Chapter Thirteen
One day later…
Nightfall Drifters Ranch breathed differently at dawn.
Not like the city. Not like the desert. Just the low hum of the ranch; the distant shuffle of horses, and the quiet presence of men who’d earned a moment of stillness but never fully trusted it.
Viper descended the main-house stairs, one hand braced lightly on the railing. His boots hit wood softened by decades of use. The air smelled like coffee, dust, and the cold bite of early morning settling over the hills.
Law waited at the bottom, leaning against the post, arms crossed.
“Sleep?” Law asked.
Viper snorted. “Define it.”
Law’s mouth twitched. “You look better than you did yesterday.”
“That’s a low bar.”
A beat passed—comfortable, familiar. Law tipped his chin toward the barn past the kitchen windows.
“Barstow’s up,” he said quietly. “Didn’t say much. Just asked where he was again.”
“And you said?”
“‘Safe’ was good enough.”
Law shrugged. “Not like we can tell him he’s in the middle of a top-secret ranch full of assassins and young operatives who eat like wolves.”
“Good call.”
They pushed into the ranch kitchen.
Noise hit first.
Cookie banged pans like he was trying to beat the cookware into submission, muttering dark threats about the YA boys being late for breakfast. The long farmhouse table was half set, plates stacked high, steam rolling off eggs and potatoes.
“Six o’clock!” Cookie barked at no one in particular. “Six o’clock means asses in chairs at six, not six-fifteen, not whenever their pretty little feet decide to touch the floor—”
Boston strolled in, hair a mess, shirt half buttoned. “Easy, Cookie. It’s only six-oh-five.”
“That’s five minutes of insubordination,” Cookie snapped.
Freedom darted past him and stole a slice of bacon off the pan, earning a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
Behind them, Rip stood at the coffee pot with Winter, who cradled his bandaged arm like it owed him money.
“Move,” Rip told Winter.
“Use your other arm,” Winter shot back.
Rip arched a brow. “Use your brain.”
“Guys,” Boston said, sliding between them, “some of us need caffeine to tolerate you.”
Sage drifted in next, tablet under his arm, curls shoved back like he’d lost a fight with his own hair. “Statistically, they’d tolerate us either way. Caffeine only lowers the bitch quota.”
Law grinned at him. “Morning, trouble.”
Sage didn’t look up. “You only call me that when you want something.”
“True.”
Viper smirked. Sage was changing—less ghost, more presence. Good. This life didn’t make room for the quiet ones, not for long.
The thought tugged another loose thread.
He scanned the room. “Where’s Aspen?” he asked Real, voice low beneath the noise.
Aspen was new—quiet, watchful, the kind of kid who could disappear in plain sight.
Real didn’t miss a beat. “With Rebel.”
A burst of laughter cracked near the stove as Cookie swore at someone.
Viper leaned back in his chair.
Chaos, noise, banter—normalcy.
The kind of morning that made Nightfall feel almost like a place real people lived, not killers and operatives with blood on their hands.
He stepped into the coffee line.
Rip glanced over, poured him a mug without comment, and slid it his way.
“Thanks,” Viper said.
Rip grunted—which, from him, translated to you’re welcome.
Viper took a long sip, the heat grounding him, and crossed to the long table. Real, Crow, and Black were already seated—quiet, steady anchors in the noise.
He dropped into the chair beside them, the weight in his chest easing just enough to let him breathe.
A rare moment of calm.
Of course, it didn’t last.
“Eat fast, we’ve got training,” Azrael said around the last sip of his coffee.
The young assassin stood, dropped his empty plate in the sink, kissed Real on the cheek in passing, and headed out the door with that dancer-light stride of his—silent, quick, lethal in the most deceptively beautiful way.
“Hear that?” Boston said, gesturing with his fork—his hands always moving. “Scarf it quick.”
“I just got here,” Sage said, sounding personally insulted by the concept of time.
Syx snorted—low, rough, amused. “That’ll teach you to be late.”
The tall assassin leaned back in his chair, blue eyes sharp. Syx—recent addition to the YA unit—was an unknown. What Viper did know was that Caldwell had dumped him at the ranch in Colorado, muttering about regretting all his life choices.
“He’s a growing boy,” Ocean said as he slid around the table, curls falling into ridiculous blue-green eyes—eyes rare enough that Sage had once run the stats on them.
“I’m so not a boy.” Sage squinted.
Ocean grinned. “Uh-huh. Says the guy who googles his own stress responses.”
Boston cackled. “He’s not wrong.”
Freedom darted past them, stealing a slice of bacon before Cookie could swat him with a spatula.
“Goddamn YA gremlins,” Cookie muttered. “Can’t cook fast enough to keep you all fed.”
Micah slid in after Freedom—beautiful, silent, onyx-black eyes taking in everything with that assassin-level calm that made grown men rethink their choices. He reached for a plate without a word and handed it absentmindedly to Freedom, then snagged one for himself.
“Thanks,” Freedom said.
Micah just nodded. No wasted words.
Viper stood at the edge of the scene, coffee in hand, watching the chaos spin around him.
It shouldn’t have felt normal.
It did.
Azrael’s laughter fading down the hall.
Boston razzing Sage.
Syx pretending he wasn’t amused.
Ocean stirring his hot chocolate with the bored elegance of a prince.
Micah drifting like a shadow.
Sage calculating everyone’s caffeine intake.
A kitchen full of assassins pretending to be normal young adults at breakfast.
