Page 54 of Ranger's Justice

I don’t think any of them saw me shift, but if they did and report it to anyone, someone will dismiss it as a trauma-induced hallucination.

Dalton is already moving, crouching near another girl, offering a bottle of water. “You’re okay now,” he says, voice softer than usual. “We got you.”

Gage moves through the group, passing out granola bars, ration packs, whatever supplies we have on hand. Some of the girls take them with shaking fingers, others don’t react at all—too far gone, too drugged or broken to process what’s happening yet.

I watch Cassidy for a beat longer, something primal settling in my chest at the sight of her safe, whole, still breathing, and offering aid and comfort to others. I almost lost her back there. That bastard had a gun to her head, and if I’d been a second slower… I don’t let the thought finish.

Instead, I head toward Cassidy, resting a hand on her shoulder. She tenses for half a second before turning to look at me, her eyes searching my face. She sees too much.

“You’re alright?” I murmur.

She nods. “Yeah.” Her voice is steady, but I see the way her fingers tighten around the water bottle she’s holding.

“Stay with them,” I tell her. “Dalton and Gage will keep you covered.”

Her jaw clenches like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. Not this time. Instead, she glances at the girls, at the terrified, broken faces surrounding her, and nods.

“I’ll make sure they’re okay.”

I squeeze her shoulder once, then step back, forcing myself to walk away. My wolf howls in protest, but I don’t have a choice.

There are still loose ends to tie up.

Gideon and Gage are already moving, their weapons drawn, their sharp gazes locked on the path the surviving traffickers took when they fled.

“They’re heading toward the airstrip,” Gideon mutters as I catch up to them, his voice grim. “Running straight into the fucking desert.”

Good.

Gage checks his weapon, then glances at me. “Are we going to hunt these bastards down as wolves or men?”

I flex my fingers, my wolf still riding too close to the surface, but shake my head. “For now, men. We need intel first.”

The three of us move in tandem, our steps silent over the dirt and broken concrete as we track the bastards who ran. They didn’t get far—blood marks the path ahead, a trail leading us straight toward the desert.

I don’t slow.

They’re trying to disappear into cartel territory, to regroup, to warn whoever else is involved in this operation that their warehouse is gone. I can’t let that happen.

The wind stirs, carrying the scent of sweat and fear, and I grin. They’re close.

Gideon signals, raising two fingers. Two men ahead, moving fast. Sloppy. Panicked. They’re not trained for this—not like we are.

“Circle left,” I murmur, my voice barely more than a breath. “I’ll take point.”

Gage and Gideon split off without a word, flanking the runners from both sides while I move straight down the center.

The first man doesn’t hear me coming. He’s too busy sucking in gasping breaths, his boots kicking up dust as he stumbles over uneven terrain. I let him get a few more yards ahead before I move.

I close the distance fast, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him back. He barely has time to let out a strangled yell before I slam my forearm against his throat, shoving him against the rusted shell of an old fuel tank.

His hands scrabble at my arm, but he’s weak—out of breath, out of time.

I bare my teeth. “Where were you headed?”

He sputters, shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t…”

I slam him harder into the metal. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

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