Stone’s silence stretched long. The smell of horses carried in the chilly air, grounding them, but the weight of parting pressed harder.
Dave shifted closer, his voice low. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Stone crowded in, his big frame brushing against Dave’s, heat pressing through the chill. “Guess we’ll both be busy.” Stone’s reply was guttural.
The air tightened, charged.
They stood there a beat longer, body to body against the fence, breaths mingling.
Dave didn’t step back, didn’t need to—he felt the weight of Stone’s presence like an anchor, and for once he didn’t wantit gone. He wanted them together in California, but Stone’s mission was here.
“Don’t do anything crazy,” Stone murmured, voice lower now, intimate. “Like go after Titus yourself.”
“I won’t.” Dave’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed serious, searching Stone’s face in the dark.
The silence stretched—dangerous, loaded—until Clinton’s voice cut across the paddock, smooth as ever. “Sir. Your car is waiting.”
A muscle ticked hard in Stone’s jaw as he stepped back, the night breaking between them.
Dave closed his eyes for the briefest moment, then straightened, the soldier mask sliding back into place. He gave Stone one last look before turning toward Clinton’s silhouette, footsteps already carrying him away.
And Stone was left in the paddock, the smell of hay and horses heavy in the night, with only the hollow space where Dave had stood.
The following night…
The mission was supposed to be easy—apprehend the perp in charge of the mercenaries who threatened the Nevada bunker.
It might have started simply, but nothing had gone as planned.
The mercenaries had more help than they’d first thought…help that was now dead, but help nonetheless.
And their leader had bolted.
Stone was already in pursuit—careening around corners, pounding down the busy Nevada streets.
Steven Morrison was fast for his size, but he was sloppy—breathing hard, giving away every move. Stone cut him off through an alley, boots hammering the pavement.
Morrison burst from the walkway and Stone was already there. The merc slammed into him, three hundred pounds of fury, but Stone braced, twisted, and let the guy’s own momentum do the work. They crashed to the ground, Morrison on top.
The pain in his shoulder was instant, but Stone was already moving, blocking it out. He jammed an elbow up under the bastard’s jaw, knee driving into his gut.
“Big mistake,” Stone growled, forcing him sideways, flipping their weight with brute force. Morrison hit the pavement with aroar, Stone’s forearm—his good arm—crushing down across his windpipe.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” Morrison snarled, a rasp, spit flying. His breath reeked of adrenaline and blood. “Franklin owns this desert. You’re dead already.”
Stone’s eyes narrowed. The name meant nothing yet, but he filed it away like a loaded round. He hammered a fist into Morrison’s temple—once, twice—until the fight bled out of him. He wrenched Morrison’s arm behind his back, twisting until the man grunted in pain.
Law jogged up with a grin, and gave a golf clap. “Well, shit. Still manhandling assholes like it’s foreplay, huh?”
Stone pressed Morrison harder into the ground, not even sparing Law a glance. “You always did have shitty timing.”
“Or perfect,” Law countered, producing the zipties. He crouched, snapped them around Morrison’s wrists, then straightened, eyes dancing with amusement. “Glad to see you haven’t gone soft. At least not in the field.”
Stone stood, dragging Morrison up with one hand like dead weight. The merc spat, voice raw. “You’re both dead men!”
“Not today,” Stone said coldly, shoving him forward.
Law took hold of Morrison, and Stone rolled his shoulder to ease the ache from where Morrison had plowed into him. His shoulder throbbed with a dull thud, but he kept his face blank.
