Page 51 of Ranger's Justice

The compound is sprawling, a mix of industrial decay and cartel reinforcements. Crumbling concrete walls topped with razor wire. Shipping containers stacked high, forming makeshift barriers. A single warehouse looms ahead, rusted steel doors cracked open just enough for the glow of artificial light to seep through.

Rush and his men move like shadows, silent and efficient, spreading out in a coordinated sweep. I keep my head down, staying low, my heart hammering in my chest, trying very hard not to bungle things. We'll attack swiftly, neutralizing guards before reinforcements arrive.

Simple—only it never is.

Dalton is the first to spot movement. “Two guards, east side,” he murmurs into comms. “Light patrol.”

Rush signals, and within seconds, Gideon and Deacon take them down—one clean shot each, bodies dropping into the sand without a sound.

My pulse kicks up. So far, so good.

We move toward the warehouse entrance, pressing against the walls. Rush signals, counting down on his fingers. Three… Two…

Then everything goes to hell. Gunfire erupts from inside the warehouse.

The first shots slam into the metal doors, ricocheting off the walls. Someone inside was expecting us. The bastards must’ve had lookouts.

Rush shoves me behind cover, his body a solid wall between me and the bullets. “Stay down!”

Like I have a choice.

Gideon and Deacon return fire, taking out two men on the catwalk above. The rest of the team moves fast, sweeping forward, forcing the traffickers back inside. Rush fires a round into the darkness, then motions for us to move.

“Now!”

I follow, my gun raised, my heart slamming against my ribs as we push into the warehouse. The air inside is thick with dust and gunpowder, the sharp stench of sweat and fear clinging to the walls.

And then I see them.

The girls.

There are at least a dozen of them, huddled together in a caged-off section of the warehouse, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling. Some appear to be barely conscious, drugged or too weak to move.

Rush sees them too. His entire body goes rigid, his gun aiming toward the men scrambling to defend their operation.

Dalton curses. “We don’t have time for a standoff.”

Rush doesn’t hesitate. “Take them out.”

The gunfire starts again, deafening in the enclosed space. I keep my head low, pressing against the metal storage crates,trying to get a clear shot. A sound from behind only a split second before a thick arm wraps around my throat, yanking me backward.

I react on instinct, slamming my elbow into my attacker’s ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go. A hand clamps down on my wrist, trying to wrench my gun from my grip.

Panic flares.No. No, I am not going down like this.

I twist, slamming my boot into his knee. He stumbles, his grip loosening just enough for me to bring my gun up. A shot rings out, but not from my gun.

The man jerks, a spray of red misting the air before he drops.

I barely register the sound of the body hitting the floor before I turn and see Rush.

His gun is still raised. His face is pure, unfiltered rage.

The warehouse is still a war zone, but Rush isn’t moving. He’s staring at me like something inside him just broke. Like seeing me in danger shattered him.

I swallow hard, my breath shaky. “I had it.”

His voice is a growl. “Like hell you did.”

---