Chapter Six
The following morning…
The third-floor hallway of the rundown apartment building on the outskirts of Los Angeles was always too quiet for his liking.
Not empty—just cut off. No televisions humming behind the walls.
No music. No voices. Just the faint buzz of the hallway light above him, the sound sitting oddly against the distant grind of traffic that never quite made it inside.
A moment later, the lock clicked.
The door opened.
The man stood there looking exactly the way he always did—tall, sharply dressed, pressed shirt and slacks like he was headed to a meeting instead of standing in a tired apartment hallway. Dale had never figured out why the guy rented in a place like this.
Dale held up the receipt book. “Rent has been due since the first.”
“I told you I’d deliver the cash.”
The tenant lifted a plain white envelope from the small table near the door and handed it to him.
Dale opened it and thumbed through the bills quickly before bending over the book to write the receipt.
“Don’t come up here again.”
The man’s voice was even. Calm. Flat.
Dale glanced up.
The tenant watched him without expression.
Dale swallowed, suddenly aware of how narrow the hallway felt.
“I know,” he said quickly. “But it’s been a couple of weeks, and the owners keep calling.”
The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering the answer.
Dale finished scribbling the receipt and tore the page free.
The paper ripped loudly in the quiet hallway.
Just as he held the receipt out, a phone buzzed inside the apartment.
The tenant didn’t look away from Dale as he reached for the phone on the small table beside the door.
He checked the screen.
Then lifted it to his ear.
“Sage.”
The door snapped shut in Dale’s face.
Dale stared at it for a second.
He didn’t know who this Sage person was, but he was suddenly very glad he wasn’t him.
Dale shuddered and hurried back down the hall.
Sage ended the call and stared at the phone for a moment before setting it face down on the table.
The small YA cabin still smelled faintly of coffee and last night’s bacon, the open window letting in the dry Nevada morning and the distant sound of someone working horses near the barn.
Across the room, Micah leaned against the counter with a mug of coffee, long dark hair falling straight over one shoulder as he watched Sage over the rim. His large dark eyes missed little, though he never looked like he was trying to see anything at all.
Boston occupied the far end of an old leather couch, one leg tucked beneath his slender frame. A slim folding knife moved through his restless hands as he cleaned the blade with a scrap of cloth, dark curls falling into sharp chocolate eyes that flicked toward Sage and away again.
Neither of them asked about the call.
That was one thing Sage appreciated about them.
His team noticed things.
They just didn’t always push.
Outside, the morning carried the usual ranch noise—someone shouting near the barn, the low rumble of an engine starting somewhere down the dirt road, Buckshot barking at something that probably deserved it.
Normal.
Sage pushed away from the table and stood, keys already turning once around his finger. Even standing still, he carried the restless readiness of someone who had spent too many years mapping exits and watching doors.
Micah’s gaze tracked the movement with quiet precision.
“You heading out?”
“Maybe.”
Boston flicked the knife closed with a quick snap and shoved his curls back from his eyes, energy sparking through the small motion.
“That sounded like a maybe that’s actually a yes.”
Sage’s mouth twitched faintly, forest-green eyes sharp despite the casual look.
“You always this helpful in the morning?”
Boston grinned, sharp and cocky. “Only when people start doing suspicious things before coffee.”
Micah set his mug down, moving with the calm, dancer-light grace that made him seem quieter than he already was.
“You want company?”
Sage slipped the phone into his pocket.
“Nope.”
He grabbed the keys off the table again, spinning them once before catching them.
“Just a meeting,” Sage said, stepping out of the YA cabin with his keys still in his hand.
The sound of tires crunching over gravel cut across the quiet morning.
A dark truck rolled up fast along the ranch road and stopped near the cabin.
Law got out first.
Even at a distance, he carried that steady, grounded presence Sage had come to recognize—tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair threaded with gray catching the early light.
Nothing hurried about him, but nothing wasted either.
He moved with the quiet efficiency of a man who had spent most of his life stepping into trouble and dealing with it.
Black stepped out on the other side of the truck.
Where Law was calm gravity, Black was contained violence—tall, powerful, dark hair and sharp attention already sweeping the yard. He moved with deliberate precision.
Sage paused at the bottom of the porch steps.
Behind him, Boston leaned against the open cabin doorway, restless energy barely contained, while Micah stepped out beside him—silent and watchful.
Law’s whiskey-colored eyes landed on Sage.
He didn’t ask what Sage had been about to do. Just looked at him for a moment, reading the room the way he always did.
“We’ve got another one,” Law said.
The words landed like a weight dropping into still water.
Boston straightened. “Another body?”
Law nodded once. “Sheriff’s office called it in this morning. Looks like it connects to one of the names in those files Sage found.”
Micah’s expression didn’t change, but Sage caught the slight stillness in his posture.
Black glanced toward Micah, already reading the shift.
