Page 16 of Ranger's Justice

Luis Ortega—Del Toro’s number two.

He’s smiling at me like I’m already dead. I go still. Not because I’m afraid—though I’d be an idiot not to be—but because I need to think. Fast.

Ortega studies me, head tilting slightly. “You are very troublesome,” he says in perfect English. “You should have stayed out of cartel business, Miss Marlow.”

I glare at him, heart hammering, mind already working through ways to get out of this.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, voice flat. “I’m not interested in the cartel’s business, only in making my stepfather pay for what he did. Next time, I’ll send an email.”

The man holding me presses harder, making sure I can feel the gun at my back. I grit my teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of struggling. Ortega nods, like he expected this response.

“Your father was just as… determined,” he muses. “And look where that got him.”

White-hot rage burns through me. I lunge, but the man holding me is too quick, yanking me back before I can get my hands around Ortega’s throat.

His laugh is soft, cruel. “Brave,” he murmurs. “But foolish.”

I breathe hard, forcing myself to focus. Think, Cassidy. Think.

“You’ve been a very busy girl,” Ortega continues, stepping closer, his voice deceptively calm. “Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. It is… inconvenient.”

I meet his gaze, unflinching.

“Yeah?” I say, summoning up every ounce of bravado I can. “I tend to do my best work when I’m being a pain in the ass. Ask my boss—he’s my godfather, you know—he’ll confirm that.”

Something in his expression sharpens. He nods to the man behind me.

“Make it hurt.”

Oh, hell no. The moment the pressure loosens on my arms, I drop my weight, twisting sharply, slamming my heel down onto his instep. The man shouts, his grip slipping, and I lunge straight at Ortega. In a movie, the plucky heroine would succeed. Unfortunately, this isn’t a movie, and no one has ever called me plucky.

I don’t make it, and the second enforcer snaps out a hand, catching me by the hair and yanking me back hard. Pain lances through my scalp, but I barely feel it. Because the cold steel of a gun presses against my ribs. My lungs stop breathing.

Ortega steps in close, so close I can smell his expensive cologne, the scent at odds with the monster behind the mask. “You should have stayed away, Miss Marlow,” he murmurs.

His finger tightens on the trigger, and I realize… I just ran out of time.

The gun digs into my ribs, Ortega’s dark eyes gleaming in the dim light of my loft. My heart pounds, every instinct screaming at me to move, to fight, to do something, but there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do.

His grip tightens, and his breath ghosts against my skin.

“You should have stayed out of this,” he murmurs.

I grit my teeth, forcing my body to stay rigid and still. “I only want Hollister. We can work something out, can’t we?”

Ortega’s lips pull back in something that isn’t quite a smile. No, he’s enjoying this. I brace myself. Because men like him? They don’t hesitate. I’m out of time.

A sound cuts through the air—low, steady, wrong. A growl. I don’t have a dog. The hair on the back of my neck rises. What the…

Before I can process what’s happening, the front door explodes inward. The force rips it clean off its hinges, sending it slamming against the opposite wall. A shadow moves, too fast, too precise—and then Ortega is gone, yanked away from me like a rag doll, his gun clattering to the floor.

The second enforcer barely has time to react before a hand—big, brutal, and merciless—clamps around his throat and slams him into the wall so hard the drywall cracks. And in the chaos, I see him.

Rush.

Not the controlled, measured Texas Ranger who’d dragged me out of that warehouse. Not the cold, unshakable man who thought he could tell me what to do. This Rush is dangerous, lethal.

His eyes gleam with something dark, something primal. Ortega coughs, struggling against Rush’s grip. The enforcer pinned to the wall gasps for breath, his feet barely touching the ground.

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