Chapter Three
The place reeked of beer, sweat, and blood. Neon lights flickered in sick colors across overturned tables and broken glass. The music had cut off mid-track, leaving only the low hum of a jukebox still spinning somewhere near the back.
A fight had just ended. Bodies sprawled across the floor, some moving, some not—the kind of chaos that didn’t happen by accident.
Viper stepped further inside, eyes already adjusted, his team fanning out behind him.
Erebus assassins were already here—no weapons drawn, just fists, barstools, and broken bottles.
And right in the middle of it—Titus.
He’d gotten a haircut.
“I repeat. What. The. Fuck?” Viper said through his teeth.
Titus stilled. Viper saw it in the way the man’s shoulders tensed, in the boot he planted on one groaning biker’s chest.
“I guess I started it,” Phoenix grinned, wiping blood from his lip.
“I don’t think he wants to hear it,” Titus smirked, tongue flicking over the blood on his lip.
Viper stalked closer until his shadow cut across Titus’s boots.
“Tell me I’m dreaming,” he said, low. “Because there’s no way in hell you’re standing in this bar on my op.”
Titus’s gaze sharpened—a muscle jumped in his jaw, adrenaline, not amusement. “Didn’t see your name on the door.”
Viper leaned in, close enough to feel the heat off him. “Keep talking, and I’ll carve it into the floor.”
Titus’s lids narrowed, blue eyes lit like slits of flame. His teeth clicked once—a faint sound, warning before the words.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and throaty. “Fat fucking chance.”
It was a challenge—Viper would’ve betted his life on it. The bastard.
Around them, soldiers, assassins, and bikers shifted uneasily. The air was wired, seconds from breaking.
“Easy now,” Wrath said, voice low and steady as a blade being drawn. He stepped in between them, calm in the way only killers learned to be. His hand landed on Titus’s shoulder—firm, grounding, unhurried.
Viper’s eyes flicked to him. Wrath King—former SEAL, Erebus assassin, all authority and quiet danger. A man Viper respected.
“Not the time, not the place,” Wrath said evenly, gaze cutting between them. “Unless one of you wants Savage explaining to the SecDef why there’s blood on the floor he didn’t order.”
For a long second, no one moved. The room held its breath.
“Outside,” Viper snapped, turning for the door.
The cold air hit hard as they stepped out. The parking lot stretched wide and cracked, oil stains bled through the asphalt under a flickering streetlight. Engines ticked and cooled. Dust carried the sharp scent of exhaust and desert wind.
Genesis and Erebus followed, boots scuffing against gravel, forming a loose circle near the SUVs parked out front. Viper zeroed in on Titus—close enough to grab his shirt if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Not yet.
“I’ll give you a pass,” Viper said finally, eyes locked on him.
Titus gave him the finger—up close and personal, not backing off one fucking inch. Viper had to admit, most men would’ve thought twice about doing that to him, especially this close.
“We’re here to take the asset off your hands,” Wrath said, voice low.
The noise from the bar bled faintly through the walls, the jukebox still grinding out old rock. Nobody inside came out. They’d seen the look before—the kind that said walk away or get buried.
“There’s been a change in plans,” Viper said, tone tight.
Irritation threaded through every word. He’d gotten the call from Savage while still on the road—new orders.
He was to collect the three Erebus assassins and move to a safe house in western Nevada.
Once there, he’d wait for further instructions.
“So, what are we talking about?” Titus asked, frowning. “Someone’s after the asset?”
A wrong note sat in Viper’s gut—too much heat for a cartel accountant.
“More than likely,” Viper clipped. “The guy was an accountant for a cartel-connected family.”
“So that means,” Titus said, voice thick with distaste, “I have to work with you?”
Viper couldn’t help it—the grin came easy, wide and smug. “You sure the fuck do. If you want a paycheck.”
Titus’s jaw flexed—a small tell. Viper caught it—the shift in the air, that split-second of temper.
The bastard was begging for a beatdown—Viper was more than happy to oblige.
He’d make damn sure he didn’t share a vehicle with Titus when they hit the road.
While waiting for orders, he’d cut Genesis down to five—himself, Law, Memphis, Rhett, and Ramsey.
With the three Erebus men and the asset added in, that made nine total.
They could’ve all crammed into the military-issued GMV 1.1—nine seats, tight quarters—but no way in hell was Viper riding that close. He took Law, Memphis, Wrath, and the asset.
That left Ramsey, Rhett, Titus, and Phoenix together in the SUV.
For a while, it was nothing but the sound of tires on asphalt and headlights cutting a narrow path down the dark highway.
Finally, Viper broke the silence.
“How long’s he been with you guys?” His eyes flicked to Wrath in the rearview.
Wrath glanced at the asset in the backseat—headphones on, watching a movie on an iPad—before answering.
“Since January.”
“And nobody thought to tell me?” Viper’s grip tightened on the wheel.
Wrath squinted. “Last I checked, we answer to Savage and Will.”
Most of the men called William Caldwell either sir or SecDef. Not Wrath. He’d been around since the beginning—he’d earned the right to use the man’s nickname.
“It just caught me off guard,” Viper said finally. He let it drop. Now wasn’t the time. Too many ears were listening.
The asset—Evan Barstow—had headphones on, but who was to say they were even playing anything.
The little bastard could be listening, collecting intel to trade later.
Evan’s fingers tapped against his thigh—nervous, uneven—and his eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, tracking every passing car.
Evan had been cooking the books for the Morelli family for over a decade. When they went down on racketeering and extortion charges, good old Evan flipped and turned state’s evidence.
His job was simple: deliver Barstow to the safe house and wait. Next step was the Marshals—they’d make the asset disappear until trial.
“Gotta take a piss,” Phoenix said over comms.
“Nice,” Memphis drawled, voice loud in Viper’s earpiece.
Phoenix’s laugh crackled through the channel.
Law checked the map on his phone. “Gas station about a mile out,” he said.
“Copy,” Viper replied.
When the red-and-yellow station sign came into view, Viper eased the GMV toward the pumps. Might as well top off while they were stopped.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” he ordered, stepping out into the wind.
His men, along with the asset, headed inside to use the restrooms.
Casually, Viper glanced at the black Erebus SUV.
Titus climbed out of the passenger seat and stretched—lean, tight, all long lines and muscle. Black pants hugged his thighs and ass, and the fitted shirt didn’t bother hiding the cut of his abs.
The guy was forty-eight—he’d checked. Three years older than him, yet the bastard looked like he’d stopped aging at thirty.
Phoenix said something with a laugh and ruffled Titus’s dark hair.
What the fuck? Viper stared.
This wasn’t a vacation.
He clenched his teeth.
“So, I told her I wasn’t taken, but if she was around in a few years, I’d be back,” Phoenix cackled. Titus laughed.
“You dog—asking her to wait years?” Titus shook his head, smirking.
“Woof, woof,” Phoenix shot back, heading for the glass doors.
Titus glanced over. Viper turned away fast, jaw tight.
His mouth was dry. He yanked at the pump handle—it stuck, then came loose with a jerk.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
“Need me to show you how that works?”
Viper closed his eyes. Titus. That fucking voice—lazy, smug, made for starting fights.
“Get the fuck away from me.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn it.
His outburst had Titus sliding those blue eyes over him, a slow smile tilting those—
Lush lips?
What the fuck.
“Here, you do it,” Viper snapped, shoving the nozzle at a startled Titus before stalking toward the building.
The bell over the door chimed as he stepped inside. He didn’t stop until he reached the cold drinks section, yanked open the glass door, and stuck his head in.