Titus didn’t look up. “Then we change tactics.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes on the manifests scattered across the table. Lines of numbers and shipping codes, routes bleeding from Nevada through to the coast.
“They got Morrison. What do we do now?” Beckman sighed.
“Have you cracked Morrison’s old phone?”
Walt shot a grimace at the only guy in the room who’d boasted about knowing technology, still bent over the device they’d pulled from Morrison’s apartment.
“If that guy knows enough tech to break into that phone, then I’ll eat my shoes.” Beckman rolled his eyes.
“Genesis has high-tech people,” Titus muttered, half to himself. “Someone who can slip through firewalls and pull out the truth.”
“So, you’re saying you want Genesis in on this?” Beckman sounded incredulous.
“Yes. The former SecDef—Dave Allen, specifically. If we can also get Franklin’s laptop and smartphone, and Allen’s people can crack them, then we can get to Tatum.” Titus’s voice hardened. “My brother’s days of human trafficking are over.”
“I don’t like it,” Beckman growled.
“You don’t have to like it,” Titus said flatly. “I just need to figure out where the hell Allen is—or any of Genesis, for that matter.”
Beckman hesitated, tapping the edge of the map. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
Titus’s head lifted slowly. “That’s a hell of a way to start a sentence, Walt.”
“One of our old hires—Dean—worked security for Allen a few years back. Down on the coast. Said the man ran his people like a unit, not a company.”
Titus’s jaw tightened. “You sat on it.”
“I was protecting you,” Beckman said, meeting his stare. “I’m not sorry. Don’t forget, they want you dead because they think you’re your brother. But now—you’re seeking their help?”
Titus’s eyes narrowed, voice cutting low. “You weren’t protecting me by keeping quiet, you were just keeping me blind. If you’ve got a lead, you give it to me.”
Beckman held his ground. “You’ve got it now. Dean said the place was a fortress—cliffside, private beach, Army discipline through and through.” He paused, voice dropping. “Don’t forget they want you dead because they think you’re your brother,” Walt said.
Titus’s expression didn’t change. “Then Dave Allen’s the only one who can fix that.”
He leaned in, tracing the coastline on the map with a finger. “That’s where we start.”
Beckman gave a low grunt. “You really think Allen will help you?”
Titus’s mouth curved, humorless. “He’ll help,” he said. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Titus’s hand slipped into his jacket pocket, brushing against a worn photograph. Three boys stared back—himself, Tatum, Tanis. Before blood, before betrayal.
“I have to convince them I’m not Tatum,” he whispered. How in the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know. But a face-to-face with Allen was a start.
He closed his hand until the photo’s edges bit his palm, then set the mask back in place. A battle was coming, and unless he acted, the world would always call him the villain.
Santa Barbara, that night…
The estate had gone quiet by dusk. Fog pressed against the windows, the Pacific beyond it restless and dark.
Dave sat at the table, shoulders bowed over the sprawl of maps. Lines, arrows, notes—every mark another weight dragging him down. He hadn’t moved in an hour, except to rub at his chest when he thought no one was looking.
Stone watched from the doorway first, jaw tight. He’d seen men burn themselves out before, but seeing it in Dave cut sharper than he wanted to admit.
He crossed the room and pulled out the chair beside him. The scrape made Dave glance up, but only for a second before his eyes dropped back to the maps.
