The Chinook hit the ground in a roar of blades and dust, the Nevada desert kicking up around them.
Dave was first down the ramp, Stone close at his shoulder, the rest of Genesis fanning behind—Viper, Rip, Law, Winter, and Black. Sage and Boston slipped out last, both lean silhouettes against the grit and noise, young eyes sharp as any of the veterans’s.
The rotors hammered above them, the engine winding down in a long, shuddering whine until the bird settled into stillness.
Nightfall Drifters Ranch stretched wide in the distance, the outline of outbuildings black against the pale desert sky.
Figures waited.
Real stood front and center, broad and immovable as ever—arms folded, eyes narrowed against the sand. Real held Genesis close at the ranch, steady as the mountain, while Viper was out in the field—and vice versa.
Crow flanked Real, and beside them was Azrael with his YA team—Rebel, Freedom, Beck, and a few new assassins flanking close, every one of them young, lean, coiled, and watchful.
Micah lingered a step back with them, wiry frame taut, eyes sharp. The young man had been brought along at the insistence of Boston and Sage. Dave didn’t argue at the time.
Dave’s gaze now landed on Micah—ready to tackle the problem. “You’re not officially part of this mission.”
Micah’s mouth curved tight, not quite a smile. He turned to Azrael. “We talked last week about me joining YA. Is that offer still on the table?”
Azrael didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Micah’s jaw set, shoulders squaring at the word, and he turned back to Dave.
Dave read the shift in him plain as day. Whatever had held the young man back was gone.
The wind pulled at Dave’s shirt as he crossed the stretch of dirt. Real stepped forward, hand extended, grip like iron when Dave clasped it. No words needed; the weight of old battles carried in the silence between them.
Crow gave a slow nod, gaze flicking past Dave to Stone and back again.
“I heard Port Hueneme was a setup,” Crow said.
Azrael’s look was sharper, assessing, the kind that measured not just strength but intent.
“Vegas will be much different,” Stone growled.
Dave’s mouth pulled tight in something close to agreement. He glanced once at Sage and Boston, their shoulders squared, standing tall beside men almost twice their age. They weren’t green anymore—they were here to prove it. Way too fucking young, but having them with them was better than on the streets.
“Then we fly out tomorrow,” Dave said. “The meeting with Franklin is set for two nights from now.”
The following night.
Vegas burned neon across the skyline, the glow bleeding against the low clouds. From their vantage point in a darkened parking garage, the city was all noise and pulse, a different kind of battlefield.
The others had fanned out—Viper checking comms with Rip and Law, Winter and Black sweeping the perimeter, Sage and Boston shadowing Azrael’s YA crew. Even Titus kept his distance, Titus and Walt a quiet presence near the far wall.
For a moment, it was just the two of them.
Stone leaned against the concrete pillar, eyes on the chaos below, jaw tight enough to crack. His voice came low, meant only for Dave.
“I hate that you’re suddenly in the field all the time.”
Dave let out a long breath, shoulders heavy. He hadn’t carried this kind of weight in years—not like this, boots on the ground instead of behind the desk.
“I know.” His gaze stayed on the streets. “If I didn’t need to be there as the seller, I’d be back at the estate. You have to know that.”
Stone’s throat worked in a hard swallow. He turned, eyes catching Dave’s in the dim light.
“I do know,” he said, voice rough. “But I don’t have to like it.”
