Chapter Fifteen
The following day had been nothing but grind. Sparrow’s maps spread from one end of the war table to the other, every man pulled into planning rotations, guard drills, and gear checks.
Black had worked the younger guards until they staggered, Law had demanded tighter comms protocols, and Dave had felt the weight of command in every clipped report.
The fight would probably be close to Port Hueneme, and making his estate the central hub made sense.
He’d spent another incredible night lying next to Stone. The man had moved out of the spare room he used and into his bedroom and bed without blinking an eye. Dave smiled, remembering their teasing banter.
“You snore,” Dave had said into the dark.
“You talk in your sleep,” Stone countered.
“What do I say?”
“My name. More than once.”
They’d ended up watching a movie together, Stone wanted action, while he wanted to watch a thriller. They’d ended up watching Working Man.
It was over an hour later that he’d realized Stone had fallen asleep.
Dave shifted, dragging the covers over them, and Stone crushed him close.
“You’re taking up more than half my bed again,” Dave had muttered.
Stone’s voice came lazy in the dark. “Correction—our bed.”
“Semantics,” Dave said, but he didn’t move.
Stone’s arm came around his shoulder, grounding him in the moment. The memory scattered like smoke, and for the rest of the day, Stone stayed steady at his side.
By nightfall, the estate was restless, tight with anticipation.
War was coming—they all felt it. But men had to breathe sometimes.
Dinner brought a little slack in the rope. They ate in the war room. Plates scraped clean, mugs of coffee lingered longer than usual, the heavy talk easing into the kind of ribbing that kept soldiers sane.
As usual, Stone stole his food.
He did it the same way every time—quiet, methodical, fork slipping over Dave’s plate when the older man wasn’t looking. Dave never called him on it. He just gave that small shake of his head, the one that meant I saw you, and I’m letting you get away with it.
Sparrow caught the exchange and smirked into his coffee. Viper muttered something about “domestic theft,” and Winter just said it was a miracle Stone hadn’t been court-martialed by now.
Stone didn’t answer. He never did. Just leaned back in his chair, finished the last bite like it was his by right, and let the hum of low laughter roll around him.
Outside, the fog had started to crawl in from the coast, wrapping the estate in gray. Inside, the tension thinned a little more—temporary, fragile, but real.
Dave pushed his chair back, the legs scraping lightly against the floor. “Might as well get a few rounds in,” he said, rising. The motion wasn’t abrupt, just deliberate—like a man who couldn’t sit still when the air got too quiet.
Stone’s gaze lifted automatically. He didn’t say anything, just set his fork down and fell in a step behind as Dave left the war room.
Down the hall, the low hum of conversation gave way to echoing voices and the rhythmic crack of gunfire from the small range Dave had installed years ago.
Rip and Boston were already at it, their back-and-forth carrying into the hall. “You couldn’t hit a barn with that aim,” Rip goaded, a grin in his tone.
Boston fired back without missing a beat. “Big talk from a guy who couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat.”
Laughter broke loose, boots thumping against the old wood floors. The kind of noise that felt almost normal after a day wound too tight.
Dave leaned against the doorframe, watching. Stone stepped up beside him, shoulder brushing his with casual ease.
“Bet you a hundred Rip starts sulking in five minutes,” Stone murmured.
Dave’s mouth twitched. “Two minutes. He doesn’t have the stamina for five.”
Stone smirked, eyes sliding over him. “Sounds familiar.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints.” Dave shot him a look, heat flickering sharp in his chest.
Stone leaned just close enough for only him to hear. “That’s because my mouth was busy.”
He straightened before Dave could answer and strode into the shooting range, smug as hell.
Eeeeeeee—Eeeeeeee—Eeeeeeee.
The alarm shrieked—shrill, rhythmic, shattering the moment. The metallic scream tore through the estate, rattling the windows.
Floodlights snapped on outside, white beams cutting through the fog. Shouts rose from the yard, boots pounding gravel.
Dave grabbed for the handgun on the range counter beside him, Stone was already moving—shoulder holster cleared, eyes locked, the two of them snapping into motion as one.
Shouts echoed from the hall a second before the door banged open and the rest of the team poured in, laughter gone, weapons raised.
“Breach!” a guard bellowed outside. “Coming up from the beach!”
The alarm wailed deeper, harsher, until someone killed it.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Dave and Stone led Genesis out fast, Boston and Sage—the only YA assassins on site—stayed on their heels. They burst through the estate's back door, boots slamming the cobblestones, the Pacific’s roar cutting through the fog—thick with salt and gun oil.
By the time they hit the steps leading to the beach, shadows were already swarming in the mist—climbing the cliffs in disciplined formation. Not raiders. Not mercs.
Soldiers. Maybe.
Dave keyed his comm, voice clipped. “Lock down the main house. Keep your eyes sharp. We need to know who the hell we’re fighting.”
The team spread into position—YA assassins melted into the dark with Genesis's bigger soldiers fading into the shadows.
The first burst of gunfire cracked through the night, and Dave’s heart jolted as Stone yanked him low behind cover.
“I’d rather you weren’t out here,” Stone growled, grip iron-tight around his arm.
“How can I ask them to face the enemy while I stay hidden?” Dave shot back.
“You’ll have to, eventually,” Stone said, voice low and hard.
“But not tonight,” Dave answered, gaze fixed on the beach—the men swarming the bluffs, the churn of surf, his home standing against the dark.
Forget Port Hueneme.
The war had come to his doorstep.
Gunfire raked the cliffs, muzzle flashes strobing through the fog. With Stone at his side, Dave dropped behind the stone retaining wall, scanning the fog-shrouded beach below.
