Chapter Thirty
An hour later, Stone rolled over with a low groan. He wasn’t as old as Dave, but years of work—the missions, the miles, the hits—had carved their share of aches into him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, cracked his neck, and pushed to his feet before heading for the shower.
Twenty-five minutes later, he had fresh coffee in hand and stepped out onto the front porch.
The smell of breakfast drifted with him, rich and familiar.
Inside, Cookie was in full swing, barking orders at the staff helping him feed the men in the house.
The mess hall had its own crew—people Cookie had handpicked—to handle the larger crowds.
Dave’s office had been empty when Stone passed by, which meant he was probably outside making sure every order was followed to the letter. He worked too damn much.
What he should’ve done this morning was pull Dave back into bed and keep him there for a few more hours—just the two of them, warm, still, and talking with no world pressing in.
The sun was up, and it promised to be a hot day despite it being Thanksgiving Week.
The door creaked open, and Viper stepped out onto the porch, coffee in hand, a yawn cracking through his words.
“How’d you sleep?” Stone murmured.
“So-so.” Viper shrugged and leaned against the railing. “I just hope Titus gets something out of that bastard so we can put this to bed.”
“Yeah,” Stone said, taking a slow sip. “Doubt it’ll happen. He works for Tatum.”
Viper grunted. “Sage is digging into Franklin’s cloud account.” He dropped into the chair beside Stone, the wood creaking under his weight.
They drank in silence for a while, coffee and quiet filling the space between them.
Winter came up from the bunkhouse with coffee in hand, Rip and Boston trailing close behind.
“Where’s Dave?” Winter asked.
“No clue,” Stone said, swallowing the last of his coffee. “Maybe he’s down in the interrogation building.”
“That unusual?” Sage asked as he climbed the wide front steps, laptop tucked under one arm.
“Not really,” Viper said, stretching his shoulders. “When Dave’s here, he’s always busy.”
Behind Sage, Law stepped onto the porch, a fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hand.
Brrrrrng. Brrrrrng. Brrrrrng.
The ranch phone rang loud enough to rattle the walls. Cookie had wired the damn thing through the mess hall, bunkhouse, and interrogation barn—his way of making sure someone else answered it.
So, when Stone heard Cookie’s gravelly voice on the second ring, he figured it was because they’d just rolled back in from a mission last night.
“Ranch house. Yeah, hang on,” Cookie barked. Footsteps thudded across the floor, the old boards creaking under the cook’s weight.
Stone looked over as the screen door swung open.
“It’s for you or Dave,” Cookie said, holding out the receiver.
“Where is Dave?” Stone asked, frowning as he took the phone.
“Haven’t seen him since five this morning.” Cookie scowled, then turned and stomped back inside.
Stone watched Cookie go, the phone warm against his ear.
“Hello?” he said, stepping around Law and heading down the front steps.
Static hissed on the line before a voice cut through—rough but steady. “It’s Titus.”
Stone froze, his hand tightening until the receiver creaked. Heat flared through his chest, sharp and sudden. He turned, eyes locking on the men watching from the porch.
“Where are you?” His mouth was so dry that the words scraped coming out.
“Still in Vegas,” came the rasped reply. “Got shot by my brother.”
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They’d brought Tatum back with them.
The phone slipped from Stone’s hand as he spun, yanking the sidearm from his holster in one motion.
Rip, Winter, and Law reacted instantly, weapons up. Viper grabbed the phone just as Black and Micah came pounding up from the bunkhouse.
“Who was it?” Boston called, already sliding the ankle pistol free.
“Titus—he’s in Vegas!” Stone shouted, breaking into a run.
“The fuck!” Viper barked, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
Stone didn’t hear the answer. Dread, fear, and raw nausea tangled in his gut, drowning everything else out.
Only one thought cut through the noise—
Where the fuck was Dave?
“Then who’s in the barn?” Boston yelled, keeping pace beside him.
Stone couldn’t even find the air to answer Boston. He tore across the open stretch of dirt, boots pounding hard. The guard at the door barely had time to blink before Stone shoved past and stormed inside.
The corridor echoed with his footsteps. Another guard stood near the cells when he reached the end of the hall.
One cell held Franklin, chewing through whatever the hell Cookie had sent over for breakfast. The other was empty.
“What?” Franklin sneered around a mouthful of food.
Stone ignored him and fixed on the guard. “Where’s the man who was in that cell?” He jabbed a finger toward the open door.
“Out by the corral,” the guard blurted. “Dave had me take him out.”
Franklin laughed, low and ugly, but Stone didn’t stay to shut him up.
He pushed past Boston, Sage, and Law on his way out, the guard scrambling to keep up. Rounding the corner, he hit the corral—and stopped cold.
Empty. Just a few horses grazing in the dust.
Sage sprinted up, thrusting an earpiece into Stone’s hand. He jammed it in and kept moving.
“Dave’s gone. Tatum’s gone too,” Stone’s voice cracked through the comms.
Heat and bile hit Stone’s throat. He swallowed it down.
“So, we brought Tatum back?” Sage’s voice filled with disbelief.
“Get your gear, kid,” Law snapped.
“Not a kid.” Sage lifted his laptop bag and shirt, flashing the blade at his hip.
Law gave an abrupt nod, but didn’t stop moving.
Stone barely heard any of it. His focus tunneled.
Find Dave. Erase every threat in the way.
“Chopper’s hot,” Viper growled through the channel.
Stone took off. Boots pounded dirt. Wind hit hard as he reached the landing pad.
He vaulted into the Blackhawk—Viper and Rip already inside. Law, Boston, and Sage piled in after him.
“Real, Azrael, Winter, and Black stayed to handle the ranch and follow the tracks. Will is inbound,” Viper said.
“We’ll find him. Dave’s a tough old bird,” Law said, passing over the binoculars to him.
Stone raised them fast, scanning the endless sweep of land.
“Tracks head west,” Black’s voice crackled through the comm. “They got a good hour or two head start.”
The pilot banked hard, the bird dropping low, blades screaming as they tore west across the desert.
Stone’s grip tightened on the doorframe.
When he found Dave, he was going to tie that man down and never let him pull a stunt like this again.