Too much Viper.
Time stretched endlessly, measured only by the wind. It never really quit—just eased off long enough to make them think it might.
They had rolled out at first light, and hours and miles later, they were still moving, boots grinding over drying ground where crusted mud cracked and grit scoured their faces raw.
At least the rain had quit. The wind hadn’t. It was the real fucking problem now.
Viper had seen plenty of Nevada post-storm gusts like this—nasty, unpredictable, the kind that could strip paint off a Humvee.
Law had checked in an hour ago—Wind’s a bitch. Bird’s grounded. Holding pattern extended. You two stay low and stay dark.
Viper checked his watch again, then the horizon—nothing but low ridges, gray light, and debris skittering across the desert.
No sign of the cartel yet—small mercies.
It was the wind that worried him now.
The gusts grew stronger.
Titus fought it beside him, their pace slower now than when they’d first started out.
Viper kept catching Titus in his periphery—every shift, every stumble into the wind. He forced his focus forward. He took about five more minutes of this shit before making a decision.
Lifting his voice over the wind, he yelled, “Let’s find a place to rest.”
A hard gust slammed into them as the words left his mouth, flattening the brush and stinging their faces.
“Head that way,” he shouted.
They forged forward together, the wind relentless.
“Over there!” Titus yelled back, catching Viper’s wrist and hauling him toward a shallow overhang.
They dropped into it shoulder-first, sliding under the rock face—just deep enough to get out of the worst of it. Their knees bumped once before they settled.
Minutes passed under the rock, the wind battering on while they held.
Titus shifted beside him, digging into his pocket and pulling out the phone.
“Viper.” Low, urgent. Titus held the burner out, screen glowing against the wind.
Viper cupped his hand over Titus’s to steady the phone, their fingers pressed together by necessity. He leaned in, closing the small distance between them.
Titus thumbed it to speaker, head dipping close, breath mingling between them.
“Go ahead,” Titus said.
Law’s voice cracked through static. “Blackhawk’s down north of the valley. Wind shear’s too dirty for lift. Pilot’s holding position until it eases.”
“Is it Jim?” Viper asked, shifting his weight, bracing them both against a hard gust. If it was Jim Morgan, not much would’ve stopped that bird.
“No, Jim’s in SoCal,” Law growled. “We had to get a loaner pilot.”
“Military, though, yeah?” Titus asked.
“Yeah.”
Viper stayed close, leaning toward the phone. “What’s the ETA once it clears?”
