Chapter Nine
The wind had died down—at least in bursts—and Titus stretched in the bright afternoon sun.
They’d waited out the worst of it. By the time it broke, the sun was high and mean.
Law had checked in throughout the whole damned storm, his voice tight with the kind of helplessness that came from being too far away to help.
Viper had stayed calm under pressure and reassured Law they’d make it. Viper was a natural born leader. It was one of several things Titus was starting to admire about him.
“I could eat my own ribs,” Viper muttered, joining him.
“How about this instead?” Titus laughed, pulling a power bar from his bag and snapping it in half.
“We sat in there for four hours, and now you tell me?”
Viper glared at him, which only made him grin wider—and that seemed to surprise Viper, judging by the look on his face.
“What?” Titus paused. Something about that look caught him off guard.
“I didn’t know you could laugh.”
Titus shrugged, focusing on his half of the bar. “Haven’t had much reason to.”
“Well,” Viper said, taking the half and a bite, “we’ll have to work on that.”
“Oh?” Titus asked, intrigued.
It reminded him of a few lovers he’d had in college—men who’d known him only as Titus, not the name printed on the donor walls. He’d ended every fling early, afraid of labels, afraid of being dragged into the same gutter as his brothers.
“Now that’s an interesting expression,” Viper murmured. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothin—”
The sound of engines in the distance cut him off.
“We’ve got company,” he hissed, drawing his weapon.
The wind had slowed them down. They hadn’t put enough distance between themselves and the cartel, and now they were paying for it.
“If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks,” Viper said, already moving, keeping low.
Titus followed, scanning the flats. Bright, open daylight—no cover worth a damn. The only advantage was the wind gusts; any helicopter would fight it. That meant the cartel was coming in by ground.
Wearing all black hadn’t been his smartest move, but it was too late now. At least Viper blended into the land.
One of them might survive.
He touched Viper’s shoulder and pointed toward the horizon.
Dust swirled—vehicles. The cartel was sweeping the valley, methodical, tight formation. Exactly how he’d do it if he were hunting.
“Damn it,” Viper muttered, breaking into a jog. “As soon as we lose these fuckers, we’ll call Law—you can drop that beacon.”
“You got it.” Titus kept low, moving in sync behind whatever rock or scrub they could find.
He hated the desert. It reminded him too much of the hunt for Tatum—his brother had been crafty, slippery—but Genesis had ended his reign soon enough.
He appreciated that Viper had brought them up earlier, though the man didn’t owe him an apology for a damn thing.
Shoving the memories aside, he pushed to match Viper’s pace.
“They’re on us!” Viper shouted.
Titus glanced back. They weren’t on their ass yet—maybe two miles out if he had to guess—but close enough.
Viper dropped down the far side of an incline, and Titus scrambled after him.
“Call Law!” Viper barked.
Titus yanked out the phone as Viper came to a halt.
“Law,” he said, holding it out while Viper punched the speaker.
“What’s the situation?” Viper growled into the phone.
Static—then Law’s voice, thin under interference. “Pilot’s gonna take a chance and get to you. Winds dropped to twenty-five knots. He thinks he can make it.”
“Okay, head due west, we’re coming east.” Titus scanned the horizon. “Where the hell’s a landmark?”
“There—dry lake bed about a mile out,” Viper growled, pointing. “Flat, pale—looks like cracked glass from the air. We’ll light the strobe on the east edge.”
“We gotta move,” Titus hissed; he could hear engines closing fast.
He pulled at Viper, and they broke into a run, full out—up one rise and down the next.
“Why’re you running?” Law’s voice edged toward panic.
“Cartel on our ass,” Viper said, “Get here fast.”
“Copy that,” Law said through static.
Viper killed the call. Titus was already moving, phone shoved away.
“How do we lose these fuckers?” Titus lifted his voice over a gust of wind.
“We don’t.” Viper grabbed his arm and shoved him forward. “Run faster.”
Five more minutes—max. Titus thought he could hear rotor blades somewhere beyond the wind, but he couldn’t be sure.
They didn’t have much time. The cartel had closed the two miles between them.
Gunfire split the air, sharp and echoing—bullets bouncing off the desert at their feet. Rocks sprayed as they ran up a short hill and leaped over the rise.
On the downslope, rounds chipped stone.
A rock gave way under Viper’s boot, and he went headfirst down the hill.
Titus poured on speed, full sprint, reached him in seconds, crouched low, and shielded the man with his body. One by one, he fired, dropping cartel gunmen as they crested the rise.
The chopper came in hot—fast and low.
“Hang on—they’re here,” he growled, dragging Viper behind a cluster of rocks.
His hands shook. He never fucking shook.
Blood ran down Viper’s forehead.
“Hey,” Titus said, gripping the back of his neck.
He fired again, catching a shooter in the knee, sending him tumbling down the slope. When the man stopped in a heap, Titus shot once more—throat hit—blood sprayed.
“You still with me?” he urged, tightening his hold.
“Y…yeah.”
Viper’s voice was off—slurred. Concussion for sure. The chopper was almost on top of them now, gunfire thundering from its open door.
Titus hauled Viper up, half carrying him up the incline toward the waiting bird.
“Run!” Law shouted, firing past them.
Two Genesis operatives—Black and Winter, Titus remembered—opened up with rapid, disciplined bursts.
Law grabbed Viper under the arms while Titus snatched the M16 off the floorboard. He turned and fired, shredding the jeeps cresting the rise.
“I’m hit!” Winter yelled, stumbling back from the doorway, blood pouring from his arm.
Law yanked, pulling Viper inside the waiting chopper.
A blast rocked the ground, knocking Titus flat—fucking cartel rocket launcher. They wanted this informant badly.
Titus rolled, belly to the dirt, sighted on the man with the launcher, and fired. The bullet hit. It always did when it mattered.
Behind him, the bird lifted—rotor wash kicking sand, rock, and debris. Something sliced his face.
He rolled, eyes tracking the rising chopper—too high now to reach, out of his grasp—and caught Viper’s gaze across the short distance.
“No! Fuck!” Viper’s shout carried over the wind.
Titus didn’t wait to hear more. He shoved to his feet, already moving. Survival was paramount, although bitterness and something akin to hurt coated the back of his tongue.
It didn’t surprise him that they left him out here. Even after the fragile trust he and Viper had built, he knew in his gut he was still judged by blood.
Why would they take him? They had no reason to.
He fired, rolled, and ran—drawing the cartel’s focus away from the chopper.
If he could do one thing right now, it’d be saving Viper and his men.
And if he died trying? Well, maybe he’d find peace.
And perhaps…forgiveness.