Chapter Twenty-Six
Vegas warehouse.
The stink hit first.
The place reeked of old smoke and sweat, the walls steeped in both. A faint tang of gun oil lingered in the air—too many weapons hiding under too many coats.
Stone’s boots grated across bare concrete, every step loud in the quiet. The overhead lights buzzed—cheap fluorescents that washed the place sickly yellow.
Dave walked a half pace ahead, steady as granite. To anyone else, he looked untouched, calm as a man handling business.
But Stone knew him too well. He saw the tiny flex of Dave’s jaw, the shallow rhythm in his breath. Every inch of him screamed control—except the part Stone could feel, like a thread stretched tight through his own chest.
He shifted his stance to cover Dave’s flank, weight balanced, hand brushing the edge of his own jacket where steel rested.
Rip mirrored him on the other side of Dave—calm, silent, scanning. They didn’t need words; two men cut from the same cloth.
Boston’s sneakers squeaked on the floor.
The eighteen-year-old looked loose, restless, the kind of twitch that would draw a predator’s eyes.
Sage beside him was the opposite—still as a coiled trap, green eyes sharp beneath the halo of blond curls.
The two of them were bait dressed up as a prize, and every instinct Stone had told him that was a dangerous game.
The guards at the far wall shifted, eyes sliding over the group. Stone tracked their movements without moving his head—fingers still, his weight rolling to the balls of his feet. The room smelled like gunpowder.
Franklin’s man stepped forward, all swagger and cheap cologne.
“Hands out,” one of Franklin’s men said, stepping forward, all swagger and cheap cologne.
“The fuck you say?” Stone’s voice was lethal, a wash of fury coating the words.
The man gaped and stumbled back a bit. The rest of Franklin’s men shifted nervously, dragging their eyes from Stone to Rip and then Dave.
Dave didn’t blink. He stood still, shoulders squared, gray hair catching the yellow light. Seller, not commander, but tough as nails.
The silence pressed in, heavy with oil and rust. Every instinct screamed wrong, wrong, wrong.
Stone squinted, scanning the exits again. One way in. One way out. And five heartbeats too slow if this blows.
The door creaked, and the stink of cigars rolled in first.
Then Franklin.
He wasn’t tall, but he carried himself like a man who thought he owned the room. Suit jacket stretched over a gut, hair slicked back, sweat shining at his temple. His eyes swept the group once, and then they stuck—glued to the two youngest.
Boston. Sage.
Stone felt the shift in the air, a rot settling heavy in his lungs. Franklin’s gaze crawled over them like grease, slow and unashamed, pupils widening the way a man might size up a cut of meat.
“Well, well.” His voice was syrupy, a slow drag that coated the ears. “Titus was right. So…This is what you’re selling?”
Boston squared his shoulders, chin lifting, but Stone caught the twitch in his jaw. Sage stayed still as glass, eyes locked forward, but Stone knew the young man was coiled like a blade ready to strike.
Franklin’s tongue wet his lip. He took a step closer, close enough for Stone to smell the sour whiskey rolling off his breath.
“Pretty little things,” he murmured. “I like the smaller ones—faster, easier to… train.”
Fucking hell. Stone swallowed. This was what Titus had to deal with? How the fuck had the guy done it for so long?
Heat spiked under Stone’s skin, a drumbeat in his ears. His trigger finger itched, his whole body a fuse ready to blow.
Dave was a statue beside him, cold, controlled, seller mask in place.
Rip moved. Just a fraction, so slight no one else in the room would’ve caught it. His stance widened, shoulders loose, but the menace in his eyes was a blade unsheathed.
Franklin never saw it—too busy licking his lips over Boston—but Stone did. He read it clearly. Rip would kill for the kid. Maybe didn’t even know it yet.
“How old are you, boy?” Franklin leaned in, head cocked as he looked Boston up and down.
Boston’s mouth opened, a smart remark already burning on his tongue. Stone felt it coming—
Rip’s hand clamped down, heavy on Boston’s shoulder. A warning squeeze, hard enough to make the kid’s teeth click shut.
“Sixteen,” Boston lied through his teeth.
Stone’s stomach twisted when Franklin’s eyes lit up. The bile in his throat was sharp as glass. He’d been in war zones that felt cleaner than this room.
Franklin circled them slowly, like a dog sniffing out weakness. His shoes clicked against the tile, sharp against the hum of the lights. His gaze dragged over Sage again, then settled on Boston like a hook sinking into flesh.
“You’ve got fire,” Franklin said, voice pitched low, oily. “I can see it in your eyes. Mouth on you too, I bet. Bet you’d learn quick once it was beaten out of you.”
Boston’s jaw clenched, the words sparking just behind his teeth. Stone felt it before it showed—the tightness in the kid’s shoulders, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Boston was a fuse begging for a flame.
Rip’s hand was already there. Squeezing harder this time, fingers like a vise on Boston’s shoulder. His head dipped just enough for Stone to catch the whisper that never made it to Franklin’s ears.
“Not. A. Word.”
Boston’s throat worked, eyes narrowing, but he stayed silent.
Franklin chuckled, low and pleased, mistaking restraint for submission. He leaned back on his heels, smug grin slicing across his face.
“That’s what I like. A challenge. Something raw I can mold.”
Stone’s gut turned. He wanted to break the man’s teeth just to wipe the smile off his face.
Rip hadn’t moved otherwise—stance still casual, face blank. But Stone saw the truth in the man’s eyes. Cold. Dark. If Franklin touched Boston, Rip wouldn’t just stop him—he’d gut him. And Franklin would never even see it coming.
Only Stone noticed.
The door at the back opened without warning.
Heavy boots on tile. Slow, deliberate.
Titus stepped through the threshold, and the whole room tilted.
Broad shoulders filled the doorway, a shadow cutting the fluorescent light. His eyes swept the room once, steady as a rifle barrel, before locking on Franklin.
The change was instant. Franklin’s smirk slipped, his spine straightening like a schoolboy caught out.
“Sir,” Franklin said, too quick, too smooth, voice bending to something closer to respect—or fear. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
Stone’s muscles tightened, an instinct he didn’t bother to fight. He shifted half a step closer to Dave, body angling just enough to put himself between the two men.
Dave didn’t react, didn’t even twitch, but Stone knew he felt the shift too.
Titus moved farther in, boots silent now. His gaze skimmed over Sage, over Boston, then stopped—locked on Dave. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
Rip shifted as well, not much, just a slide of his hand toward his sidearm. Not enough to draw notice from Franklin, who was too busy bowing his head, waiting for Titus’s word. But Stone caught it. Rip was ready to draw.
The air thickened, heavy and sharp.
Titus in the room meant the game had just changed.
“Is this the merchandise?” Titus asked Franklin.
Franklin’s smile made him want to put a bullet in the man’s head.
Yes. Look at that one,” Franklin pointed to Boston. “He looks like he’s going to be a talented little cock-sucker, right Titus?”
The words hit the room like a grenade.
Boston’s head snapped up so fast Stone could hear the breath leave him.
“You’re a fucking dead man.” Rip’s voice cut through the room like shrapnel. His hand slid—too quick for anyone but Stone to register at first—toward the small of his back where the gun rode.
Ah shit!
Somebody was about to die.