They lifted the body, hauling it out of the gully and toward the waiting Chinook. By the time they reached the birds, Tatum was zipped into a bag.
With Stone at his side, Dave walked over to Will.
“You doing the paperwork on him?” he asked, cracking open a canteen.
“Hell no,” Will snorted and clapped him on the back. “You’re the one who said you wanted to slow down. So, paperwork is right up your alley.”
“I wouldn’t classify this as slowing down.” Dave smirked and gestured toward the wrecked camp.
Will chuckled, the deep sound drawing a few smiles from his men.
“You’re right, this is definitely not.” He clasped Dave’s shoulder firmly. “You, my friend, might want to take some vacation time.”
Dave glanced over at Stone—solid, silent, steady as ever, waiting for him.
“That,” he said, a faint smile pulling at his mouth, “sounds like a great idea.”
They parted ways—Will taking Tatum’s body, his men aboard the Chinook before lifting off in a storm of dust and sound. Real jumped inside the other helicopter along with the rest of Genesis and YA.
Dave climbed into the Blackhawk with Stone right behind him and leaned back against the metal wall. The hum of the engine built beneath them, steady and low.
Across the small space, Stone’s eyes caught the light—steady, unreadable, that familiar storm behind them. Dave wondered what was running through his head.
He didn’t have to wonder long.
Stone leaned in, fisted a hand in the front of Dave’s vest, and yanked him forward until their faces were inches apart. The engines roared, the blades churned, and over the rising noise came Stone’s voice—low, certain.
“I love you.”
Then his hand was gone.
Dave sank back into the seat, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something deeper. The words—and the look in Stone’s eyes—hit harder than any mission ever had. They made him want to reach out, pull Stone close, and never let go.
He didn’t. Not yet.
But as the Blackhawk lifted into the burning light of the desert, one truth settled deep and immovable in his chest.
Stone owned him—heart and soul.
In the main ranch house, the dining room table looked more like a war council than a place for meals.
Maps and folders cluttered the wood, but no one leaned over them now.
Genesis, both active and former, plus the Young Assassins, filled the chairs spread around the table with the loose exhaustion of men who’d seen the worst and walked out the other side.
Dave stood at the head, palms pressed against the scarred oak.
Stone was at his shoulder, silent, steady as he’d always been.
“As you know, Tatum is dead and a large number of his men were either killed or taken into custody,” Dave said, voice even. “A few of them are cutting deals to give up the locations of trafficking victims. And in the morning, Franklin will be taken into custody by the FBI.”
Relief rippled through the room in different shades.
Azrael exhaled hard, slumping back in his chair with relief. Winter arched a brow but said nothing, eyes flicking toward Boston, who grinned like the weight of the last week had finally eased.
“Hell of a road to get here,” Rip muttered.
“No kidding,” Boston said, rubbing at his jaw. “Remind me not to volunteer for the next one.”
