Law gave a low whistle. “I wonder if Tatum’s just as dirty as Titus?”
“If Tatum is not a scumbag,” Viper said, eyes narrowing as they tracked the maps, “we could play one brother against the other.”
Dave shook his head once, final. “Not until we know where their loyalties lie. Until then, assume both are just as dirty.”
Viper gave a small nod. “Fair enough.”
Clinton reappeared like he’d been waiting for the perfect beat, sliding in without sound. “Dinner will be served shortly,” he said, tone smooth. His eyes skimmed the room, pausing a fraction too long on Law before moving back to Dave. “Shall I set another place?”
“For everyone,” Dave said curtly.
Law leaned back, a smirk tugging his mouth. “Guy hovers like a drone. Doesn’t he ever shut down?”
“Never,” Stone said, dry.
Clinton’s expression didn’t flicker, though his jaw tightened. He inclined his head and vanished again.
Rip snorted. “Creeps me out more than the mercs.”
Winter snorted on a laugh.
Dave let the comments die. “Eat, take some time to relax and think about what we discussed, and get some sleep. We’ll go over the next steps in the morning.”
His gaze swept the table, pinning each man in turn.
“Until Titus is cut off, nobody breathes without my say.”
Law raised a hand in salute. “Yes, sir.”
Stone didn’t move, but his eyes held Law’s a half-beat longer.
Dave caught it, then shut the folder on Sparrow’s drop with finality. His finger pressed once against Port Hueneme on the map.
“This is where the chain tightens,” he said. “We don’t move until we have a plan in place.”
He pushed back from the desk, finality in the scrape of the chair. The team followed, the weight of unanswered questions marching with them into the evening.
The following morning…
The basement training wing of the Santa Barbara estate hummed with restless energy. Concrete walls and steel beams pressed close, the air sharp with sweat and old chalk. Mats slapped underfoot, men circling, their cheers bouncing off the low ceiling and concrete walls.
Dave leaned in the doorway with a coffee, decaf, in hand, Stone beside him, both of them silent observers.
Boston squared off against Rip. The kid was wiry, quick, with a cocky grin plastered across his face. Rip looked amused, all bulk and solid power, like he’d already decided how this would end.
“Don’t blink, old man,” Boston shot at Rip and then tossed Dave a grin. “I’m about to humble your boy.”
Rip rolled his shoulders. “Kid, you barely hit my chin. Humble yourself before I fold you in half.”
Bets whispered around the ring. Someone laughed.
Boston darted first—sharp feint left, slip right, fist glancing Rip’s ribs. Rip didn’t budge. A heartbeat later, Boston was airborne, flipped over Rip’s hip, and slammed flat onto the mat.
The crowd roared. Boston groaned, then laughed from his back. “Okay—half humbled.”
Rip reached and hauled Boston to his feet just as Stone moved forward, peeling off his jacket.
“My turn.” Stone’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.
