Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, the house was too quiet.
Stone paced the length of the upstairs hall, boots whispering against hardwood, the silence pressing in on him like a weight.
Yesterday’s fight still clung to the walls, raw and unfinished, every word he and Dave had thrown at each other lodged like shrapnel.
He hadn’t slept, and he sure the hell hadn’t gone into Dave’s bedroom.
He valued his head.
Downstairs, the war room was already alive with motion—gear being hauled, Black and Winter barking logistics, Viper’s voice sharp enough to cut. But up here in the deserted hallway, the air was dead, heavy with everything he hadn’t said.
His hands itched for something to do. A weapon to clean, a horse to ride, hell, even a fight to bleed it out of him. Instead, there was nothing but the hollow thud of his own pulse and the echo of his own voice in the room.
Rather lose Franklin than lose you.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, jaw tight. He hadn’t meant to let it spill like that, raw and unguarded, but it was the truth—and Dave hadn’t listened.
He stopped at the end of the hall, braced a hand against the window frame, and tried to breathe past the pressure in his chest.
He wanted to be in the study, sitting next to Dave, watching the gardens together.
He wanted their normal back. He wanted their quiet conversations. And even though the fury had cooled overnight, it left behind dread.
Cold, heavy, unshakable.
Dave was going to put himself in Franklin’s sights, and Stone couldn’t stop him. Not with words. Not with fists.
His eyes shut, throat tight. The fight wasn’t what gutted him. It was the thought that it might have been the last one they ever had. He couldn’t stop him, but he could damned well be there when Dave went in.
If Dave thought he was standing back on this mission, then he could think again.
By midday, the estate was thick with motion. Viper’s voice rang from the main hall, drilling orders. Out front, engines turned over, weapons loaded, movement constant.
Stone found himself near the front gate when two SUVs rolled up, dust kicking high behind them. The doors opened and out spilled Creed and Kellum, faces sharp with the familiar tension that came before a fight.
Parker and Oliver slid out of the second SUV armed and ready.
“About damn time,” Stone muttered under his breath, though a flicker of relief cut through the dread. Reinforcements meant Dave was shoring up the line.
Creed gave him a crooked grin. “You look like hell, cousin.”
“Feel worse,” Stone shot back, pulling him into a rough clasp before turning to Kellum.
Kellum’s eyes narrowed. “And who the hell is this Titus dude I keep hearing about?”
Stone’s jaw worked, but he only shook his head. “Long story. One I don’t have the stomach to tell twice.”
Kellum grunted, clearly unsatisfied, but he let it drop. Parker and Oliver joined in the gate exchange, quick handshakes before Law’s voice cut across the yard, summoning them inside.
Stone followed, the knot in his chest tightening with every step.
Inside the estate, voices rumbled low, men moving with purpose. Creed, Kellum, along with Parker and Oliver, moved through and into the war room.
But in the hall just outside, Stone caught sight of Law leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the flow like he was built into it.
Sage passed by with a stack of files, nearly dropping them. Law shifted, steadying the man with one big hand before Sage could fumble.
“Easy,” Law said, voice low.
Sage gave him a quick nod, cheeks flushing as he disappeared into the room.
Stone slowed, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.
Law caught the look. “He’s new,” Law said, shrugging one shoulder. “But sharp. Give him a little time.”
“You always had an eye for talent,” Stone said, rubbing at the tightness growing in his shoulder, “but don’t forget he’s an assassin.”
“Still do. And I won’t,” Law answered. His gaze flicked over Stone, lingering at the line of his arm. “How’s the shoulder?”
Stone grimaced, then rolled it experimentally. “Just over six months out. Still twinges if I push it too hard.”
Law’s lips quirked. “You wouldn’t let me check it after the Morrison takedown.”
Stone snorted. “I don’t trust your bedside manner.”
They shared a look—half amusement, half the weight of old battles.
But from down the hall, Dave’s shadow stretched long before he appeared, his stride clipped, eyes catching the two of them.
The flicker that passed over his face wasn’t command steel this time—it was something sharper, colder.
Stone felt it, even before Dave’s voice cut in. “We’re not here for a reunion.”
The words weren’t loud, but they landed like a blade.
Law only raised his hands in mock surrender, pushing off the wall. “Just checking on an old friend.”
Dave’s gaze didn’t leave Stone. For a beat, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Then Dave turned on his heel and headed inside the war room.
Stone exhaled, shoulders tight. Whatever distance had opened between them overnight had just grown wider.
The room bristled with tension when Stone stepped inside.
Sparrow stood by the comms rig, headset crooked around his neck, papers spread across the desk. The rest of the men ringed the table—Rip scowling, Boston bouncing his boot, Sage watchful, steady with pen in hand. Viper leaned in the corner, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.
Viper tapped a printout. “Franklin took the bait.”
Dave stepped in closer. “How?”
“Titus dropped a whisper about product moving west. Wants Franklin to handle it.” Viper’s gaze lifted, steady on Dave.
Dave didn’t flinch. His expression just hardened, steel locking into place. His eyes tracked to Boston, then Sage. “All right, you two. Just like we discussed. You’ll go in as the product I’m selling.”
Stone’s hand curled against the table. Dave was going in himself—he hated it.
Titus’s voice slid in, deep, controlled. “You’ll need muscle at your back when you walk into that sale.”
Dave hesitated, a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Viper and Rip with me. Stone and Ace—you’ll take overwatch.”
Stone froze.
The words hit harder than any fist.
Not him. Not the man who’d bled beside Dave through battles in back alleys, who’d stood between him and death more times than he could even remember?
Passed over, like his vow and his fury meant nothing.
Hurt flared sharp in his chest, burning under the anger until it twisted into something colder.
Betrayal. He kept his face stone, but inside it was a knife sliding deeper, reminding him just how wide the distance between them had grown.
Dave tried to catch his eyes, but Stone refused to glance that way.
He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he did. So he stood there. The rest of the meeting sounded like muffled noise.
By dusk, the estate shifted into a different rhythm.
The training yards cleared, engines growled to life in the motor pool, and men loaded rifles and checked gear with the efficient silence of professionals.
Headlights cut pale beams through the dust as the convoy rolled toward the gates.
Dave moved among them like command incarnate—shoulders squared, jaw hard, voice clipped as he gave the final orders.
Viper at his flank, Rip close behind, Boston and Sage already climbing into the SUV that would sell the lie.
Stone stood in the shadows by the front entrance, chest tight, fury and dread tangled in a knot that stole his breath.
He’d been cast to the sidelines. Overwatch. Out of reach when Dave put himself in Franklin’s jaws.
The first SUV pulled away, tires crunching on the driveway. Then the second, headlights swinging wide as the convoy turned down the road.
Stone’s hands curled into fists. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Fuck this.”
He strode to the nearest SUV, yanked the driver’s door open, and slid behind the wheel.
Law was there in a blink, passenger door slamming shut as he dropped into the seat. Black and Winter climbed into the back without a word, their faces set.
Stone fired the engine, asphalt burning under the tires. The convoy’s taillights burned red in the distance, bleeding into the dark.
He jammed the accelerator.
And chased Dave into the night.