“I won’t.”
The line clicked off.
Dave slipped the phone back into his pocket. “FBI’s inbound. Clinton leaves here in a bag.”
Rip gave a single grunt, then half a shrug. “Waste of a good bag.”
Law’s grin widened, sharp and amused. “Guess that makes it your paperwork, Boss.”
Dave didn’t answer. His gaze found Stone instead.
He couldn’t look away until the sounds in the holding cell filtered through—the shuffle of boots, the rustle of a body bag, Law’s low murmur over the radio. The spell broke, but not the weight of it.
The corridor smelled of gunpowder and blood. Rip and Law were already moving with efficient ease, talking low as they stuffed Clinton into the bag.
Dave gave a small tip of his head and walked out of the holding room with Stone at his side.
They started up the stairs.
Stone’s boots fell in beside his, steady, unhurried. Halfway up, Stone’s hand closed around his arm and pulled him sideways into the shelter of the wall. Before Dave could speak, Stone wrapped him once again in a hard, fierce hug.
Dave let himself lean—just for a moment. Chest against chest, the solid heat of Stone bracing him while the world narrowed down to breath and heartbeat.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Dave muttered against his shoulder. “After we take down Franklin and Tatum… let’s sit down and seriously talk about my retirement.”
Stone didn’t let go. His voice rumbled low. “And mine.”
Dave drew back enough to see his face. “You’re sure?”
Stone’s mouth curved, rakish and certain. “You go, I go. Remember?”
Something tightened in Dave’s throat—something too sharp to name. He pressed a hand against Stone’s chest, whispering, “Yeah… I remember.”
Stone’s warmth faded as they finally stepped apart.
The noise from the hallway faded behind them, leaving only the hum of the estate and the weight of what came next.
Beyond the fog and the Pacific’s reach, bigger shadows waited.
Clinton was dead—unplanned, but final. One problem buried.
Vegas would be the next move. And the one after that would end with Tatum.
The room smelled of old leather and the faint smoke of the fireplace Dave’s staff hadn’t bothered to light. Heavy curtains filtered the mid-afternoon sun into muted bands across the floor.
It was quieter here than the war room—deliberately so.
Viper sat opposite him, posture sharp as a blade, eyes locked on the maps spread across Dave’s desk. Stone stood off his shoulder, arms crossed, silent weight at his back. Ace leaned near the door, steady as the hinge itself, listening to every word.
Dave let the silence stretch before he spoke. “We take Franklin next. Titus got us a meeting, and Vegas is confirmed.” Dave tapped a finger against the map. “We take Franklin alive. He’s leverage to pull Tatum into the light.”
Viper gave a curt nod. “Genesis will move fast. Rip, Law, Winter, Black—they’re ready. We’ll pick up Real, Crow, and the rest of the team when we get to the ranch.”
“What about bringing in the rest of YA?” Stone suggested. “We have Sage and Boston here, but what about Azrael and his team? Vegas will be crawling, and from what we saw at the warehouse in Port Hueneme, we could use the extra help.”
Dave tipped his head slightly and then nodded. “I’ll make the call to Azrael while we’re in the air.”
His gaze shifted to Ace. “I need you and your team to run point here at the estate,” he continued. “FBI will be on theground soon. Clinton’s body leaves this house clean. You’ll hold this place down. Protect Sparrow and the intel. Protect my staff.”
