Page 75 of Gravity
Titus moved farther in, boots silent now. His gaze skimmed over Sage, over Boston, then stopped—locked on Dave. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
Rip shifted as well, not much, just a slide of his hand toward his sidearm. Not enough to draw notice from Franklin, who was too busy bowing his head, waiting for Titus’s word. But Stone caught it. Rip was ready to draw.
The air thickened, heavy and sharp.
Titus in the room meant the game had just changed.
“Is this the merchandise?” Titus asked Franklin.
Franklin’s smile made him want to put a bullet in the man’s head.
Yes. Look at that one,” Franklin pointed to Boston. “He looks like he’s going to be a talented little cock-sucker, right Titus?”
The words hit the room like a grenade.
Boston’s head snapped up so fast Stone could hear the breath leave him.
“You’re a fucking dead man.” Rip’s voice cut through the room like shrapnel. His hand slid—too quick for anyone butStone to register at first—toward the small of his back where the gun rode.
Ah shit!
Somebody was about to die.
If you want people to live, never bring an assassin to a meeting.
Dave winced, knowing that the light bulb just went off in Franklin’s head.
“What the fuck?” Franklin stared at Rip, the gun, the possessive way Rip’s large body blocked Boston.
“There goes the neighborhood,” Stone muttered from behind Dave.
“You’re not sellers,” Franklin said, jerking Sage forward by the collar like a human shield.
Sage didn’t flinch when he was spun around to face them. He went with the move, planted his feet, chin steady, eyes narrow and flat as a blade.
Genesis moved in toward Franklin—Stone, Rip, Boston—closing with the loose, lethal intent Dave had seen in a dozen fights. He stayed where he was, saw the line forming, and pushed his voice over the rising noise.
“Don’t kill him. We need him alive!”
Franklin ducked behind Sage’s head, gun up.
Sage was already two beats ahead, and with a twist, a drop of weight, the assassin’s fingers jabbed Franklin in the throat just as the gun fired.
The round slammed into the concrete at their feet; powder stung Dave’s face.
Stone reached Franklin first and knocked the gun loose. Rip shoved Franklin to the ground.
The room detonated.
Gunfire, the dry cough of suppressors, a haze of smoke, men surging forward, steady and unstoppable. Shouts threaded through it.
The rest of Genesis and YA punched the perimeter wide—cutting through handlers at the doors, clearing the outer ring.
Genesis hit the lights. The fight dropped into darkness. A few bulbs swung from metal rafters, throwing quick flashes.
Enough to blind.
Enough to confuse.
