Page 42 of Ranger's Justice

I grip his throat, pressing just enough to make him panic. “Where?”

“An old airstrip.” His words come fast now, terrified. “Del Toro’s people are handling the transfer.”

Del Toro. The cartel.

I release him, standing to my full height.

“That’s all I know,” the man wheezes.

I nod. “Good.”

Then I hit him one last time.

He slumps forward, unconscious, his body limp.

Dalton exhales. “Well. Guess we know where we’re going next.”

I wipe the blood off my knuckles, my wolf finally quieting. Cassidy steps through the doorway, eyes locking onto mine.

I can still feel it—the pull.

And I know, without a doubt, that I’m already too far gone.

CHAPTER 11

CASSIDY

The prisoner groans, slumped forward in the chair, blood dripping from his split lip onto the concrete floor. I watch from the doorway, my arms wrapped around myself, forcing my breath to stay even. I should feel some kind of satisfaction seeing him like this. Seeing a man who facilitated the kind of evil we just pulled those girls from, broken, beaten, reduced to a trembling mess. But all I feel is a deep, hollow ache. Because this? This is just one of them.

There are more. So many more.

Rush steps back, rolling his shoulders like he’s barely keeping himself from launching at the bastard again. His knuckles are bloody, his breathing controlled but heavy. Dalton leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching the unconscious man like he’s debating whether to finish the job.

Rush turns to Gideon. “Get him cleaned up. Make sure he’s stable. I want him booked, not dead.”

Gideon nods, already moving. “I’ll call our contact to arrange the handoff.”

Rush doesn’t wait for more details. He’s already walking past me, headed toward the house. The moment he brushes by heat coils through me, the scent of him wrapping around me likea noose. Blood, sweat and something darker—something that speaks of the wolf inside him.

I hesitate for half a second, then follow.

Inside, the house is dimly lit, shadows stretching long against the hardwood floors. Rush heads straight for the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of beer. He cracks it open, takes a long drink, then braces his hands against the counter, shoulders tight.

I step in behind him, my stomach twisting. “What did he say?”

Rush doesn’t look at me right away. He stares at the countertop, muscles bunching beneath his shirt as if he’s forcing himself to stay still. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “There’s a deal going down tomorrow night. Midnight. South of the border.”

The words settle in my chest as if lead. “For another shipment?”

His jaw ticks. “Yeah.”

I swallow hard, gripping the back of a chair to steady myself. “Jesus.”

Rush finally turns, his gray eyes dark, unreadable. “It’s Del Toro’s people handling the transfer.”

The Del Toro cartel doesn’t just move drugs or guns—they move people. Women. Children. People vanishing without a trace, gone forever. And Hollister is working with them.

I close my eyes, nausea twisting my gut. “I should have seen it a long time ago.”

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