Page 37 of Ranger's Code

He wedges the crowbar under the lid and pries it open with a metallic groan. What spills out isn’t inventory or supplies—it’s evidence. Stacks of bank logs, wire transfer records, notarized land deeds. Each document practically glows with implication. The paper edges curl from time and secrecy. I step closer, my stomach flipping at the weight of what we’ve uncovered. This isn’t just shady business. This is infrastructure—an empire built on fraud, coercion, and blood money, mapped out across state lines in ink and cold precision.

I exhale hard, holding up the folder between us. My voice, though quiet, cuts through the tension like a wire pulled tight. “This isn’t just a breadcrumb trail, Gideon—this is a blueprint. Land grabs, forged invoices, shell companies strung together like pearls on a noose. It’s not just evidence. It’s a kill shot. We could bury the Grangers with this.”

He nods, but his gaze lingers on the crates with a frown that pulls tight at the edges of his mouth. His eyes flick back to the exit, as if expecting ghosts to claw through it. Years and secrets burden him like sandbags, and despite his silence, I see his unconvinced expression regarding the plan’s efficacy and propriety. Not yet.

“We need to go public,” I say, voice firm. “Leak it to the press. Law enforcement. Someone outside our circle. If we hold this, we become the weak point.”

Gideon closes the lid with more force than necessary. “First, there is no ‘our circle;’ second, the Rangers are ‘law enforcement;’ third, I want to take down the lot of them, not just the ones we could snare with this information; and last, but certainly not least, I don’t want you exposed. If the Grangers know you’re part of this, they won’t just retaliate. They’ll make an example of you.”

I step in close, hands on his chest. “You can’t protect me by keeping me hidden. Not anymore. You said it yourself, I’m in their way. Intimidation and sabotage haven’t worked, so they’ll up the ante. Besides, you bit me, remember? I’m in this. With you.”

His jaw works, eyes dark with conflict. But after a beat, he nods. “Fine. We leak enough to stir the fire—not enough to blow the lid. And we leave a trail. Something Chas can follow.”

“Like bait?”

“Exactly.”

* * *

The trap is set by midnight. It’s as if the air all around us is holding its breath.

I crouch in the steel rafters of the warehouse, tucked between two girders, my pulse a steady roar in my ears. The metal beneath my feet is the kind of surface that makes me hyperaware of every movement. Far below, the bait document—an artfully forged purchase ledger peppered with just enough truth to tempt a greedy bastard—rests atop an open crate like low-hanging fruit. The whole warehouse shimmers in moonlight, filtered through dirt-streaked skylights, casting everything in a faint silver glow. The stillness isn’t peaceful—it’s taut, like breath held too long. It doesn’t feel like anticipation. It feels like provocation.

Gideon crouches in the shadows with Dalton and Gage, their forms nearly invisible in the warehouse gloom. With coiled muscles, measured breaths, and scanning eyes, they wait in the darkness for the signal to strike. No transformation tonight. No fur, no claws. This isn’t a battle for dominance. It’s a takedown—quiet, efficient, surgical. The kind of operation that relies on skill and strategy, not brute force or supernatural advantage. Still, the energy between them is feral, a low thrum of violence held on a razor’s edge.

Then—headlights. A van barrels around the corner and screeches to a halt outside the loading bay. The doors fly open, and six men jump out, armed and fast-moving, every one of them dressed in tactical black like they’re auditioning for a bad heist film. But it’s the figure at the front who stops me cold.

Chas.

Leaner than I remember. Meaner, too. Gone is the cocky swagger he wore like cologne back when he was just another poor decision. Now, he moves with lethal precision, barking orders like a man who believes in his authority. His hand sweeps out, directing two of the mercenaries forward. They run with military discipline, crouching low as they dash toward the crates—one of them carrying what looks like a pack of C-4.

They’re here to erase every trace—to torch the evidence, rewrite the narrative, and silence the truth before it can roar into the light. The Grangers haven’t come to steal or intimidate this time. They’ve come to end it. Permanently.

