Vance didn't argue. He threw an envelope thick with cash onto the workbench and signaled his groaning driver to help him load the engine. They worked in terrified silence, glancing back at Gunner every few seconds.
The rain in Iron Ridge didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. It drummed a relentless rhythm against the corrugated metal roof of the warehouse, a sound that had become the soundtrack of Gunner Scott’s life. Gunner Scott And Leo Stone
They shook hands. Outside, the wind picked up, and the first flakes of snow began to fall over the creek. Vance didn't argue
Scott did. Aegis was a ghost in the machine—black-site logistics, offshore money, faces never photographed. They were the kind of company that didn’t exist on paper but owned half a dozen small wars on three continents. The rain in Iron Ridge didn’t wash things
Scott’s jaw tightened. That was seven years ago, not five. And Tomás had sworn on his mother’s grave he’d never mention it. People always lied. That was the first rule of this side business—the one he didn’t advertise.