He wasn’t sitting this one out.
Not tonight.
Not while his man and his team were out here in the trenches.
Just a handful of Genesis and YA held the estate, backed by bodyguards and a few Secret Service to fill the gaps. It wasn’t enough.
The others were still inbound—Pegasus from Ventura.
Too far to help.
Figures swarmed through the mist below, climbing the cliffs in disciplined formation. Too many for Franklin’s kind of rabble. Too sharp, too clean.
Boston ducked low as tracer fire cracked overhead. “What the hell—who are these guys?”
Sparrow hunched beside the wall near Dave and Stone, tablet clutched tight. “Not randoms. They’re organized. Look at the spacing—they know what they’re doing.”
Stone’s eye stayed locked to his scope. “Could be Franklin. Could be Titus. Doesn’t matter—we put them down the same.”
Law slammed a fresh mag into his rifle. “Good. Makes them easier to drop.”
“Hold,” Dave snapped before Boston could squeeze off a shot. “No one fires unless I call it. We don’t tip our hand until we know what we’re facing.”
“You’re impossible,” Stone’s voice cut low. “You built an army so you wouldn’t have to be in the line anymore.”
“And still ended up in it,” Dave said.
Stone exhaled hard through his nose. “You’re gonna make me gray before the gunfire does.”
Dave’s mouth twitched, eyes catching the faint glint of silver in Stone’s hair where the floodlights cut through the fog. “Too late for that,” he murmured.
Stone didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth curved, just barely, before the next burst of gunfire drowned the moment.
A round smacked stone inches from his face, spraying grit. Dave blinked hard, wiped blood from a shallow graze along his cheek.
“Shit!” Stone growled, yanking him close, shoving him behind his own body—shielding him with a ferocity that was pure instinct. Protective, unrelenting, badass. And in that split-second, Dave could not have loved him more.
Law cursed, dropped to a knee, and scanned the fog through his scope. “This is bullshit—we’re blind up here.”
“They came for us.” Stone exhaled slowly, tracking through the murk.
The fog ripped open in a burst of gunfire, muzzle flashes strobing along the rocks.
A figure emerged from the fog, coming down from the estate side—long ink-black hair plastered to his face, his frame all willowy grace that looked like a strong wind could knock him flat. Even in the chaos, he was fucking gorgeous, onyx eyes wide and burning, too soft for a battlefield like this.
“What the fuck?” Stone froze mid-crouch, weapon off target, eyes on the willowy stranger.
“Micah?” Black’s voice cracked sharply, almost swallowed by the roar.
“Black!” Micah’s voice cracked, half warning, half plea, before he dove behind a jagged chunk of stone as rounds sparked inches from his shoulders.
Black was moving before anyone could stop him, vaulting the barrier and slamming into cover beside him. He grabbed Micah by the shoulders, hands rough, voice hoarse. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be safe at the ranch!”
Micah’s breath came fast, chest heaving under the thin shirt already damp with fog. His chin lifted stubbornly despite the fear in his eyes. “Freedom told me you were at the estate. I didn’t know any of this was happening!”
Another burst of gunfire tore overhead. Black shoved him lower, his own body covering Micah’s without thought, fury and fear boiling together in his chest.
For a beat, the estate wall held silent but for the thunder of the Pacific and the roar of guns below.
Dave’s gut twisted.
Whoever was climbing his cliffs, they weren’t here by accident. They were trained, they were hunting, and they wanted through.
And the fog only thickened, swallowing the shapes until friend and foe blurred into one long shadow.
Titus drove through the mist, Beckman at his flank, his men fanning wide to keep the pressure up the slope. The surf hammered behind them, fog clinging like a second skin.
If he could get to the man they called Dave, former SecDef, then he could explain things.
But getting through these fuckers didn’t look possible.
Then he saw him—Viper.
The same swagger he’d noticed in Chicago, all lethal grace and confidence. For half a second, Titus almost admired it—before that swagger turned into impact.
A blur from the haze, full weight slamming him into the sand-slick rock. Elbow. Jaw. Knee. Pain.
“Thought you could come back and finish the job?” Viper’s snarl was hot in his face, hands clamped around his throat. “San Pedro wasn’t enough?”
Titus’s vision sparked. He bucked hard, tore free enough to gasp. “That wasn’t me—I was in Chicago.”
“Bullshit!” Viper slammed him down again, the world narrowing to pain and fog. “Five years ago, you put a knife in me and left me bleeding.”
Titus clawed for leverage, boots digging into wet stone. He caught Viper’s arm, twisted, rolled them both hard. Fists cracked against ribs, bone against bone.
“That wasn’t me!” Titus roared, blood running down his temple. “I’ve never laid a blade on you.”
Viper’s fist crushed his mouth, copper flooding his tongue. “You look the same, move the same—you think I don’t know your face?”
Titus spat blood, shoved him back. “You fought my brother. My triplet. I’d have killed the bastard myself if I’d gotten to him first.”
For a split second, Viper faltered. San Pedro—the knife, the betrayal. Could it be?
No. Rage swamped him again. He drove a knee into Titus’s ribs, teeth bared. “Don’t you dare try to crawl out from it now.”
Titus wheezed, but his voice stayed low, hard as stone. “You kill me here, you’ll never touch the man who actually put steel in your gut.”
The words sank like anchors. Viper’s breathing heaved, the fog painting Titus’s face.
He hesitated, fists still cocked.
Titus sucked air, chest burning, but didn’t move. “I’m not Tatum,” he said again, quieter. “And I’m not your enemy.”
The fog howled around them, muffling the war that still tore across the cliffs.
For the first time in years, Viper wasn’t sure who the hell he was fighting.