A family built from scars.
And beneath all the noise, Viper felt the edge—the simmer—the hum of a ranch preparing for something it hadn’t named yet.
The noise eventually thinned as the YA group drifted toward the training barn, plates half-cleaned, boots scuffing across old wood. Crow leaned closer to Viper, voice low enough not to carry.
“You notice?” he murmured.
Viper frowned. “Notice what?”
“Savage contacted YA last night,” Crow said. “Only YA. Not us.”
Rip paused mid-sip of coffee. Law’s gaze flicked over—sharp, attentive, instantly reading what it meant.
Viper’s jaw tightened.
Crow would’ve heard that from his boyfriend, Rebel—YA gossip spread fast.
But what stuck was this:
Savage never bypassed Genesis. Not unless someone at the top pushed him to.
Yesterday, Will had called him about the asset—orders to keep Evan Barstow secure, squeeze every ounce of intel out of him. Nothing about an op.
And when Viper pressed, Will had said: Not now.
Now, Will had called Savage and ordered YA to initiate something?
It hit wrong.
Sure, Viper knew YA was different—those assassins were built out of tragedy and horror. It made them engineered for anything. But being left out still burned.
Viper pushed to his feet, the chair legs scraping quietly as he stepped out of the kitchen, heading toward the barn.
Rip and Law joined him, Winter tagging along in the rear.
“You should take a pain pill and lie down,” Viper told Winter.
“Nah, this is just a scratch.”
“With fourteen stitches,” Black said, jogging to catch up.
“And they itch like hell.”
“It’s too soon for them to itch,” Black snorted.
“So you say.” Winter smirked.
Cold morning air rushed in as they reached the open bay doors. Voices echoed inside—YA gearing up, the tone too tight to be normal.
“…just said high-profile,” Boston said. “And I can’t go, I’m underage.”
“…not cartel,” Sage added, matter-of-fact. “The pattern’s different.”
“What kind of op needs us?” Ocean asked, curls tilting. “Feels shady.”
Viper stopped just outside the doorway.
Rip and Law halted with him—silent, listening. Black and Winter closed in behind.
The second YA realized Genesis was there, every conversation cut off. Bodies shifted. Neutral expressions snapped into place, too clean.
Guilty.
Or instructed.
Viper didn’t step inside.
He didn’t need to.
He knew the sound of an operation spinning up without him, and this was it.
YA gearing up. Genesis was left in the dark.
Whatever this was, Will was keeping it tight. Too tight.
And in the middle of all that, Titus didn’t reach out at all. That was the part that hit him low. And it shouldn’t have, but it fucking did.
Viper stepped back onto the gravel, breath fogging in the cold. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering.
He didn’t have Titus’s number.
But Sage did.
He called Sage’s cell phone.
“Send me Titus’s personal cell,” Viper said.
There was a pause—the kind loaded with calculations.
“For?”
“Sage.” Viper pinched the bridge of his nose, already picturing the cocky grin Sage was no doubt wearing.
Another long beat.
Then Sage sighed. “Fine. Check your phone.”
A vibration.
One new contact.
Viper didn’t think. He typed.
Viper: Status.
Three dots appeared.
Vanished.
Returned.
Then:
Titus: Fuck off.
Viper’s mouth curved before he could stop it.
Good.
He’d gotten under the bastard’s skin.
Not forgotten.
Not indifferent.
Still fire there.
Exactly what he needed.
He scrolled to his next contact—one he’d collected from the Vegas op.
“Walt Beckman.”
“Walt,” Viper said when he picked up. “I need a location.”
“I can’t give you an exact,” Walt replied, “but I can give you a place he frequents.”
“That’ll do.”
And just like that, calm descended.
The ranch shifted. The world narrowed.
He was taking vacation time.
With or without permission.
With one goal in mind.
Law stepped up beside him, reading him instantly. “You look like you’re about to do something stupid.”
Memphis snorted as he stepped out behind him, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “And by stupid, he means you’re hunting someone.”
Viper’s grin answered for him.
Their boss disappeared into the cold morning, boots crunching toward the main house.
Memphis watched him go, jaw flexing once before he shifted his gaze to Law. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Law didn’t blink. “Yup.”
Rhett stepped out from the shadow of the barn, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “What’re we thinking?”
Memphis rolled his shoulders. “That he’s about to do something stupid.”
Rhett huffed. “And we are what—volunteering to do something stupid too?”
Law snorted, the faintest tilt to his mouth. “Obviously.”
Memphis grinned. “Grab your shit.
If he’s leaving, we’re not letting him go rogue.”
They started walking—three steps in before Law slowed.
“Hold up.”
Memphis glanced back. “What now?”
Law lifted a brow. “What if we’re cutting into his love life?”
Rhett barked a laugh and cut Memphis a look. “Serves him right. Remember Stella Monroe?”
Memphis laughed outright. “Oh, hell.”
Law blinked. “Who?”
“Come on, bro,” Memphis said, jerking his head toward the barracks. “I’ll fill you in later.”
“You guys are trouble,” Law muttered, but he didn’t stop moving.
“Yep,” Rhett said under his breath—falling into step beside them.
“You’re coming, right?” Memphis asked Law.
“Damn right I am. You two are gonna need me—especially when Viper realizes you followed him.”
Memphis clapped Rhett’s shoulder. “You love us.”
The three of them headed off—silent shadows cutting across the frost-lined ground.
Following their commander.
Even off the books.