No more command tone slicing under his skin.
No more wondering why the hell Viper leaving him hit harder than any bullet.
This time, Titus would run the op without him.
Better that way.
Better for both of them.
One day later…
Nightfall Drifters Ranch breathed differently at dawn.
Not like the city. Not like the desert. Just the low hum of the ranch; the distant shuffle of horses, and the quiet presence of men who’d earned a moment of stillness but never fully trusted it.
Viper descended the main-house stairs, one hand braced lightly on the railing. His boots hit wood softened by decades of use. The air smelled like coffee, dust, and the cold bite of early morning settling over the hills.
Law waited at the bottom, leaning against the post, arms crossed.
“Sleep?” Law asked.
Viper snorted. “Define it.”
Law’s mouth twitched. “You look better than you did yesterday.”
“That’s a low bar.”
A beat passed—comfortable, familiar. Law tipped his chin toward the barn past the kitchen windows.
“Barstow’s up,” he said quietly. “Didn’t say much. Just asked where he was again.”
“And you said?”
“‘Safe’ was good enough.”
Law shrugged. “Not like we can tell him he’s in the middle of a top-secret ranch full of assassins and young operatives who eat like wolves.”
“Good call.”
They pushed into the ranch kitchen.
Noise hit first.
Cookie banged pans like he was trying to beat the cookware into submission, muttering dark threats about the YA boys being late for breakfast. The long farmhouse table was half set, plates stacked high, steam rolling off eggs and potatoes.
“Six o’clock!” Cookie barked at no one in particular. “Six o’clock means asses in chairs at six, not six-fifteen, not whenever their pretty little feet decide to touch the floor—”
Boston strolled in, hair a mess, shirt half buttoned. “Easy, Cookie. It’s only six-oh-five.”
“That’s five minutes of insubordination,” Cookie snapped.
Freedom darted past him and stole a slice of bacon off the pan, earning a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
Behind them, Rip stood at the coffee pot with Winter, who cradled his bandaged arm like it owed him money.
“Move,” Rip told Winter.
“Use your other arm,” Winter shot back.
