Viper lifted the phone and hit Titus’s number again, holding it to his ear. The ringing cut through the cockpit noise like a pulse he couldn’t silence. No answer. The sick feeling in his gut wouldn’t quit.
Life did that—gave you hope, then yanked it away. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the ache behind them.
“We’ll find him,” Law said, throwing Viper a quick, steady look.
“Yeah.” Viper didn’t doubt it—Genesis found people—but the only question that mattered now was whether Titus would still be alive when they did.
Smoke still hung low over the flats, stirred by the chop of rotor wash and the slow drag of the wind.
The chopper came in hot, cutting through the haze, and dropped fast. Law wasn’t messing around, and Viper appreciated that. By his count, no more than thirty minutes had passed since he’d last seen Titus.
He gave the signal to set the bird down and jumped before the skids settled.
Boots hit sand hard. He ignored the throb building behind his eyes—the dull concussion pulse that wanted to split his skull. Black and Winter fell in right behind him; Law followed after killing the engines.
The sun sat high but hazed, a white disk behind the grit.
Bodies sprawled everywhere—a cartel truck on its side, smoke billowing from the crushed hood. The sight hit like a gut punch. It looked like a war zone—Titus had become a one-man wrecking crew.
“Fuck,” Winter muttered, coming to stand beside him.
Viper moved through the dead—dragging one after another onto their backs, checking faces, builds, anything that might be him.
A few moments later, another chopper swooped in low and flared hard before touching down.
Real, Rip, Crow, and the YA operatives jumped out first, weapons already slung. Ramsey and Rhett followed close behind. They’d packed the Blackhawk with as many as it could hold.
Wrath was the last to dismount. The moment his boots hit sand, he pushed through the rotor wash and charged forward, jaw tight, closing the distance fast. Rogue stayed in the bird behind him—a massive, watchful presence framed by the open door, eyes locked on Wrath’s back.
Real crossed the sand and clasped Viper’s hand. “We’ve got more on standby. Sage and Boston are in the bird, ready to launch the drone. SecDef said he’ll send the Chinook if we need it.”
Wrath stopped just shy of Viper’s face. “What the hell happened?”
Viper kept his voice low but sharp. “Step the fuck back.” He was in no mood for anyone’s bullshit.
“Hey.” Law moved in fast, cutting between them. “We had a loaner pilot.”
“Fuck!” Wrath shouted, raking a hand through his hair.
The Blackhawk thundered overhead. Rogue didn’t move from the doorway—but he shifted, broad shoulders filling the frame, ready if Wrath tipped one inch further.
Viper met Wrath’s glare head-on. “I would’ve never left him.” The words came out tight, raw.
“Word has it you two don’t like each other,” Wrath growled, squinting, taking his measure.
“Word’s wrong,” Viper bit out.
Enough said.
“Let’s move out,” Real said quietly. “We can plan as we search. We’ve got maybe two hours before sunset.”
Viper glanced at the sky—sun high but slipping, light already flattening across the sand. They had two and a half or three hours if they were lucky before sunset.
Turning away from the men, he stepped over a twisted rifle, then the edge of a burned tarp, boots sinking into sand still warm from the blast. A shape lay half-buried—a man.
His head pounded until he saw the cartel ink on his arm. He moved on. No hesitation. His job was the perimeter, the pattern, the control.
His team moved with him, fanning out, sweeping the desert floor.