Law’s gaze returned to Sage, steady and assessing.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Whatever meeting Sage had planned suddenly didn’t matter anymore.
A few minutes later, Sage had his laptop open on his knees, the glow of the screen reflecting faintly in his forest-green eyes as lines of data scrolled past.
Law drove in silence beside him, steady hands on the wheel, whiskey-colored gaze fixed on the road.
Sage’s fingers moved quickly across the keys, cross-checking names against the archived files he’d pulled earlier.
Micah leaned slightly forward from the seat behind him, long dark hair falling over one shoulder as he studied the display.
“You figure out what triggered the network coming back online?” he asked.
Sage’s fingers paused briefly over the keys.
Boston leaned between the seats, restless energy pulling him forward.
“Either someone’s mobilizing them,” Boston said, “or someone wants them dead.”
Sage’s gaze lifted briefly to meet Law’s in the rearview mirror.
“If it’s active,” Sage said quietly, “it’s not random.”
Law didn’t look away from the road, but the slight tightening in his jaw told Sage he’d heard him.
“Then we end it.”
Sage’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Yeah,” he said. “We end it.”
By midmorning, the Nevada sun had burned the cool out of the air. Roughly thirty minutes from the ranch, the truck rolled into a quiet residential complex on the edge of town. Sheriff’s cruisers already lined the curb, red and blue lights flashing against pale stucco walls and trimmed hedges.
The drive had fallen into silence somewhere along the way.
Sage closed his laptop and stepped out with the others, the warm Nevada air carrying the dry scent of dust, sun-heated asphalt, and something darker beneath it.
Yellow tape stretched across the walkway leading to one of the townhomes.
Law stepped forward and flipped open a black credential wallet.
Officer Hayes took the ID the man handed him.
UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
GENESIS TASK AUTHORITY
Lawson Steel
Special Operations Clearance
His eyes hit the line Federal Jurisdiction Authorization, and that was enough.
Hayes handed the credential back to the tall, broad-shouldered man and lifted the tape.
Law ducked under first.
Sage followed, senses already mapping the scene—the neighbors watching from shaded windows, the shape beneath the tarp near the entry.
“Sheriff said you’d want to see this yourselves,” Hayes said. “Clean hit. No ID. Thought it might be one of yours.”
It wasn’t unusual. When a scene read like a professional hit, local law enforcement knew to make the call.
“This way,” Hayes said, falling in beside Law as they moved toward the entry.
Law’s gaze shifted briefly to the tarp. “What’ve you got?”
Hayes rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Neighbor called it in about forty minutes ago. Said the door had been hanging open since early this morning.”
He nodded toward the body.
“Male. No obvious signs of a struggle inside the unit.”
Boston edged closer behind them, curiosity barely contained.
“Time of death?” Law asked.
Hayes shrugged slightly. “ME hasn’t been here yet, but from what we’re seeing…” He glanced down at the tarp. “Sometime last night. Late.”
Sage filed that away.
Hayes gestured toward the townhouse door.
“No forced entry. Victim likely let them in.”
Hayes stepped back and gestured toward the townhouse.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Scene’s yours.”
Law gave a short nod.
Hayes moved off to rejoin the deputies outside, leaving the townhouse quiet again.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Sage crouched beside the tarp and studied the shape beneath it without touching it. His gaze moved slowly around the room—the front door standing open behind them, the small living area undisturbed, a coffee table with a single mug still sitting near the couch.
No overturned furniture.
No broken glass.
No signs of a struggle.
Micah crouched beside the tarp.
Sage watched as he lifted the corner just enough to look beneath it.
The young assassin’s expression didn’t change.
“One shot,” he said quietly, letting the tarp fall back into place. “Close range.”
Micah’s gaze flicked up.
“You recognize him?”
Sage shook his head once.
“No.”
He straightened slightly, already moving. “Give me a second.”
Sage pulled his phone, thumb moving fast as he brought up the archived file.
A face matched the screen.
His jaw tightened.
“He’s on the list.”
Boston shifted behind Micah, restless energy barely contained. “It’s definitely a professional hit.”
Sage ran his fingertips slowly over the sparkling surface of the counter. Everything had been wiped. He’d bet the fucker had vacuumed before leaving.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
Law’s whiskey-colored eyes moved once across the room, taking in the same details.
“Victim opened the door,” Sage continued. “And the killer walked right in.”
Law glanced back toward the doorway. “And someone knew exactly where to find this guy.”
“The question is, why?” Micah murmured.
Sage’s gaze flicked to the data on his phone and back to the dead man. “From his background, this guy was dirty.”
“So what?” Boston frowned. “The killer rolled out justice?”
“We do,” Law said quietly.
That was true. Genesis and YA took out scum that deserved it.
“So, this guy is a killer of killers?” Boston asked into the sudden hush.
The words settled between them as they stood in the gruesome—and oddly spotless—crime scene.