For some reason, he was reminded of that last near-altercation with Titus. If he ever did come to blows with that asshole, it’d probably look a lot like this—him taking that bastard to the ground. Maybe not the dead part, but definitely an ass-whipping.
Fucking bullshit, thinking of that guy mid-mission.
He crushed down thoughts of Titus, spat blood into the sand, and wiped the blade on the body’s sleeve, eyes already scanning the dark beyond.
“You good, Colonel?” Memphis jogged over, voice low.
“Yeah,” Viper rasped, tucking his blade away.
Law swept the perimeter, coming up beside them, wiping his own blade clean. “Area appears secure.”
“Team, report,” Viper ordered. His tone carried no emotion, no relief—just direction.
One by one, the remaining three in his unit checked in. It wasn’t until the last voice came through that Viper let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He shook it off and crouched beside one of the fallen men, fingers searching, finding nothing. Not a cartel, probably private hire.
Didn’t matter.
Genesis were ghosts. They’d take custody of the asset and vanish. Gone—like they’d never been here.
When these bodies surfaced, someone else would take the blame.
“Locals,” he muttered. “Sent to take us out before we could reach the asset.”
Law leaned in. “They underestimated us.”
Viper rose, scanning the dark where the dust had finally settled.
“Yeah, they did,” Memphis said.
Viper checked his watch, then keyed his comms. “Get ready. Asset’s five out.”
Five minutes crawled by—quiet, tense, dust still hanging in the air.
Then headlights crested the rise.
Two men climbed out, faces dark behind masks. Viper recognized the posture immediately—at least one of them was undercover. A slighter man was hauled from the back and shoved forward. He hit the ground, caught himself, and staggered upright—eyes locking on Viper across the distance.
Viper lifted a hand in a sharp, wordless signal.
The accountant bolted toward him, running like he expected a bullet between his shoulder blades. Viper hauled him off-line, driving him across open ground toward the staging area, dust kicking up under their boots until the dark shapes of the SUVs rose beyond the rise.
They loaded the trembling man into the back of the SUV, his breath fogging in quick, panicked bursts.
Law stepped in beside Viper, voice low enough not to carry.
“No cartel comes down this hard for an accountant,” he muttered. “Somebody above them wants him gone.”
Memphis huffed a tense breath. “Yeah. Feels wrong. Too much muscle for one pencil pusher.”
Viper shut the door with a solid, final click.
He didn’t look at either of them—just stared out at the dark stretch of desert, jaw tight.
Law was right.
Memphis was right.
