Chapter Twenty-Three
A cufflink rested in his pocket—the one he’d stolen from Dave’s shirt while the world outside was still dark.
The small weight pressed against his leg as he moved, a quiet reminder of how they’d been before the day took hold.
He thumbed the cool metal once, remembering the slow drag of breath on the balcony and the warmth that had nothing to do with the wind.
The memory was quick, sharp, and useful; it turned something private into a tether.
Stone set the rifle down and let the weight settle against the oak bench.
The estate’s weapons room was colder than the rest of the house, the air heavy with oil and steel.
Rows of racks lined the walls, rifles standing at attention, gleaming under recessed lighting.
Pistols sat in foam-lined drawers, shotguns cradled in steel brackets.
Scopes, optics, silencers—each sorted in labeled bins.
Even the ammo crates were stacked by caliber, stenciled markings sharp and exact.
Dave’s room, Dave’s order—every detail squared away like a soldier’s uniform.
Stone stepped toward the wall, drawn without meaning to. Framed glass gleamed under the lights: a row of medals, bronze and silver, ribbons mounted in neat bars. A folded flag at the center. He stood there a moment, respect heavy in his gut.
He hadn’t known Dave back then, when the man had worn a uniform and carried the weight of whole divisions instead of assassin and special ops teams.
But Stone had served too. He knew the grind of barracks life, the stink of sweat-soaked fatigues, the long ache of marches that bled into firefights. He knew how men bled for every ribbon, how some medals were pinned long after the men were gone.
That folded flag in the case belonged to the men who didn’t come home.
Stone’s throat tightened. He’d lost men too—names that still clawed at the dark when sleep didn’t come. Looking at Dave’s medals, he wondered who the man had buried, what ghosts rode his shoulders.
After a breath, Stone turned back to the bench. His palm dragged across the rifle’s barrel, grounding himself in steel again.
They’d left each other on the balcony earlier that morning. Soft, quiet—something Stone wasn’t used to carrying into a mission day.
Intimacy still clung to him like heat beneath his skin. He could still taste Dave on the back of his tongue—coffee and cream—and it steadied him more effectively than any breathing drill.
But now that warmth warred with the cold truth: Dave was going to put himself on the block as bait again. Not because he’d shut Stone out—Dave wouldn’t do that again—but because putting himself on the line was the only way he knew how to lead.
Stone admired the hell out of him, but he wasn’t about to be shoved into overwatch like a spectator.
Over the past six months, he’d fought his way back from a bullet tearing through his shoulder. He’d survived the pain, the surgeries, the slow grind of recovery—because of Dave. Because of the belief that when they stood together, they could face anything.
He reached for the next weapon in line, anything to ground himself. The room hummed faintly with climate controls, metal, leather, and oil thick in the air. It felt like a war shrine.
The door creaked open. Boots scuffed.
“Figures,” Rip muttered, ducking in with a half-grin, “you’d be down here brooding with the toys.”
Stone didn’t look up. “You ready for Vegas?”
“As ready as you ever are when the boss is playing merchant.” Rip leaned against a rack, arms crossed. His grin slipped into something harder. “Doesn’t sit right.”
“No shit,” Stone said. The words came out clipped, sharper than he intended. “But I can’t fight with him about it anymore.” Not when it could cost him their hard-won truce.
Winter followed in, silent at first. He ran a hand along the stock of an M4, eyes narrowing. “Dave is stubborn. Law is also older, he could go in as a handler.”
Stone’s jaw flexed. “Tell Dave that.”
“I tried,” Winter’s voice was dry. “He wasn’t having it.”
Rip blew out a breath, restless. “So, what now?”
Winter’s gaze flicked to him, cool and steady. “We send Stone in again. He’s the only one Dave listens to.”
Rip let out a short, humorless laugh. “He already tried. Weren’t you listening? Dave’s got his mind made up.”
Winter’s jaw tightened. “Then maybe he’ll listen when we get to Vegas.”
“Or maybe he won’t,” Rip shot back. “And then what? We carry him home in a box?”
The air sharpened between them.
“Enough,” Stone said quietly, but it landed heavily. “We do our jobs. Dave’s made his choice.”
Rip stared at him for a long beat, then looked away, the fight draining from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess we all have made choices.”
Winter’s voice came softer this time, but no less firm. “Then we make damn sure Dave’s choice doesn’t get him killed.”
The door creaked open again.
Boston stepped in, hands shoved in his pockets, green eyes flicking from Rip to Stone. “You all look thrilled,” he said, dry as dust.
Rip snorted. “Don’t you have a knife to polish somewhere?”
“Already did,” Boston shot back. “It didn’t argue with me.”
“Must be nice having something that listens,” Rip said, grin tugging at one corner.
