Page 72 of Ranger's Justice

“Bullshit.” I keep my gun trained on him as I close the distance, my steps steady despite the adrenaline pumping through me. I won’t let him see my fear.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Little Cassidy. I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so… capable.” His gaze flickers to my gun, to the blood staining my hands. “I underestimated you.”

I smile, but there’s no humor in it. “Most people do.”

Hollister’s smirk never falters. “I suppose I should be flattered that you came all this way just for me.”

I tighten my grip on the gun. “This isn’t about you.”

His eyebrows lift. “No? Then tell me, darling, why are you really here?”

I take another step forward, the weight of my father’s memory pressing down on me. “I want to know why.”

His lips purse as if considering my words. “Why your father had to die?” He sighs. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your father wasn’t the hero you think he was.”

Anger flares inside me, burning hot and uncontrollable. “Don’t.”

He smiles. “He was an obstacle. Just like you. Just like Rush and his Rangers. He thought he could play in a world he didn’t belong to, and it got him killed. You should be grateful I gave him a quick death. He literally never knew what hit him.”

I don’t realize I’ve moved until I’m right in front of him, my gun pressed to his chest.

“It may have been quick.” My voice is shaking with rage. “But it had to have been terrifying.”

My finger tightens on the trigger.

“Cassidy, don’t.”

Rush’s voice slices through the haze of my rage. I don’t look away from Hollister, but I feel Rush’s presence—solid, unyielding, just behind me. He won’t stop me. But he needs me to choose this.

Hollister’s smirk widens. “Go on, then. Kill me.”

He’s betting I won’t. That I can’t. He’s wrong. But before I can pull the trigger, I see it—something in his expression. The certainty. And suddenly, I know.

I adjust my aim, pulling the trigger.

The shot explodes through the night.

Hollister screams, dropping to his knees, his hand flying to his shoulder where the bullet tore through muscle.

Rush moves in an instant, his gun raised, his boot slamming into Hollister’s chest, knocking him flat. I turn to Rush, my chest heaving.

Hollister is bleeding. Writhing. Cursing my name.

It should feel like victory.

But it’s not over… not yet.

Rush presses his boot against Hollister’s chest and aims his gun at his head, but Hollister isn’t scared. No, he’s smiling. Blood drips from the wound in his shoulder, his expensive suit soaked through with it, but his eyes—sharp, cold—gleam with something dangerous.

Something is wrong.

A prickle of unease crawls up my spine.

Rush feels it too. His tight body, every muscle coiled, as if ready to strike. “What the hell are you smiling at?”

Hollister chuckles, lips curling despite the agony written across his face. “Oh, Rushton.” He coughs, spitting blood onto the dirt. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

Rush presses down harder with his boot, and Hollister groans. “Enlighten me.”

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