Chapter Twenty-Eight
The great room of the ranch still smelled like mahogany smoke and dust, but tonight it carried gunpowder too—tracked in on boots and jackets, clinging to every man who had walked out of the warehouse alive.
Thankfully, that had been all of them, with only a few minor injuries. Rebel had twisted an ankle, and Azrael had a piece of metal graze his arm.
They’d gotten lucky…but then, with a group of trained assassins, Stone had expected no less.
Real gave him a nod in passing on his way out of the front room. Probably looking for Azrael.
Stone leaned against the edge of the long table, arms folded, watching as Rip and Winter hauled Franklin out the door to the reinforced bunkers where they conducted interrogations.
Titus followed under guard, face unreadable, wrists cinched in front. The door shut quietly behind them, and for the first time since the meeting had blown up, the air eased.
“I don’t think Franklin is going to give Titus shit,” Viper muttered.
“He might give up something useful if he thinks Titus is a prisoner like him,” Law argued.
“Doubt it.” Viper stalked to the bar that sat against one wall and poured a drink.
“Walt Beckman is missing,” Law said from his spot at the bar.
“Call back over there and see if he is one of the deceased,” Viper ordered.
“If he is, don’t tell Titus,” Winter said.
“Why not?” Viper said, frowning.
“Because he’ll either kill Franklin or take off back to Las Vegas. They seem close.” Winter shrugged.
“Winter, check with Las Vegas PD. But right now, that’s enough for tonight. We all need a break.” Dave’s voice came low, final, as he straightened beside Stone.
The room stilled.
Orders suspended, men left the room in ones and twos. The buzz of radios faded as most of them filed out to the bunkhouse, and a few wandered up the stairs to the upper level of the ranch’s main house.
For a few breaths, it was just the two of them.
“Retirement’s looking better and better.” Dave dropped into a leather chair, the wear showing in his shoulders more than his voice.
“You talk like it’s a dream. I’m ready to start packing.” Stone eased down beside him, close enough that their knees brushed in the lamplight.
“Colorado, here we come,” Dave half joked.
Stone let the words sink in. Colorado. He could almost see it—pines rising against snow-capped peaks, a cabin with smoke curling from the chimney, mornings quiet enough that the only thing he’d hear was Dave’s voice. No radios, no missions, no blood in the air. Just them.
“But Tatum first,” Stone murmured, brushing his fingers to his lips as if sealing the vow.
Wordlessly, Dave nodded and linked their fingers before drawing Stone from the chair and toward the stairs. The promise of Colorado went with them—distant, but real.
The bunkhouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that came only after long days and longer fights.
Rip sat on the edge of his bed, unrolling a fresh bandage for the scrape on his forearm. His fingers worked by habit—fast, efficient—but the knot slipped, sloppy.
“Christ,” Boston said from across the room, flicking a knife through his fingers like it was born there. “You’re wrapping that like a rookie. Want me to tie your shoes while I’m at it?”
Rip’s head came up slowly, eyes narrowing. “Say that again, pup. See what happens.”
Boston grinned wide, leaning back on his bed like a cat stretching in the sun. “You’ll bleed all over yourself and make Winter clean it up.”
Winter, stretched in a chair near the fire, cracked a smile without looking up from the magazine he was reloading. “You two fight more than married people.”
Law sprawled on a bunk, scrolling through his phone. His whiskey-colored eyes flicked to Boston with a smirk. “At least married people know when to shut up.”
Boston’s grin widened, sharp as a blade. “Thanks, Grandpa. Don’t you have some report to write?”
Law’s smirk lingered as he looked back down. “I would, but watching you talk is free entertainment.”
A few snorts rolled through the room at that, low and quick, before the quiet settled again.
Rip’s head turned toward Boston, the knot slipping loose again under his fingers. He cursed, fumbling. “That why you’re jealous, pup?”
Boston barked a laugh, sharp and cocky. “Jealous? If I wanted old and slow, I’d call my uncle.” He flicked the knife once more.
Black’s grunt carried from the table where he sat methodically cleaning his sidearm. That was as close as the man got to laughing.
Micah lingered near the hearth, arms crossed, eyes darker than the shadows. The kid hadn’t said much since they got back.
Black cocked his chin at him. “You breathing, or just standing there?”
Micah’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Better than Franklin’s guys.”
That cracked the room open. Laughter barked off the walls, Boston nearly losing his knife in the air.
Rip felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile, not quite, but close. The kid had teeth. He’d fit.
Boston pushed up, tucked his knife into his boot, and crossed the room in a few long strides. He plucked the bandage roll out of Rip’s hand before Rip could stop him.
“Hold still before you bleed out all over the sheets.”
“Don’t need a damn nurse,” Rip grumbled, but he let him.
Boston ignored the protest, looping the bandage clean and tight, fingers quick and sure.
Rip muttered under his breath, but his gaze lingered—caught on the sure strength in Boston’s hands, the way his head tilted down in focus, curls falling loose across his forehead.
For a second, the room’s noise thinned, fire crackling louder than the banter.
Boston tied the last knot, looked up with a flash of that wicked grin, and Rip felt something shift under his ribs.
He broke eye contact first, dragging his arm back with a grunt, covering the moment in gruffness. But the impression stayed—steady hands, sharp edges, and something that had Rip watching longer than he meant to.
The fire popped in the hearth, heat spilling across the room. Outside, the desert night was wide and cold, but in here, Rip felt the edges of something he hadn’t in a long time—interest stirring where he didn’t expect it, maybe even something dangerous.
Viper stood just outside the cell door, arms folded tight, watching Doc check over both Franklin in one cell and then Titus in the other. Both cells smelled of copper and sweat.
His eyes landed on Titus.
Viper’s jaw ticked.
He’d known Titus by presence more than name—that infuriating mix of command and sharp-edged danger.
A fucking magnet he avoided like the plague.
The spark that sat between them was a live current. He’d hated himself for feeling it.
But now?
It was fucking gone.
Titus barely glanced at him.
No fire in his eyes, no challenge curled under his words. Just a dull grunt when Doc cinched the bandage around where a bullet had grazed his arm.
Viper frowned, heat coiling low in his chest—anger or disappointment, he couldn’t tell.
Had he imagined it before? Had he built something in his head that had never existed?
“Anything else you need?” Doc asked, glancing between them.
Viper shook his head. His boots stayed planted, his arms locked over his chest. He wasn’t ready to walk away.
The man on the bench finally looked at him. Pale eyes, flat as river stone.
“You got a problem, soldier?”
The voice was right.
The face was right.
But the words landed wrong—the rhythm off, the weight missing.
Viper’s mouth curled. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”
He turned before the silence stretched, shoving down the gnawing edge of confusion clawing through his gut.
Something didn’t fit.
And he’d be damned if he let it go.