Page 15 of Ranger's Justice

He neither confirms nor denies, but he doesn’t step back, either. The air between crackles with something unspoken, something I don’t have a name for. I know I should look away, but I don’t. Everything seems to be a contradiction between us.

“What are you, Rush?” I whisper, deliberately pushing him.

His eyes burn into mine, and for a second, I think he’s going to answer my question. Instead, he leans in, his voice a dark promise against my ear. “I’m the man keeping you alive.”

A knock at the door shatters whatever the hell just passed between us. Something flipped a switch in Rush, causing him to pull back with a blank expression. Gideon steps in, his face as unreadable as ever.

“The rest of the team is back. We need to talk.”

Rush nods once, then turns back to me. “Stay here.”

I bristle. “I’m not a damn prisoner.”

His eyes darken. “Not at the moment, but that will change if you walk out that door.”

Something in my chest tightens. Not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.

I watch him go, the door closing behind him. Leaving me alone with nothing but questions, and the unshakable certainty that Rush Rushton is not just an ordinary Texas Ranger.

I wait, pacing the floor, for the noble warrior to return. Everyone in Texas knows the Texas Rangers are an elite group of lawmen. They are legends not just from our distant past, but here living and protecting us in the present.

I know all that, but it doesn’t make the waiting any easier, and the longer I wait, the more annoying I find Rushton’s high-handedness. He thinks he can order me around. That’s kind of cute—dead ass wrong, but cute.

As the minutes tick by, I find myself becoming more and more impatient. I roll my shoulders, shaking off the lingering burn of our last conversation. He’s hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but I’d bet money it’s big. I don’t think a man like Rushton hides small things.

I don’t buy the whole ‘the cartel will hunt you down in a day’speech. I’ve seen what fear looks like on a man’s face, and Rush? He’s not afraid of them, which means he’s either incredibly stupid, or he has an advantage no one else does. What could it be?

In any event, I’m done waiting around this safe house to find out. I have things to do, and right now, every second I waste here is a second Hollister gets further ahead.

I listen carefully, pressing my ear to the door. The house is quiet, but I know it’s a false silence. There are men outside, hidden in the shadows—watching, waiting.

Rush isn’t stupid, but then again, neither am I.

I grab my bag, checking the contents—phone, burner cell, wallet, knife—and slip out the back. I leave Rush a note, letting him know I’ll be in touch. I need some alone time, a hot bath and my own bed.

Getting away is easier than expected. Either Rush underestimated me, or his team thinks anyone who’s run afoul of the cartel wouldn’t head out on their own. Joke’s on them. What the rangers don’t know is the company I work for has a kind of ‘working arrangement’ with the cartels. We’re the people that see they get paid and have no interest in getting them locked up. I may just be an analyst, but the company would react badly to them killing me. Besides, I don’t care about seeing them locked up, all I want is to make Hollister pay for killing my dad.

You have to love Texans. More often than not, those in the middle of nowhere simply leave their keys over the visor. Sure enough, there are keys in the pickup truck the furthest from the house. I take a circuitous route back to the city, switching directions and highway systems twice and doubling back through side streets until I’m sure no one is following.

The whole time, I can’t stop thinking about Rush—his voice, the way he looked at me, the sheer power in his presence. Damn him. I don’t have time for distractions, not when I’m this close to proving Hollister is working with the Del Toro cartel.

By the time I reach my apartment, it’s nearly two a.m., the city still hums with a quiet energy, the streets never truly asleep. I pull into the underground garage, making a brief tour and then parking in an unassigned space. I keep my head down, making sure no one is watching before I exit the truck and slip inside my building.

The elevator ride is too long, and something prickles at the back of my neck. I’m tired—mentally, physically and emotionally—I ignore it. I’m exhausted. My nerves are frayed. I’d like a long soak in my tub, but decide to hit the shower instead.

Tomorrow, I’ll regroup. The moment I step into my loft, I know something is wrong. The air is different. Still. Like someone is waiting.

My gut screams at me to move, but I’m half a second too late. A hand clamps over my mouth, dragging me backward. I lash out, kicking, twisting, but another set of hands grabs my arms, wrenching them behind my back. I bite down hard on the hand covering my mouth.

A string of curses in Spanish fills the air, and suddenly I’m free, but only for a second. I spin, throwing my elbow into the ribs of the closest attacker. He grunts, but the second one is faster, catching me around the waist and slamming me into the wall. Pain explodes through my shoulder.

I gasp, struggling, but he’s strong. Too strong.

“¡Basta!”a deep voice snaps.

The man pinning me down holds me in place, his breath hot against my ear. “She bites,” he mutters, voice thick with an accent.

A second man steps forward. Taller. Deadlier. And the moment his cold, dark eyes meet mine, I know exactly who he is.

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