But for the first time since the desert, something inside Viper steadied.
Tonight, he’d find Titus.
This time, he wasn’t going alone.
The apartment on West End Avenue in Manhattan was quiet in the way old money could afford—thick walls, the kind of quiet money bought, and a view that stretched over Riverside Park like something claimed rather than admired.
Titus crossed the living room without thinking. His stride fit the space; his presence fit it even more. This wasn’t the Midtown penthouse. This was the subtle property—old West End Avenue architecture, carved crown molding, understated wealth meant for people who never needed to flash it.
The private elevator chimed once.
Vale stepped out.
Tailored dark coat, clean lines, and a gaze that catalogued the room with the same efficiency Titus used on a weapons layout. He moved in like he’d been raised an avenue over—comfortable, unbothered, fluent.
Titus didn’t miss it.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked—not a challenge, just fact-finding.
Vale’s mouth curved, all quiet confidence. “Places like this? Once or twice.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Titus understood the language of men who belonged anywhere they walked.
YA had already taken the dining table hostage.
Sage lounged with one knee hooked over a chair, three screens active, offshore routes and shell-company webs crawlingacross the displays. His blond curls were shoved back in a loose tie that meant he’d been working all night.
Aspen sat beside him, sharpened focus, quiet fingers gliding across a tablet as he sliced through encrypted folders like tissue paper. Two open knives rested beside him—not décor, just convenience.
Seeking high ground, Ocean perched on the kitchen counter with feline ease, long legs dangling, curls in his eyes as he checked the team’s weapons with a precision that would’ve made any armorer proud.
“Your slide tension was off,” Ocean said without looking up. “Fixed it.”
“Was it?” Titus frowned.
“Mhmm,” Ocean smirked.
Syx leaned against the wall, arms crossed, assessing both Titus and Vale with blunt soldier’s eyes. “You two look like you were born in this zip code.”
Titus didn’t bother denying it.
Vale didn’t either.
Sage finally spoke, tapping a key. “Savage sent the name from the SecDef.”
The screens shifted.
“Clifford Hale,” Aspen read, leaning over Sage’s shoulder.
Titus’s eyes narrowed.
Of course, it was Hale.
He stepped closer.
Vale’s gaze flicked to him. “You know him.”
“That’s not surprising,” Sage murmured. “Same circles.”
