Page 8 of Ranger's Justice

This was supposed to be simple. Instead, I’m about to die in a goddamn border-town warehouse with a bunch of cartel assholes, and Hollister will still be living, breathing and getting away with it.

Footsteps thunder toward me. I whip my head up just in time to see a man lunging at me. Rage blurs his face as he raises his gun. A shot rings out—not from my gun because I don’t have a gun. I can handle a hunting rifle well enough, but I don’t own a handgun. For a fraction of a second, the man’s face registers shock and then he drops.

I twist toward the sound, and freeze.

The most gorgeous, muscular man—the kind that grace the covers of romance novels—stands in the middle of the goddamn chaos, his rifle still raised, his face carved from stone. His blacktactical gear is a stark contrast to the dust and grime around him, the Texas Ranger star glinting faintly in the dim light.

He looks like a goddamn nightmare. His gaze locks onto me, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Another cartel gunman swings toward him. The Ranger doesn’t hesitate. One clean shot. The man drops without a sound.

I try not to be impressed but fail spectacularly.

The Ranger moves toward me with lethal precision, gunfire still erupting around us. I scramble back, but it doesn’t matter. He’s faster.

His fingers close around my wrist, yanking me up like I weigh nothing.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low, furious.

“Excuse me?” I yank my arm back, but his grip doesn’t budge. “Why are you mad at me? I’m just an innocent bystander.”

His eyes darken. “That’s not how it looks, Ms. Marlow,” he snorts.

How the hell does he know my name? I glare up at him, trying not to notice the way he’s pressed against me, all heat and dominance.

“Let me go, Ranger.”

His grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make a point.

“You think I’m letting you run straight into another gunfight?” His voice vibrates with something dangerous. “Not happening.”

Another bullet whizzes past, slamming into the crate beside us.

The Ranger curses under his breath, then moves fast, yanking me hard against him as he spins. For a split second, I’mfully pressed against him, his body a wall of pure strength and power. Then he shoves me behind what passes for cover.

“You stay put,” he growls. “For once in your life, do as you’re told.”

“How do you know anything about me?” I hiss.

“Later,” he snarls.

Oh, I hate him. Hate the control in his voice. Hate the fact that he’s right. But most of all? I hate that, despite everything, my pulse isn’t racing from fear. It’s racing because of him.

The warehouse is a battlefield of gunfire and smoke, but all I see is him. The Ranger stands in the middle of the chaos like he owns it. As if someone created it just for him. His dark eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the mayhem like a blade. The air between us snaps taut.

I should run, but I don’t.

Because for all the bullets flying and cartel men dropping like dominos, the most dangerous thing in this goddamn warehouse is the man standing next to me, glaring at me like I just made his shit list. I barely register the sound of the gunfire. His presence eclipses everything else.

His rifle is slung against his chest, his black tactical gear smeared with dirt and blood. His expression is like carved stone, unreadable—except for the fact that I know, without a doubt, that he’s pissed as hell.

My pulse pounds as he moves in. I lift my chin. “Fancy meeting you here, Ranger.”

His jaw tightens. “You’ve got about ten seconds to tell me why the hell you’re in the middle of a cartel shootout before I throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here.”

Oh, hell no. I plant my feet. “You’re not throwing me anywhere.”

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