Chapter Twenty-Four
By late morning, the estate was alive. Boots thudded across the floors, the smell of coffee clung to the air, and Sparrow’s voice carried from the war room where Stone, Rip, and Viper bent over maps.
“Walk with me,” Dave said to Titus.
Stone and Viper snapped upright; Dave raised a hand to stop them. Stone stepped forward anyway, then paused when Dave gently shook his head.
Titus set the map down and fell into step. “A lot of this hinges on you,” Dave said as they moved down the hall.
“I know. How can I help?” Titus kept pace, boots quiet on the floor.
“When we get Franklin, I’ll place you both in custody. We’ll confiscate his phone and laptop, but I need you to get him talking in case there’s nothing on his electronics.” Dave didn’t bother softening the ask.
Titus stopped at a window near the front entrance and stared out into the dark. “If I’m arrested with him, it might lower his guard.” He exhaled. “But you have to remember—Franklin never told me anything about Tatum.”
“I know.” Dave kept his voice even. “Still—worth a shot.”
“I’ll do it.”
Instead of heading back to the war room, Dave left Titus in the hall and walked down toward the holding cells. He told himself it would only be for a few minutes.
But Clinton was still rotting in one of the cells, and Dave couldn’t stomach leaving that thread dangling. Not with the mission tightening. Not with Stone watching.
The secured wing was quieter, removed from the day’s bustle. The air smelled of metal and concrete, the kind of place built for temporary holds, not long stays.
One guard sat posted outside the reinforced door. Shoulders too loose, gaze flicking down the hall instead of locked forward. Dave noted it, irritation curling in his gut, but didn’t slow.
“Sir.” The guard straightened at once, voice stiff.
“Open it,” Dave said.
The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk, and Dave stepped inside.
Clinton sat on the bench bolted to the wall, forearms braced on his knees.
He wasn’t cuffed—there was no need, not behind steel and reinforced locks—but he looked worn by the wait.
Hair mussed, shirt rumpled, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw.
His leg bounced in a constant, jittering rhythm, the heel of his shoe tapping against the concrete in a twitching, impatient beat.
The days had stripped him of polish, but not of fire.
His eyes snapped up sharp and alert, almost feverish. Restless.
No humility. No defeat. Just calculation.
Dave stayed by the wall, arms loose, voice flat. “Your time’s up. FBI is en route. You’ll answer to them.”
Clinton’s mouth curved, a ghost of a smile, but his eyes burned with contempt.
“The law?” Clinton leaned forward, voice fraying at the edges. “You really think you can do this without me? Do you honestly think that Viper now trusts Titus? Or that Stone will still follow you when shit goes south?”
Dave’s tone didn’t shift. “You’re finished here. You won’t touch another briefing, another op—nothing.”
Something cracked in Clinton’s face—arrogance slipping, desperation bleeding through.
“I’m the only one who knows how the pieces fit,” he hissed. “Take me off the board, and Stone runs wild. He’ll bury you.”
“You have no idea, do you?” Dave leaned in. “Stone is mine.”
The finality struck Clinton—he paled, the arrogance folding into a brittle, animal fear. Dave’s voice dropped until it was almost a whisper, and every word landed like a blade.
“Touch him,” he said, “and I’ll end you where you stand.”
Clinton’s jaw worked; he found no answer.
A guard inside the doorway moved forward—a professional reflex—stepping between Dave and Clinton with an outstretched arm.
Dave shifted to the side to avoid the guard and took a step back, straightening his suit jacket. Maybe he would’ve caught Clinton’s move if he’d been closer—but hindsight didn’t matter once it started.
Then Clinton lunged—fast, practiced—the move of a man who’d been waiting for this moment. He slammed his shoulder into the interposing guard, driving him against the bars with a metallic clang.
The fight was on. The guard went down hard, breath knocked from his lungs, sidearm jostled half free.
Clinton’s hand shot down, ripping the pistol loose. Before the man could twist, he swiped for Dave as well—an ugly, desperate grab for the throat. Dave dropped low, instincts snapping tight; Clinton’s fingers closed on air where Dave had been.
In an instant, the weapon came up, leveled at the guard struggling to his feet. Clinton’s face was twisted and wild.
“Back!” he shouted, voice ragged. “Back the hell up!”
The shot went wide, plaster bursting from the wall. The guard staggered clear, dazed. Dave was already moving before the echo faded.
The black circle of the barrel swung toward him—
A single gunshot cracked through the corridor, deafening in the confined space.
Clinton jerked, eyes wide, the pistol still clutched in his grip as a hole bloomed red in the center of his chest. His mouth opened like he meant to speak, but no sound came—only a wet gasp.
