Page 50 of Ranger's Justice

I nod. “We recon first, get eyes on the airstrip before we move in. No hero shit.”

Dalton whistles from a few feet away. “Look at that. Sometimes, she listens.”

I shoot him a glare. “Shut up, Dalton.”

He grins. Rush doesn’t.

His fingers brush my wrist—just for a second, just enough to send a jolt of something hot and possessive through me. Then he’s all business again.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, voice low, meant just for me.

I should argue. Should remind him I can take care of myself—sort of. I can shoot and I’m far more comfortable with a handgun than I was before. However, no words surface; the truth remains elusive. I want to stay close to him. Because no matter how dangerous this op is, no matter how much I hate the way my body betrays me around him… Rush is the only place I’ve felt safe since my father died.

And that? That’s even more dangerous than anything waiting for us at that airstrip.

The plan is simple. Or at least, it’s supposed to be.

We hit the compound before the traffickers can move their shipment. Cut them off before they make it to the airstrip. Intercept and neutralize. Fast, clean, no unnecessary risks.

Except nothing ever goes to plan.

I sit in the back of the SUV, my hands resting lightly on my thigh holster, the cool steel of my gun fast becoming a familiar weight against my leg. Rush drives, his grip firm on the wheel, his eyes locked on the road ahead. The convoy is spread out—two more SUVs lead, and a transport vehicle follows, all running dark and silent as we approach the target.

The desert hides the compound deep within cartel territory, where questions go unasked, and bodies vanish without a trace. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned warehouse, but satellite images showed security, armed patrols, and transport vehicles waiting to load the human cargo.

The traffickers aren’t expecting us, which means we need to hit them hard and fast.

I steal a glance at Rush. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the wheel. The look on his face—the quiet, deadly calm—makes my gut twist.

This isn’t just another op for him. It’s personal.

I get it. After seeing what was in that truck and hearing those girls whisper that no one would come for them, I also want revenge.

And Team W? They’re ready to paint the desert in it.

Dalton’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “Coming up on the compound. Looks quiet.”

Too quiet.

Rush exhales slowly through his nose. “They know something’s coming.”

I wriggle in my seat, my fingers curling against my thigh. I hate the anticipation, the crawling weight of waiting for the first shot to fire, for all hell to break loose.

Rush glances at me. “You stay with me.”

It’s not a question.

I bristle. “I know how to follow orders.”

His eyes darken, just for a second, then he flashes me a grin. “Since when?”

The SUV slows to a stop, the other vehicles parking in a staggered formation around us. Gideon and Deacon slip out first, their weapons at the ready, scanning the perimeter.

Rush’s fingers brush my wrist before he grips it lightly, just for a moment. “Stay close.”

I swallow. “Got it.”

Then we move.

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