Chapter Four
The safe house sat ten miles outside Pahrump, Nevada, tucked into a quiet cul-de-sac where every third home shared the same layout—mauve, sand, or brownstone. Several of the surrounding lots had never been built; beyond the last fence line stretched wide open desert—flat, silent, endless.
At three in the morning, the neighborhood was dead quiet.
From the outside, the house looked ordinary. Inside, it was all steel and government quiet.
Erebus parked in the three-car garage. Viper pulled his vehicle into the RV slot, and Memphis moved fast to shut the gate behind them.
Titus followed the others inside, shoulders rolling, loosening muscles that hated sitting still. The desert air clung to him—dry, electric, full of dust and tension that hadn’t burned off yet.
Law swept the perimeter. Memphis took the back hall, weapon low. Viper didn’t say a word, just moved straight through the house, his presence cutting sharp as a blade. Ramsey and Phoenix split off to secure the outside.
The asset—Barstow—sat slumped at the table, face drawn, eyes hollow. Titus had seen worse. Hell, he’d been worse.
He dropped his duffel on a bed in one of the spare rooms and scanned the layout—two exits, solid windows. Secure enough. With Erebus on guard, nobody in their right mind would come near this place.
He should’ve felt steady. Instead, he felt irritated.
It wasn’t the mission.
It was him.
Viper.
A fucking warrior—one that got under his skin.
The bastard had been all command and ice since they’d hit Nevada—every order clipped, every glance measured.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Titus told himself that a dozen times on the drive up.
But the truth sat like grit under his skin: that calm, controlled son of a bitch made him want to break his nose.
Memphis took charge of the asset and put him in the back bedroom with a collection of DVDs to watch and the promise of food before locking the door.
“Orders, in the kitchen,” Viper growled, stalking down the hallway.
Titus followed, striding around the man’s big frame toward the other side of the room.
Wrath took up a spot against the counter. Phoenix turned from the fridge, a roll stuffed in his mouth, another in his hand. Memphis stalked over, big and quiet, settling near the window. Law, Rhett, and Ramsey gathered close.
Titus chose to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed—casual on the surface.
Viper stood at the counter, phone in hand, jaw tight—the kind of tension that didn’t waste motion.
“Go ahead, Savage,” Viper said, hitting the speaker.
Static crackled, then Savage’s voice filled the kitchen—low, rough, all business. “Marshals are delayed. Short-staffed. You’ll have to hold the asset for maybe two nights. I’ll know more later.”
Figures. Nothing ever ran smoothly. He glanced toward the hall where the bedroom door stayed shut—asset secure, for now.
Savage kept talking. “Pick who stays. Send the rest home.”
“Copy that,” Viper said.
The call ended with a dull beep. Silence settled—heavy and waiting.
Viper’s gaze swept the room. “You heard him, the Marshals are stuck. Whoever stays, we hold here.”
Law nodded once. Memphis muttered something under his breath. Wrath just huffed.
“Who stays?” Phoenix asked around a bite of roll.
“Law, Memphis, Titus, and Phoenix—you stay with me,” Viper said. “Wrath, Rhett, Ramsey—head out.”
Titus squinted. “You’re keeping me?”
Viper didn’t even glance over. “You’re already here.”
The words hit wrong—too casual, too dismissive. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to breathe, Colonel.”
Viper looked up then, calm as ever. “Nobody said you did.”
Titus squinted, rubbing at the sudden burn in his chest. “Good. Because I don’t take orders from you.”
Memphis snorted. “You two need separate cages.”
Law smirked without looking up. “Wouldn’t last a night.”
“On this op, you do,” Viper growled, brushing past on his way out of the room—close enough for Titus to catch a flash of heat, the scent of gun oil and dust. It crawled under his skin and wouldn’t let go.
Just leftover tension, he told himself.
The sooner this op was done, the better.
The second night came quietly and cold. Titus didn’t mind the quiet—he just didn’t trust it.
The safe house had gone dark hours ago—Law crashed on the couch again, Memphis snoring somewhere down the hall, Phoenix doing rounds outside.
For him, the day had dragged—waiting on Savage’s call, the Marshals to show, cleaning weapons, pretending things were normal.
Now the air was still.
The silence held weight—the kind that pressed old memories up from the grave.
He still saw their faces sometimes—in the dark, behind his eyes; flashes of who they’d been as boys before the rot set in, before everything had gone to hell.
And being here beside Genesis brought those memories closer than he wanted. His eyes burned, but sleep stayed distant.
