trafficking are over.”
“I don’t like it,” Beckman growled.
“You don’t have to like it,” Titus said flatly. “I just need to figure out where the hell Allen is—or any of Genesis, for that matter.”
Beckman hesitated, tapping the edge of the map. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
Titus’s head lifted slowly. “That’s a hell of a way to start a sentence, Walt.”
“One of our old hires—Dean—worked security for Allen a few years back. Down on the coast. Said the man ran his people like a unit, not a company.”
Titus’s jaw tightened. “You sat on it.”
“I was protecting you,” Beckman said, meeting his stare. “I’m not sorry. Don’t forget, they want you dead because they think you’re your brother. But now—you’re seeking their help?”
Titus’s eyes narrowed, voice cutting low. “You weren’t protecting me by keeping quiet, you were just keeping me blind. If you’ve got a lead, you give it to me.”
Beckman held his ground. “You’ve got it now. Dean said the place was a fortress—cliffside, private beach, Army discipline through and through.” He paused, voice dropping. “Don’t forget they want you dead because they think you’re your brother,” Walt said.
Titus’s expression didn’t change. “Then Dave Allen’s the only one who can fix that.”
He leaned in, tracing the coastline on the map with a finger. “That’s where we start.”
Beckman gave a low grunt. “You really think Allen will help you?”
Titus’s mouth curved, humorless. “He’ll help,” he said. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Titus’s hand slipped into his jacket pocket, brushing against a worn photograph. Three boys stared back—himself, Tatum, Tanis. Before blood, before betrayal.
“I have to convince them I’m not Tatum,” he whispered. How in the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know. But a face-to-face with Allen was a start.
He closed his hand until the photo’s edges bit his palm, then set the mask back in place. A battle was coming, and unless he acted, the world would always call him the villain.
Santa Barbara, that night…
The estate had gone quiet by dusk. Fog pressed against the windows, the Pacific beyond it restless and dark.
Dave sat at the table, shoulders bowed over the sprawl of maps. Lines, arrows, notes—every mark another weight dragging him down. He hadn’t moved in an hour, except to rub at his chest when he thought no one was looking.
Stone watched from the doorway first, jaw tight. He’d seen men burn themselves out before, but seeing it in Dave cut sharper than he wanted to admit.
He crossed the room and pulled out the chair beside him. The scrape made Dave glance up, but only for a second before his eyes dropped back to the maps.
“You’re carrying too much,” Stone said. His voice came out quieter than he meant.
Dave exhaled like he was tired of the conversation before it even started. “Comes with the job.”
Stone leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hand closing over Dave’s wrist. He felt the fine tremor in him, the heat of skin stretched too tight. “Not alone, it doesn’t.”
Dave didn’t answer. Just stared at the mess of lines on the table like he could will them into order.
Fog pressed harder at the windows. The ocean filled the silence, heavy and endless.
Stone tightened his grip, grounding them both. “We’ll handle it,” he said. Not promise. Not question. Fact.
Dave finally looked at him, and for a moment, the fight in his eyes faltered.
Stone held on, refusing to let go. “Whatever storm is coming, we face it together.”
Outside, the surf broke against the rocks, relentless and rising.
The house held steady—for now.