Chapter Twenty
The road cut through the sprawl of Port Hueneme’s industrial blocks, a straight shot into the night. Engines growled in tight formation, black SUVs ghosting down cracked asphalt.
Dave rode in the middle row of the lead vehicle, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the horizon.
He should never have left Stone behind.
Regret clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting, but his convoy was too far gone to turn back now.
In all his years, he had never regretted a single decision.
Except this one.
Leaving Stone behind.
“Fuck…” The word slipped out before he could bite it back.
Boston glanced sideways, a sharp flicker of curiosity, but he was smart enough not to ask. He faced front again.
Dave turned his thoughts back to business. He didn’t trust Franklin. Not the ground they were meeting on, not the promise of neutral terms. The whole setup stank of ambush.
Viper sat beside him, arms folded, the constant coil of a man who’d rather be back in the war room than in a suit. Dave didn’t blame the guy—his choice to keep Stone out of this part had put Viper in this position.
Across from them, Rip took up half the bench, broad frame angled to watch both windows at once. He hadn’t said a word since they pulled out of the estate, didn’t need to. His silence was the same as a promise—if shit broke loose, he’d end it fast.
Boston had claimed the passenger seat up front, boots tapping restlessly against the floorboard. Every few seconds, he leaned forward, craning for a better look at the road, then flopped back like patience burned holes through his skin.
“This is me relaxed,” Boston muttered when Viper’s glare flicked his way. But his knee kept bouncing.
Sage was the opposite. Quiet in the back beside Dave, curls shadowing green eyes that tracked everything—the mirrors, the speedometer, the way Dave’s hand flexed once on his knee.
A pen spun between Sage’s fingers until he caught himself and stilled it.
No wasted words, no wasted motion. Just watching. Always watching.
Dave spoke low, voice flat as gunmetal. “No one moves until I give the word. Franklin so much as sneezes wrong, we walk and regroup. If he’s setting a table, we’ll see what’s on it before we flip it over.”
Boston twisted in his seat, dark eyes gleaming with a grin that wasn’t humor. “And if he already flipped it?”
Dave didn’t blink. “Then we burn the table.”
The Port Hueneme warehouses loomed closer, hulks of concrete and glass rising against a sky bleeding rust and gold. Shadows stretched long across the road, reaching toward them like grasping hands.
Every instinct told Dave this was a mistake. But instincts didn’t change a damn thing.
They had to take Franklin to get Tatum. That was the goal.
But it felt wrong—not having Stone at his side.
Dave swallowed, rubbing at the burning ache in his chest. Leaving Stone behind had been stupid. Why had he done it? A knot of feelings twisted tight in his gut—ugly things he didn’t want to name.
The convoy rolled into the warehouse yard, engines idling low, headlights cutting through dust that hung in the air like smoke. The building loomed over them, all corrugated metal and broken glass, a husk that had seen better decades.
The whole fucking thing stank. The building looked…unused.
Dave stepped out first, Viper and Rip flanking him.
Boston and Sage slid out but kept to the rear, where they belonged.
The interior was cavernous and stripped bare. Concrete echoed each footfall, the air thick with rust and stale oil. At the center of the space sat a battered metal table, out of place in the emptiness. A single phone rested on top, screen dark.
“Cute,” Viper muttered, scanning the rafters.
Dave followed his gaze. Cameras, tucked high in the steel bones of the roof, their tiny red eyes winking down. And in the corners—shadows that weren’t shadows at all. Men. Franklin’s men. Weapons slung casually, like they thought they could play soldier in front of killers.
The phone buzzed.
Dave walked forward, boots striking sharp echoes. He picked up the receiver. “Yeah.”
Static crackled before a voice slid through, smooth and smug. “You brought some muscle, I see.”
Dave let his eyes track the cameras again. “I never travel light.”
Franklin chuckled on the line. “Good. I like to know the measure of a man. And his men.”
Outside, tires screeched. A shout went up. Franklin’s people were circling the convoy, pressing close, gauging the perimeter. Inside, one of the watchers shifted too near Boston, a grin sharp on his face. Boston tensed, shoulders flaring, but Viper’s glare cut him down before he moved.
Sage didn’t even twitch. He only watched, green eyes cold, pen rolling once between his fingers before he pocketed it. Product. That was the role they were supposed to play here.
The men closest thought they could take advantage of that. They were wrong.
One lunged.
Rip moved faster. A blur of violence, his boot cracked the man’s knee sideways before the bastard could even lay a hand on Boston. Another came in hard, swinging wildly. Viper met him with a clean, brutal strike—knife-hand to the throat, then a twist that sent the man coughing on the floor.
Dave didn’t so much as flinch. He let the line hang open, Franklin listening to the sounds of his men getting broken.
Dave leaned into the phone, tone flat. “You called this meeting. So either put your cards on the table or fold and walk. I don’t chase shadows. There are plenty who want my product.”
A pause.
Then Franklin’s laugh, unbothered. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Jordan and Sage had carefully crafted a false identity for Dave just for this very meeting.
Above, the cameras winked out one by one, leaving only silence and the groans of Franklin’s broken men on the concrete.
The phone clicked dead, and Dave dropped it to the table.
Beside him, Sage’s eyes stayed locked on the phone. The second the cameras went dark, the man stepped forward, snatched the device, and slipped it into a Faraday bag—a signal-proof pouch that killed every frequency from Wi-Fi to Bluetooth.
Viper dragged one of the attackers upright by the collar, shoving him back toward the shadows. Rip’s eyes glittered dark as he toed another man onto his back, daring him to rise.
Dave turned for the exit, voice cutting the quiet. “Pull out. This guy’s playing games.”
They heard it before they saw it—the fury of a battle spilling across the parking lot. Shouts, gunfire, the grind of metal on metal.
Exiting the building, they walked straight into a war.
The handful of men inside the warehouse had only been the tip of the iceberg.
Outside, Franklin had sent too many to count—dark shapes swarming across the cracked lot, headlights strobing, gunmetal flashing in the wash of security lamps.
The thin screen inside had been bait, nothing more. Franklin’s real play was here, waiting.
Dave understood the goal the instant his boots hit the gravel. Franklin wanted the product—Boston and Sage—or Dave dead. Maybe both.
An impact scarred the yard.
A perp’s SUV sat crumpled against another vehicle, steam billowing from the crushed hood.
Dave’s eyes caught a license plate on a parked SUV nearby—Genesis. Covert, but unmistakable.
Bodies lay scattered nearby.
And in the middle of it, Stone.
A Sig Sauer P365 in one hand, bloody knuckles glinting brass as he drove another punch into a man’s jaw. He moved like rage given form, shoulders squared, every strike fueled by something deeper than the fight.
At his flank, Law tore through the fray, a blade flashing as he dropped one man and pivoted into the next. Black and Winter carved a path beside them, merciless and precise, cutting Franklin’s men down like wheat before the scythe.
The yard thundered with shouts, gunfire, and the bone-breaking thud of close combat.
Dave’s chest tightened, not from fear, but from the raw sight of Stone in the middle of hell. Bloody, unyielding, exactly where Dave hadn’t wanted him to be—and exactly where he belonged.