Stone’s jaw locked. “Where’s Dave?”
“He’s unavailable,” Clinton said smoothly. “Can I take a message?”
Stone’s pulse hammered. All he’d wanted was to tell Dave the name, maybe hear his voice, maybe remind himself the man was still tethered to him. Instead, he got Clinton—always Clinton.
“Forget it,” Stone growled. He ended the call before Clinton could reply.
Reentering the barn, he found Viper waiting, arms folded.
“What did he say?” Viper asked.
“Not a goddamned thing,” Stone growled. “You can relay it. If Dave needs details, you can give them to him.”
Viper’s eyes flickered, but he only nodded.
Law drew his gaze from where it was locked on Sage and frowned at Stone.
Stone clenched his teeth, turned on his heel, and stalked out, boots heavy on the gravel, the Nevada cold pressing through his coat.
The need to hear Dave’s voice lingered like an ache he couldn’t shake, but silence was all he got.
The Santa Barbara estate was quiet. Too quiet.
A muffled burst of laughter drifted up from the pool wing.
Boston. The kid had been hanging around the estate for a few weeks, taking a break from the Nevada ranch.
Dave hadn’t pressed for details—he didn’t have to. Stone had filled him in: Boston needed space, mostly from Rip. First heartbreak was a mean son of a bitch.
Dave sat alone in the study, one hand curled around a mug of coffee, the other tapping impatiently against his desk. The early morning light streamed in through the tall windows, painting pale gold streaks across shelves stacked with old leather-bound books and folders full of operations past and present.
He should have been at the ranch, coordinating the debrief, checking Stone’s report on the Morrison capture. But his gut told him to wait for something else, and when his private line buzzed, that instinct proved right.
“Talk,” Dave said, the mug clinking softly as he set it down.
Viper’s voice came through, clipped but steady. “We’ve got movement. Morrison’s cracking under pressure. He named a handler—Hank Franklin. But he also named Titus. Morrison spilled that Franklin takes orders directly from Titus and that they are looking to set a few bases up from Nevada to the West Coast.”
“Bases? As in human trafficking hubs?”
“He wasn’t specific, but what other kinds of business does Titus run? Weapons, maybe?” Viper said bitterly.
Dave sat forward, tension in his shoulders tightening like steel cables. “No. You’re right. It has to be trafficking kids to sell or turn them into killers. They probably need the weapons to arm mercs.”
“True. So, one of the places Morrison named was Port Hueneme. And Stone didn’t look thrilled when he heard it mentioned. His cousin’s out there, isn’t he?”
Dave’s jaw locked. “Creed.”
“Yeah,” Viper confirmed. “What did Sparrow find out?”
“I put in a call, but haven’t heard back yet.”
“Okay. On our end, Morrison’s story checks out just enough to warrant digging deeper. I’ll keep pressing, but I figured you’d want the heads-up on what we found.”
“Good call.” Dave’s voice was low, flat. “Keep me updated.”
The line went dead. For a long moment, he stared at the phone in his hand, Viper’s words echoing in his head.
Titus. The name wasn’t new. Dave’s gut tightened. Titus was a fucking ghost at the edge of their op, always out of reach, always pulling strings. Viper knew that firsthand.
