“Send me Titus’s personal cell,” Viper said.
There was a pause—the kind loaded with calculations.
“For?”
“Sage.” Viper pinched the bridge of his nose, already picturing the cocky grin Sage was no doubt wearing.
Another long beat.
Then Sage sighed. “Fine. Check your phone.”
A vibration.
One new contact.
Viper didn’t think. He typed.
Viper: Status.
Three dots appeared.
Vanished.
Returned.
Then:
Titus: Fuck off.
Viper’s mouth curved before he could stop it.
Good.
He’d gotten under the bastard’s skin.
Not forgotten.
Not indifferent.
Still fire there.
Exactly what he needed.
He scrolled to his next contact—one he’d collected from the Vegas op.
“Walt Beckman.”
“Walt,” Viper said when he picked up. “I need a location.”
“I can’t give you an exact,” Walt replied, “but I can give you a place he frequents.”
“That’ll do.”
And just like that, calm descended.
The ranch shifted. The world narrowed.
He was taking vacation time.
