Page 76 of Gravity
His men thrived in darkness, lived in it, assassins born to bleed the night dry.
Confident that Stone and Rip had Franklin, Dave jerked his head at Titus, and they both slid behind a stack of pallets, flattening against splintered wood for cover, returning fire.
His Beretta M9 jumped in his hand, the familiar weight like an old friend. Dave watched bodies fold.
Stone worked his way over and tucked in behind him, drawing breath through his teeth, then leaned out to watch a lane for mercs.
Boston and Sage had already moved across the aisle. Snatching sidearms from fallen mercs, swiveling a blade in one hand, gun in the other. They both looked too young to be as precise as they were, but Dave felt pride at their skill.
Rip drove a knee into Franklin’s ribs, hauled his arms back, and cinched zip-ties tight. He left Franklin face down on the stained concrete and vaulted after Boston without a backward look.
A man went down in front of Dave, brought down by Stone. The sound of the merc’s body hitting concrete punched a ferocity loose in the room.
Winter materialized at Stone’s shoulder, head low, checking a mag without wasting motion.
“Who dropped the ball?” Winter asked, voice flat, an edge of humor under the strain.
Stone’s mouth tilted. Dave recognized the look—whatever came next would be brutal.
“Rip,” Stone said, and the name came out like a growl. “Franklin called Boston a cock-sucker.”
“So, it was justifiable.” Winter cocked his head.
“Absolutely,” Stone replied with a grunt, and they both snapped to business.
Winter rose a fraction, sighted, and fired a single, clean headshot at a man coming through the north exit. The man crumbled. Winter ducked back down beside Stone as if nothing unusual had happened. And it hadn’t—this was usual for them.
Dave kept his hand on the pallets, returned fire when he could, but mostly just watched his teams work.
Dave wondered if he’d miss this, and then decided he would not. The pulse-pounding fear that a stray bullet would hit Stone was a very real thing.
He loved all of his crew, but what he wanted was simple. Stone beside him in a small cabin in Colorado—marriage, slow mornings, a life that didn’t pull them apart. The thought warmed and stung.
“Hey, you fuckers!” Franklin shouted from his spot on the floor—alive for now.
Even if Rip had ended the op before it ever started, Dave couldn’t blame the assassin. If someone had looked at Stone the way Franklin had looked at Boston, Dave would have shot him.
Franklin should be thankful he was still fucking breathing.
After the dust had settled and Genesis and YA had finished crushing the merc resistance, Stone finally let himself breathe.
Titus materialized next to Dave, whispering so low Stone had to lean to hear.
“Cuff me.” The move was deliberate—another piece set into motion.
Stone had lost sight of Titus during the fight and half-expected the man to be lying dead on the floor.
He didn’t know Titus, not really, but losing him would’ve left Franklin as their only lead. And without Titus, answers from Franklin would only come by torture.
Titus alive meant they could stuff him into a cage with Franklin and have a chance to get to Tatum clean.
Stone stepped over the slick of blood and boots and snapped a pair of zip-ties on Titus’s wrist himself—fast, practiced—then cinched the other through.
Across the distance, Franklin fought the hands that hauled him up, spitting and clawing and swearing.
“Assess the damage and wrap it up,” Stone barked as he scanned the fray.
Dave’s voice answered from behind the pallets, low and direct, already on his phone.
