Dave let out a slow breath. “Stone won’t like it.”
But truth was…he didn’t like it.
He hated it.
Stone and Law’s history was tangled and complicated, and Dave had no idea what wounds it would rip back open, if any.
“He doesn’t have to like it,” the President said. “But this isn’t about anyone’s comfort. Law is an asset. Titus is circling too close, and those bunkers with caches are too important to lose. I want you there. Watching. Assessing.”
“Those bunkers are not only strongholds with caches, but serve as safe houses as well,” Dave pointed out.
The President nodded, rubbing at his chin.
“Are we bringing Law into Genesis?” Will asked.
“Yes,” POTUS responded, hard. Immovable.
Dave’s jaw flexed. He didn’t trust Law—not around Stone.
“You can’t fully trust Law,” Dave growled.
“Maybe not,” the President said evenly. “But Viper does. And I trust Viper. What I need from you is oversight. I want your read on Law, on Stone, on Titus, Viper—on all of it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The President leaned back, satisfied.
They moved on to other business—the kind of steady, grinding updates that always filled these meetings: budgets, briefings, transitions already in motion. By the time Dave rose from his chair an hour later, the weight of decisions hung heavy as ever.
When Dave left the room, Clinton was there instantly, handing over a fresh folder without being asked.
The timing was precise, the gesture smooth, his attention fixed on Dave as if anticipating his needs before they were voiced.
Dave shifted back into the role of soldier, strategist, a man who handled shadows so the world above could sleep.
Clinton matched his stride on the way out, tablet tucked under one arm, steps aligned like he’d rehearsed them a hundred times.
Boarding the private jet, Dave leaned back against the leather seat, the quiet hum of the engines wrapping the cabin in a low, steady rhythm. Beyond the oval window, the world stretched in darkness, broken only by the scatter of stars and the faint glow of distant towns spread across the earth’s floor.
The higher they flew, the smaller everything else seemed—except the weight pressing on his chest.
Coordination was always the invisible weight—every team, every op threading past him whether he liked it or not. He thought briefly of Stone and Law’s upcoming mission, another piece on the board demanding alignment.
Clinton came down the aisle with a folder under his arm.
“Sir,” he said, tone even. “I reached out to Stone for confirmation on the bunker op. No reply yet. He may be tied up—or distracted. I’ll flag it again and make sure nothing slips.”
Dave frowned, not at Clinton but at the implication. Stone didn’t miss comms, not with him. Still, he only gave a short nod.
“Flag it. Maybe Viper hasn’t talked to Stone yet.”
“Consider it handled.” Clinton placed the folder on the desk, expression neutral.
Dave let his gaze follow a star that refused to flicker, bright and defiant against the emptiness.
He thought of Stone then, steady in ways he never said aloud. Storm-colored eyes, unflinching in battle, but it wasn’t the fight that anchored Dave. It was the rare moments of quiet—the silence between them in the study, the brush of shoulders in passing—that refused to fade from his mind.
He had spent decades making decisions with the cold precision of a soldier, yet when it came to Stone, his compass faltered.
