“Micah?” Black’s voice cracked sharply, almost swallowed by the roar.
“Black!” Micah’s voice cracked, half warning, half plea, before he dove behind a jagged chunk of stone as rounds sparked inches from his shoulders.
Black was moving before anyone could stop him, vaulting the barrier and slamming into cover beside him. He grabbed Micah by the shoulders, hands rough, voice hoarse. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be safe at the ranch!”
Micah’s breath came fast, chest heaving under the thin shirt already damp with fog. His chin lifted stubbornly despite the fear in his eyes. “Freedom told me you were at the estate. I didn’t know any of this was happening!”
Another burst of gunfire tore overhead. Black shoved him lower, his own body covering Micah’s without thought, fury and fear boiling together in his chest.
For a beat, the estate wall held silent but for the thunder of the Pacific and the roar of guns below.
Dave’s gut twisted.
Whoever was climbing his cliffs, they weren’t here by accident. They were trained, they were hunting, and they wanted through.
And the fog only thickened, swallowing the shapes until friend and foe blurred into one long shadow.
Titus drove through the mist, Beckman at his flank, his men fanning wide to keep the pressure up the slope. The surf hammered behind them, fog clinging like a second skin.
If he could get to the man they called Dave, former SecDef, then he could explain things.
But getting through these fuckers didn’t look possible.
Then he saw him—Viper.
The same swagger he’d noticed in Chicago, all lethal grace and confidence. For half a second, Titus almost admired it—before that swagger turned into impact.
A blur from the haze, full weight slamming him into the sand-slick rock. Elbow. Jaw. Knee. Pain.
“Thought you could come back and finish the job?” Viper’s snarl was hot in his face, hands clamped around his throat. “San Pedro wasn’t enough?”
Titus’s vision sparked. He bucked hard, tore free enough to gasp. “That wasn’t me—I was in Chicago.”
“Bullshit!” Viper slammed him down again, the world narrowing to pain and fog. “Five years ago, you put a knife in me and left me bleeding.”
Titus clawed for leverage, boots digging into wet stone. He caught Viper’s arm, twisted, rolled them both hard. Fists cracked against ribs, bone against bone.
“That wasn’t me!” Titus roared, blood running down his temple. “I’ve never laid a blade on you.”
Viper’s fist crushed his mouth, copper flooding his tongue. “You look the same, move the same—you think I don’t know your face?”
Titus spat blood, shoved him back. “You fought my brother. My triplet. I’d have killed the bastard myself if I’d gotten to him first.”
For a split second, Viper faltered. San Pedro—the knife, the betrayal. Could it be?
No. Rage swamped him again. He drove a knee into Titus’s ribs, teeth bared. “Don’t you dare try to crawl out from it now.”
Titus wheezed, but his voice stayed low, hard as stone. “You kill me here, you’ll never touch the man who actually put steel in your gut.”
The words sank like anchors. Viper’s breathing heaved, the fog painting Titus’s face.
He hesitated, fists still cocked.
Titus sucked air, chest burning, but didn’t move. “I’m not Tatum,” he said again, quieter. “And I’m not your enemy.”
The fog howled around them, muffling the war that still tore across the cliffs.
For the first time in years, Viper wasn’t sure who the hell he was fighting.