Shock froze his face as his knees buckled. He toppled sideways, the weapon clattering from his hand, his body hitting the concrete with a heavy, final thud.
Dave’s breath roared in his ears, the acrid sting of gunpowder burning his throat. Slowly, he turned toward the open cell door.
Stone stood just beyond the threshold, sidearm raised, jaw locked tight. Smoke curled from the barrel. His eyes—those hard, unflinching eyes—were fixed on Clinton’s body, not blinking, not wavering.
Three shadows flanked Stone—Rip on one side, Law on the other, and Black watching the hallway. All three men were silent, waiting.
“What did I tell you about leaving me behind?” Stone growled, voice like gravel as he slid his weapon back into his shoulder holster.
Clinton’s body sprawled in a dark pool, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sting of gunpowder.
Dave’s hand came up, rubbing hard at the ache in his chest, steadier than his voice.
“You have a real talent for saving my ass.”
Stone didn’t answer—just met his eyes, silent, unflinching.
The moment stretched.
Then in three long strides, Stone closed the distance, fisted a hand in the front of Dave’s suit jacket, and yanked him forward into a crushing grip. The impact knocked the breath out of him—harsh, real, but alive.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world was smoke and blood and the sound of their hearts slamming in sync.
For the first time since the gunshot, Dave’s chest eased.
Just a fraction.
“What do you want us to do with the body?” Rip’s voice cut in, blunt as a hammer.
Dave slowly pulled away from Stone.
Law’s mouth curved into a smirk, easy and sharp. “We could make him disappear. Quick, clean. Not a trace left behind.”
They said it like it was nothing—like taking out the trash. Assassins through and through, born to make problems vanish.
Dave squinted down at Clinton’s body. “As much as I want this fucker gone, this isn’t ours to bury.”
Rip frowned but didn’t argue. Law only rolled his shoulders, the grin still ghosting at his mouth.
Dave pulled his phone, thumb steady despite the ache in his chest—damned stress. He scrolled to a single number and hit call.
It connected on the second ring.
“Mr. President.” Dave kept his tone clipped, professional. “Clinton tried to break containment. He armed himself with a guard’s sidearm. Stone neutralized him.”
Silence pressed on the line. Then came a sigh—heavy, caught somewhere between resignation and relief.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but it was close,” Dave murmured.
“Then it’s a clean shoot. Thank Stone for me,” the President said. “I’ll have the FBI retrieve the body. Official report will read: attempted escape, justified use of force.”
Dave exhaled once, short. “Thank you.”
“You’ve got bigger prey to hunt,” the President added, voice softening. “Don’t let this slow you down.”
“I won’t.”
The line clicked off.
Dave slipped the phone back into his pocket. “FBI’s inbound. Clinton leaves here in a bag.”
Rip gave a single grunt, then half a shrug. “Waste of a good bag.”
Law’s grin widened, sharp and amused. “Guess that makes it your paperwork, Boss.”
Dave didn’t answer. His gaze found Stone instead.
He couldn’t look away until the sounds in the holding cell filtered through—the shuffle of boots, the rustle of a body bag, Law’s low murmur over the radio. The spell broke, but not the weight of it.
The corridor smelled of gunpowder and blood. Rip and Law were already moving with efficient ease, talking low as they stuffed Clinton into the bag.
Dave gave a small tip of his head and walked out of the holding room with Stone at his side.
They started up the stairs.
Stone’s boots fell in beside his, steady, unhurried. Halfway up, Stone’s hand closed around his arm and pulled him sideways into the shelter of the wall. Before Dave could speak, Stone wrapped him once again in a hard, fierce hug.
Dave let himself lean—just for a moment. Chest against chest, the solid heat of Stone bracing him while the world narrowed down to breath and heartbeat.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Dave muttered against his shoulder. “After we take down Franklin and Tatum… let’s sit down and seriously talk about my retirement.”
Stone didn’t let go. His voice rumbled low. “And mine.”
Dave drew back enough to see his face. “You’re sure?”
Stone’s mouth curved, rakish and certain. “You go, I go. Remember?”
Something tightened in Dave’s throat—something too sharp to name. He pressed a hand against Stone’s chest, whispering, “Yeah… I remember.”
Stone’s warmth faded as they finally stepped apart.
The noise from the hallway faded behind them, leaving only the hum of the estate and the weight of what came next.
Beyond the fog and the Pacific’s reach, bigger shadows waited.
Clinton was dead—unplanned, but final. One problem buried.
Vegas would be the next move. And the one after that would end with Tatum.