Page 68 of Gravity
Instead of heading back to the war room, Dave left Titus in the hall and walked down toward the holding cells. He told himself it would only be for a few minutes.
But Clinton was still rotting in one of the cells, and Dave couldn’t stomach leaving that thread dangling. Not with the mission tightening. Not with Stone watching.
The secured wing was quieter, removed from the day’s bustle. The air smelled of metal and concrete, the kind of place built for temporary holds, not long stays.
One guard sat posted outside the reinforced door. Shoulders too loose, gaze flicking down the hall instead of locked forward. Dave noted it, irritation curling in his gut, but didn’t slow.
“Sir.” The guard straightened at once, voice stiff.
“Open it,” Dave said.
The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk, and Dave stepped inside.
Clinton sat on the bench bolted to the wall, forearms braced on his knees. He wasn’t cuffed—there was no need, not behind steel and reinforced locks—but he looked worn by the wait. Hair mussed, shirt rumpled, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. His leg bounced in a constant, jittering rhythm, the heel of his shoe tapping against the concrete in a twitching, impatient beat. The days had stripped him of polish, but not of fire.
His eyes snapped up sharp and alert, almost feverish. Restless.
No humility. No defeat. Just calculation.
Dave stayed by the wall, arms loose, voice flat. “Your time’s up. FBI is en route. You’ll answer to them.”
Clinton’s mouth curved, a ghost of a smile, but his eyes burned with contempt.
“The law?” Clinton leaned forward, voice fraying at the edges. “You really think you can do this without me? Do you honestlythink that Viper now trusts Titus? Or that Stone will still follow you when shit goes south?”
Dave’s tone didn’t shift. “You’re finished here. You won’t touch another briefing, another op—nothing.”
Something cracked in Clinton’s face—arrogance slipping, desperation bleeding through.
“I’m the only one who knows how the pieces fit,” he hissed. “Take me off the board, and Stone runs wild. He’ll bury you.”
“You have no idea, do you?” Dave leaned in. “Stone is mine.”
The finality struck Clinton—he paled, the arrogance folding into a brittle, animal fear. Dave’s voice dropped until it was almost a whisper, and every word landed like a blade.
“Touch him,” he said, “and I’ll end you where you stand.”
Clinton’s jaw worked; he found no answer.
A guard inside the doorway moved forward—a professional reflex—stepping between Dave and Clinton with an outstretched arm.
Dave shifted to the side to avoid the guard and took a step back, straightening his suit jacket. Maybe he would’ve caught Clinton’s move if he’d been closer—but hindsight didn’t matter once it started.
Then Clinton lunged—fast, practiced—the move of a man who’d been waiting for this moment. He slammed his shoulder into the interposing guard, driving him against the bars with a metallic clang.
The fight was on. The guard went down hard, breath knocked from his lungs, sidearm jostled half free.
Clinton’s hand shot down, ripping the pistol loose. Before the man could twist, he swiped for Dave as well—an ugly, desperate grab for the throat. Dave dropped low, instincts snapping tight; Clinton’s fingers closed on air where Dave had been.
In an instant, the weapon came up, leveled at the guard struggling to his feet. Clinton’s face was twisted and wild.
“Back!” he shouted, voice ragged. “Back the hell up!”
The shot went wide, plaster bursting from the wall. The guard staggered clear, dazed. Dave was already moving before the echo faded.
The black circle of the barrel swung toward him—
A single gunshot cracked through the corridor, deafening in the confined space.
