“Hang on,” Dave rasped, rough and fierce. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
As Dave’s right hand, Stone knew his position was vital. But through the fog of pain, he hoped for more than duty.
Then his grip slipped as they wheeled him away. His last thought before blackness reclaimed him was stubborn, certain he had to stick around.
And if the powers that be gave him a choice, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Six months later…
The surf was barely audible through the thick windows of the Santa Barbara estate, but Dave always felt it like a pulse beneath the walls. He had chosen this house because the ocean never truly slept—and neither did he.
The study smelled of old paper, mahogany shelves, and bitter, steam curling coffee.
The pot on the bar had already been brewed thanks to the staff, and he poured slowly, relishing the routine—the scrape of porcelain, the quiet trickle as the dark liquid filled his cup, swirling heavy cream.
Settling into one of the two wide, wingback leather chairs that faced his lush gardens beyond the picture window, he noticed the sky was gray this morning.
Autumn was moving on, and winter was slowly rolling in. Here, so close to the ocean, the early November mornings carried a cool hush beneath the gray marine layer.
For a few seconds, the morning was his. All he needed was a few minutes to himself, a quiet space to recharge.
Then came the knock on the door.
Dave ignored it twice before setting his coffee aside. The first tasks of the day always found him before breakfast—as if the world knew exactly when to knock.
Or, in this case, his advisor and operations coordinator, Clinton.
The solitude and quiet in the study had been too good to be true. Normally, he found Boston—and lately Freedom—tucked amongst the shelves, enjoying the library area, arguing over some historical volume they’d unearthed from his collection.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the rows of leather-bound books he never quite had the time to read.
“Come in,” Dave called.
“Sir,” Clinton’s voice was crisp but urgent as he opened the door. “Commander Savage is on the Erebus line.”
Clinton handed him one of his many work phones. Dave had several, each number assigned to a specific team.
“Savage,” Dave murmured into the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, Dave. I’ve got new recruits I need vetted. You said you wanted to go over each one. I’ll send the files, but wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Thank you,” Dave replied, speaking for another minute before ending the call.
Dave pinched the bridge of his nose. Retirement had been the plan. But these teams weren’t like anything else. And they sure the hell weren’t built for red tape—and neither was he.
He lifted the laptop from the table between the two chairs, flipping it open. Sipping his coffee, he pulled up the first applicant’s file.
“Sir, these documents need your signature.” Clinton returned minutes later with a stack of folders. His expression stayed carefully neutral. “Also, I sent a message to Stone earlier,” he said, swiping through his notes. “No response. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
Dave frowned at that.
Stone didn’t ignore calls. Not from him.
“I’ll flag it again.” Clinton gave a small shrug, like it was nothing at all, and placed the folders on the desk.
Dave rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to work out some of the tension before he scrolled through Erebus applications and background checks, signing papers in between.
Erebus was one of his most unique teams, assassins who had either come from the streets or had been rescued from a diabolical madman. Solomon—Dave’s biggest mistake.