I tighten my grip on the pipe beside me, heart slamming against my ribs like a war drum. The cold metal grounds me, anchors me in the storm of adrenaline and fury that surges through my veins. This is the line in the sand. Not just for Gideon, Dalton, or Gage—but for me. Others have underestimated, overlooked, and forced me to swallow my rage countless times. I’m not here as bait; I’m here to help end this. And the moment my eyes lock on Chas, every muscle in my body coils like a spring pulled tight. This is it. My reckoning. My war.

Below, Gideon gives a silent hand signal. Dalton peels left. Gage takes the far flank, and then... all hell breaks loose.

Steel clashes against concrete. The sharp clang of metal meets the raw thud of bodies as the warehouse erupts into chaos. Gage lunges first, a blur of motion, slamming into the nearest merc with a punishing shoulder tackle that knocks the man clean off his feet. The merc hits the ground with a groan, limbs scrambling for traction before Gage’s elbow puts him down for good.

Dalton flows in from the left—fast, surgical. He ducks low, spins, and cuts the legs out from under an attacker with a sweeping kick that sends the man airborne for a heartbeat before crashing down hard. Without hesitation, Dalton follows through, slamming a knee into the man’s chest with a thud that rattles nearby crates. No wasted motion. Just brutal precision—the kind that comes from years of doing this exact thing and always walking away.

And Gideon—Gideon is ferocity in motion. He fights like the storm he carries inside him, a brutal cadence of fists and footwork, each movement honed and relentless. His strikes are silent declarations of fury, and his blocks, instinctual ripostes sharpened by years of violence. One merc takes a straight punch that cracks bone and sends him sprawling; another flies back from a ruthless kick, his breath knocked out in a strangled grunt. Gideon doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t blink. His eyes are flat with lethal purpose, his face unreadable. Power radiates from him with every impact, and with each takedown, the balance of the fight bends in our favor—like even the shadows know who the predator is.

Chas doesn’t flinch. He strides toward the crates, his gaze narrowing as he spots the forged document lying atop the open ledger. A slow grin spreads across his face, feral and mean. “Idiots left a treasure map,” he mutters, the words laced with disdain, his fingers twitching like he can already feel the cash.

He crouches, reaching for the ledger without a second thought, so focused he doesn’t notice the hush sweeping across the warehouse like a held breath. The air thickens, electric with warning, each molecule tinged with a hush that prickles against Chas’ skin. It’s not just quiet—it’s expectant, alive with the kind of silence that precedes something irreversible. Like the building itself knows what’s about to happen before he does.

I ease my stance, adjusting my position for a better view—and the old beam beneath me groans in protest. Chas’ head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he locks onto the source of the sound.

“Well, well,” he sneers. “It seems the little baker girl grew teeth.”

He pulls a knife and pivots toward Gage, who’s just gone down hard against a steel beam. I don’t think. I launch myself off the rafter, muscles coiling and releasing all in one instinctive surge. My landing isn’t elegant—I hit hard, knees jarring—but it’s enough. I slam into Chas, the bone of my elbow catching his jaw with a sickening crack. He reels back, dazed, and I don’t let up. A savage knee to his ribs, the thud of impact vibrating up my spine, then my fist to his throat—quick, brutal, unrelenting.

He stumbles, choking, and still I come at him. No claws. No fangs. Just the fury of a woman who’s borne the weight of too many secrets and refuses to break. My strikes are fast, deliberate—rage with a purpose. This isn’t wild instinct; this is a kind of power that has been earned, sharpened by loss and forged in survival. My fury isn’t borrowed from the wolf—it’s my own. Blazing. Controlled. Final.

He lunges, catches my arm, and twists—but I plant my feet, yank free with a sharp grunt, pivot on my heel, and drive his head hard against the steel beam. The crack of impact echoes through the rafters. His knees buckle, eyes roll back as he crumples to the ground, unconscious, before he hits the floor.

Silence reigns.

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