Sparrow caught the exchange and smirked into his coffee. Viper muttered something about “domestic theft,” and Winter just said it was a miracle Stone hadn’t been court-martialed by now.
Stone didn’t answer. He never did. Just leaned back in his chair, finished the last bite like it was his by right, and let the hum of low laughter roll around him.
Outside, the fog had started to crawl in from the coast, wrapping the estate in gray. Inside, the tension thinned a little more—temporary, fragile, but real.
Dave pushed his chair back, the legs scraping lightly against the floor. “Might as well get a few rounds in,” he said, rising. The motion wasn’t abrupt, just deliberate—like a man who couldn’t sit still when the air got too quiet.
Stone’s gaze lifted automatically. He didn’t say anything, just set his fork down and fell in a step behind as Dave left the war room.
Down the hall, the low hum of conversation gave way to echoing voices and the rhythmic crack of gunfire from the small range Dave had installed years ago.
Rip and Boston were already at it, their back-and-forth carrying into the hall. “You couldn’t hit a barn with that aim,” Rip goaded, a grin in his tone.
Boston fired back without missing a beat. “Big talk from a guy who couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat.”
Laughter broke loose, boots thumping against the old wood floors. The kind of noise that felt almost normal after a day wound too tight.
Dave leaned against the doorframe, watching. Stone stepped up beside him, shoulder brushing his with casual ease.
“Bet you a hundred Rip starts sulking in five minutes,” Stone murmured.
Dave’s mouth twitched. “Two minutes. He doesn’t have the stamina for five.”
Stone smirked, eyes sliding over him. “Sounds familiar.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints.” Dave shot him a look, heat flickering sharp in his chest.
Stone leaned just close enough for only him to hear. “That’s because my mouth was busy.”
He straightened before Dave could answer and strode into the shooting range, smug as hell.
Eeeeeeee—Eeeeeeee—Eeeeeeee.
The alarm shrieked—shrill, rhythmic, shattering the moment. The metallic scream tore through the estate, rattling the windows.
Floodlights snapped on outside, white beams cutting through the fog. Shouts rose from the yard, boots pounding gravel.
Dave grabbed for the handgun on the range counter beside him, Stone was already moving—shoulder holster cleared, eyes locked, the two of them snapping into motion as one. Shouts echoed from the hall a second before the door banged open and the rest of the team poured in, laughter gone, weapons raised.
“Breach!” a guard bellowed outside. “Coming up from the beach!”
The alarm wailed deeper, harsher, until someone killed it.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Dave and Stone led Genesis out fast, Boston and Sage—the only YA assassins on site—stayed on their heels. They burst through the estate's back door, boots slamming the cobblestones, the Pacific’s roar cutting through the fog—thick with salt and gun oil.
By the time they hit the steps leading to the beach, shadows were already swarming in the mist—climbing the cliffs in disciplined formation. Not raiders. Not mercs.
Soldiers. Maybe.
Dave keyed his comm, voice clipped. “Lock down the main house. Keep your eyes sharp. We need to know who the hell we’re fighting.”
The team spread into position—YA assassins melted into the dark with Genesis's bigger soldiers fading into the shadows.
The first burst of gunfire cracked through the night, and Dave’s heart jolted as Stone yanked him low behind cover.
“I’d rather you weren’t out here,” Stone growled, grip iron-tight around his arm.