“Yeah,” Boston said, deadpan. “It still cuts, too.”
Winter’s mouth twitched, just barely. Stone almost smiled. The tension in the room eased—just a fraction.
Even now, Boston had a way of cutting through the tension, keeping the air from breaking.
“You staying back for real this time?” Winter lifted one brow at him.
Stone’s hands curled around the rifle, knuckles white. He met Winter’s eyes.
“No.” The word hit the air like a brick. “If it goes sideways, I’m not staying in the shadows,” Stone said, tone quiet but deadly certain. “I already talked with Dave.”
Winter studied him for a long beat, then nodded once, slowly. “Good.”
Stone leaned back, the ache in his shoulder slight, the ache in his chest worse. Dave had commanded armies, he could make his own decisions. It didn’t mean that he had to like it, though.
He looked at the rifles, the order, the gleam of steel in the racks. Dave’s hand was all over this room, in every perfect line and locked case, and it made the thought of something happening in Vegas feel even sharper.
His phone buzzed with an incoming text message from Dave.
“Come to my study. Bring Winter.”
Stone rose from the bench, slid the rifle into the rack, and jerked his chin toward the door.
“Let’s move.”
Rip fell in at his side, Winter and Boston behind, their boots heavy on the stairs. Each step carried them out of the chill of steel and into the heat of command.
Stone’s vow burned steadily in his chest: if the op turned bloody, he wouldn’t be watching from the shadows.
That vow had a face now; it wasn’t abstract. It was Dave’s hand in his, Dave’s breath at his ear—the stupid, perfect things that made him refuse to be sidelined.
Not this time.
Rip and Boston peeled off toward the war room, already trading quick barbs.
Stone headed for the study with Winter at his side. Inside, Dave was there with Viper and Law—and Titus sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk.
Titus was fingering a fat lip—Viper stood over Titus, ready to pound him into mulch.
“What did I miss?” Stone asked, shutting the door.
“This fucker denying that he set us up,” Viper snapped.
“I didn’t set you up. I will call Franklin and see what the fuck is going on,” Titus said flatly.
“Put it on speaker.” Dave dropped the phone they’d taken off Titus onto the desk.
Titus pressed the speaker and made the call.
“Titus,” Franklin’s voice came over the line, smug.
“You fucked up a meeting with a buyer and turned it into a shit show. We’re done.” Titus poked at the red dot on the phone and ended the call.
“What the fuck!” Viper snarled, grabbing Titus by the shirt collar.
“Viper,” Dave snapped, and Viper immediately released his grip, stepping back.
Dave held Titus’s gaze, and Stone could almost feel the silent war between the two powerful men.
Stone’s jaw flexed. He recognized that look—calm and cold—the same one that had softened only hours ago on the balcony. Whatever Dave decided now, it was tempered by something private between them, something that made Stone want to stand in front of every bullet.
Titus’s phone rang, the buzz filling the charged silence.
Franklin’s name flashed on the screen.
Titus let it ring, and ring, and ring.
Franklin’s call ended, but a few seconds later it started up again.
Holding Dave’s hard gaze, Titus reached out and poked the answer icon.
“What?” Titus snapped, his voice low, ugly, and bored at the same time.
“I’m sorry, Boss. It won’t happen again.”
“Why the fuck should I give you another chance when you’ve probably cost me a few hundred thousand by that stunt you pulled?”
“I never meet buyers up front, I always test them,” Franklin’s voice shook slightly.
“Not when it’s from my fucking recommendation,” Titus snarled.
“I know, I know. I fucked up. I promise it won’t happen again. Give me the guy’s number, I’ll smooth things over and get your product. I swear.”
Stone snagged a paper and wrote down a burner phone number.
“You better make this fucking work or you’re gone.” Titus rattled off the phone number and hung up before Franklin could say another word.
Nobody spoke.
They’d all heard the seriousness in Titus’s voice. Franklin feared Titus; it had come through loud and clear.
Right on cue, the burner phone rang.
“Hello?” Dave clipped into the phone. He listened, made one-word responses, and wrote down an address before ending the call.
Dave turned to him before speaking to anyone else, and Stone’s chest tightened with pride. For a moment, that simple glance felt louder than any order. After years of standing at his back, Stone knew exactly what it meant—to be seen, trusted, chosen. “We’re going to Vegas, two days from now.”
Stone let out a low breath, the hint of a laugh breaking through. “Good,” he said. “Because I’m done standing on the sidelines while you play daredevil.”
The thing between them—a promise, a debt, a hunger—made the risk feel like theirs to divide, not his alone to shoulder.
Stone watched Dave’s hand close around the address, steady but sure.
Whatever waited in Vegas, Stone would make damned sure Franklin didn’t walk away.
The fucker deserved worse, but a punch to the head was a good place to start.