Screw this.
He rubbed his hands over his face and pushed up off the bed. Sleep wasn’t happening. He told himself he was hungry, but the truth was he just couldn’t stand the silence.
Fully dressed, Titus moved down the hall—a blade sheathed at his thigh, the weight of his Ruger steady in his palm. Steps silent—the kind of quiet you learned doing the jobs no one else would touch.
He set the weapon on the counter and pulled open the fridge, white glare catching the glint of metal.
Second night in a row he’d ended up here, just before midnight. Guess that made it a habit.
He tore into the last piece of leftover steak, chewed slowly, staring at the half-empty shelves like they might offer answers. His mind was clear now, but the silence pressed in—thick, weighted, familiar.
“Could’ve sworn I ordered lights out two hours ago.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Viper.
Titus slanted a glance, catching the shape of him in the doorway—arms crossed, face half in shadow. Combat boots, yet no sound—just there, watching.
“Guess I missed the memo.”
“Figures,” Viper growled.
He knew he should walk away, but part of him wanted the fight—wanted to goad Viper. Wanted to feel something besides empty.
The faint rasp of fabric followed as Viper shifted his weight. “You planning to eat the whole fridge or just stand there glaring at it?”
Titus grabbed the milk, took a long drink straight from the carton, then finally looked over again. “You always this chatty late at night?”
“Only when I’m babysitting insomniacs who raid rations.”
“Must be your lucky night, then.”
Viper’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Oh, I don’t believe in luck.”
“Right,” Titus said, holding the carton. “You make your own, then?”
Silence stretched—two men standing in the cold wash of light, neither willing to blink first.
“Yes.”
“You may be in charge of your men, Colonel, but don’t forget, I’m older than you.” Titus smirked, letting his gaze drag up and down Viper before taking another swallow from the carton. Right on cue, the man bristled—Titus fucking loved getting under his skin.
“So what?” Viper snorted. “You gonna tell me you were in preschool when I was in nappies?”
Titus sputtered milk, the bark of laughter that escaped couldn’t be helped.
Viper’s mouth quirked.
Titus sobered, squinting as he reminded himself he couldn’t stand the asshole in front of him—so trading humor in the middle of the night felt like bullshit.
He wasn’t here to make friends.
He slammed the milk back into the fridge, shut the door, and reached for his weapon—only to find Viper blocking the doorway.
“You gonna move, or should I just shoot you?” he growled, irritation sparking.
The man didn’t even look ruffled—shirt squared, sleeves neat, calm like this was a briefing instead of a fight waiting to happen. Power rolled off Viper, steady and quiet, and it crawled under Titus’s skin.
Viper’s expression went stone cold. Instead of stepping aside, the bigger man took a slow, deliberate step forward.
Titus lifted the gun—not quite aiming, just brandishing. Viper apparently didn’t see it that way.
With precision and speed, Viper gripped his wrist, slammed his arm against the fridge, and pinned it there.
The move caught him off guard, pain shooting up to his shoulder—sharp and immediate.
“Back off,” he snarled as the weapon slipped from his grip and clattered across the tile.
Viper pressed in hard, using his weight to hold him there—heat rolling between them.
The air turned hot.
They were close in strength, but Viper carried more muscle, and in this position, it showed. Fucking asshole.
He couldn’t break the hold, so he did the next best thing—snapped his head forward. They were too close for it to do much damage, but when his forehead hit bone, it still rattled his teeth.
“Shit,” he hissed.
Viper grunted.
They grappled for control, boots scraping the tile as Viper drove him harder into the fridge. The struggle turned silent, brutal.
Viper tightened his grip, like a vise—iron-hard, unrelenting—pressure biting up through Titus’s arm. Pain flared—bright, white-hot.
Titus went for his knife. Free hand slid to the sheath, steel whispering as it cleared leather. The tip found Viper’s groin.
Everything stopped.
Viper froze, eyes flaring wide in the dim stove light.
“Move it or lose it,” Titus said, voice low, guttural, and dead fucking serious.
“If you two are done with the foreplay, it’s rotation change.” Phoenix’s voice cut in from the doorway.
Viper pressed his forehead hard against his and then stepped back abruptly, all the heat gone—back to the soldier, back to command.
Titus glared, sheathed his knife, and grabbed his weapon from the floor—his focus snapping back to mission tempo.
He’d deal with this asshole later and make damn sure he never got tangled in another op with him again.
For now, duty came first.