Page 60 of Gravity
Sage didn’t even twitch. He only watched, green eyes cold, pen rolling once between his fingers before he pocketed it. Product. That was the role they were supposed to play here.
The men closest thought they could take advantage of that. They were wrong.
One lunged.
Rip moved faster. A blur of violence, his boot cracked the man’s knee sideways before the bastard could even lay a hand on Boston. Another came in hard, swinging wildly. Viper met him with a clean, brutal strike—knife-hand to the throat, then a twist that sent the man coughing on the floor.
Dave didn’t so much as flinch. He let the line hang open, Franklin listening to the sounds of his men getting broken.
Dave leaned into the phone, tone flat. “You called this meeting. So either put your cards on the table or fold and walk. I don’t chase shadows. There are plenty who want my product.”
A pause.
Then Franklin’s laugh, unbothered. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Jordan and Sage had carefully crafted a false identity for Dave just for this very meeting.
Above, the cameras winked out one by one, leaving only silence and the groans of Franklin’s broken men on the concrete.
The phone clicked dead, and Dave dropped it to the table.
Beside him, Sage’s eyes stayed locked on the phone. The second the cameras went dark, the man stepped forward, snatched the device, and slipped it into a Faraday bag—a signal-proof pouch that killed every frequency from Wi-Fi to Bluetooth.
Viper dragged one of the attackers upright by the collar, shoving him back toward the shadows. Rip’s eyes glittered dark as he toed another man onto his back, daring him to rise.
Dave turned for the exit, voice cutting the quiet. “Pull out. This guy’s playing games.”
They heard it before they saw it—the fury of a battle spilling across the parking lot. Shouts, gunfire, the grind of metal on metal.
Exiting the building, they walked straight into a war.
The handful of men inside the warehouse had only been the tip of the iceberg. Outside, Franklin had sent too many to count—dark shapes swarming across the cracked lot, headlights strobing, gunmetal flashing in the wash of security lamps. The thin screen inside had been bait, nothing more. Franklin’s real play was here, waiting.
Dave understood the goal the instant his boots hit the gravel. Franklin wanted the product—Boston and Sage—or Dave dead. Maybe both.
An impact scarred the yard.
A perp’s SUV sat crumpled against another vehicle, steam billowing from the crushed hood.
Dave’s eyes caught a license plate on a parked SUV nearby—Genesis. Covert, but unmistakable.
Bodies lay scattered nearby.
And in the middle of it, Stone.
A Sig Sauer P365 in one hand, bloody knuckles glinting brass as he drove another punch into a man’s jaw. He moved like rage given form, shoulders squared, every strike fueled by something deeper than the fight.
At his flank, Law tore through the fray, a blade flashing as he dropped one man and pivoted into the next. Black and Winter carved a path beside them, merciless and precise, cutting Franklin’s men down like wheat before the scythe.
The yard thundered with shouts, gunfire, and the bone-breaking thud of close combat.
Dave’s chest tightened, not from fear, but from the raw sight of Stone in the middle of hell. Bloody, unyielding, exactly where Dave hadn’t wanted him to be—and exactly where he belonged.
The parking lot was hell lit in headlights. Men swarmed from the alleys, Franklin’s muscle pouring out in waves, but it didn’t matter.
Dave’s voice came hard over the comms—authority in every syllable. “The objective is to get Franklin—so killing his men won’t do us a damned bit of good.”
Stone’s jaw tightened. He let a thin, dangerous smile cut across his face. “So, leave them alive and teach them a lesson. Got it,” he growled.
