Dave had never met Titus face-to-face—but Viper had.
The closest Dave had ever come to a Titus encounter had been when Genesis raided Micky’s compound—the fallout was enough to know Titus was no ordinary threat.
He wasn’t going to take any chances about Port Hueneme and Creed being so close to possible fallout. Creed was Stone’s family.
Once again, in the span of a day, he dialed a number very few people had. It rang once before Sparrow’s gravel-edged voice answered.
“I got your first message. I thought I had more time.”
“Sorry, but I need everything you have on Titus and also a Hank Franklin. It looks like they are moving close to Port Hueneme,” Dave said.
“My information says that Titus was last seen in Kansas, but I found out a few days ago that he has ties to Southern California. Titus is dirty as hell.”
“Anything in your database about a Hank Franklin?”
Fingers tapped on a keyboard on Sparrow’s end. After a moment of silence—Sparrow’s tone darkened.
“Yeah. Some of my informants have heard whispers of that name. Give me a day. I’ll run him through my channels and send you a drop on both men.”
“As fast as you can,” Dave said.
“Always. You’ll have it before dawn.” Sparrow paused. “One thing—if Titus is making moves in Port Hueneme, he’s not just setting up shop. He’s probably recruiting more lieutenants. He’ll need weapons and supplies. I’ll check into that.”
The line went dead.
Dave leaned back in his chair, whiskey untouched now, the fire in his chest burning hotter. He hated how personal this was becoming—Stone’s blood was in Port Hueneme. Not to mention that Ventura County was home to Pegasus and many of their operatives.
Titus was brushing too close to everything Dave had sworn to protect.
Topeka, Kansas
The sky over Topeka was gunmetal gray, heavy with clouds. A convoy of blacked-out SUVs idled along the dirt lot, engines rumbling low.
Titus stood apart, coat collar turned against the wind, eyes sharp as broken glass. Walt Beckman hovered close, folder tucked under his arm, scanning the men with a soldier’s unease.
“Franklin’s been making noise,” Beckman said finally. “Pushing harder than he should. Wants more territory. More control.”
Titus didn’t turn his head. “Franklin wants a crown he hasn’t earned. He forgets who built the throne he’s standing on.”
Beckman hesitated, then lowered his voice. “He’s not the only one. Something’s bleeding out of our lines. Details are leaking before they should. Someone’s talking.”
“It can’t be Franklin,” Titus murmured.
“Agreed. It has to be one of them.” Walt’s chin tilted slightly towards the men.
Titus’s jaw flexed. His eyes tracked the men climbing into the SUVs, laughter and exhaust rising with the cold air. One of them was feeding information to the wrong side—he just didn’t know who yet.
“Find me proof,” Titus said at last, voice flat as steel. “Until then, Franklin plays the loyal dog. And the mole keeps breathing… for now.”
The engines roared as the convoy pulled away, chewing through mud.
Titus stayed behind, staring toward the horizon. One lone SUV waited, idling.
California was next.
Tatum was already moving west. And when his brother showed his hand, Titus would be there to cut it off.
Santa Barbara estate.
