Page 25 of Ranger's Code

I kiss the tip of her nose. “Exactly.”

She pushes me away and scoffs, pacing. “Great. I just love that for me. So now I’m bait? Is that it?”

“You’re not bait,” I say evenly. “You’re a variable in a hostile op. You think Chas is working alone? The Grangers don’t hire small-time screwups unless they serve a bigger purpose. And you... your shop... it’s not random.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

The bell over the alley door jingles, a brittle sound against the tension laced thickly through the kitchen. My head snaps toward the sound. An unscheduled delivery. I reach behind my back, fingers brushing the edge of my concealed weapon out of habit, and nod once toward Maggie without speaking.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask. Just moves to the far side of the counter and stands ready—calm, focused, sharper than ever. She isn’t brittle. She stands braced.

Dalton steps in from the front of the shop, eyes already scanning. We exchange a look—one of those wordless, tactical flashes Team W has honed to muscle memory.

The door at the back of the kitchen, the alley entrance used for deliveries and back exits, opens. A vulnerability I’ve begun to mentally clock whenever I hear it.

I move through the kitchen and into the rear delivery area, my stance locking into something still, dominant, unshakable. The man standing just inside the open back door clutches a clipboard and a crate—but it isn’t just the unfamiliar face that raises every internal alarm I have. It’s the way his eyes flit too fast around the space, the way his fingers grip the crate like it’s a lifeline. Wrong. Shifty. Not the same guy as yesterday—and nowhere near confident enough to be legitimate.

“You’re late,” I say flatly.

The man freezes, eyes wide and wild. Then, without another word, he bolts—crate thudding to the floor as he shoves through the alley door and sprints down the back lot, feet scrambling for traction.

“Really?” I mutter.

I don’t hesitate. Don’t need to shift into my wolf form. The man inside me is more than enough. I charge after him, boots pounding the pavement, the sound a drumbeat of inevitability. The runner zigzags toward the street, but I’m faster. Smarter. Trained.

He’s fast. Sloppy. Feet pounding pavement, breath ragged. But I’ve trained for worse terrain. I sprint past a stack of rusted bins, closing the gap with unrelenting speed, and intercept him just behind a dumpster. Without breaking stride, I grab the collar of his jacket, spin him, and pin him hard against the brick wall with a forearm across his chest. The clipboard slips from his fingers, but I catch it mid-fall, my grip unyielding.

The guy’s voice cracks. "I—I was just paid to drop the crate!” he wheezes.

“For who?” I growl.

“I don't know. I picked it up from a warehouse near the marina. I know nothing else. I swear.”

My grip tightens. “Who paid you?”

“I don’t know names. They gave me a location. Warehouse. Marina district.”

“Address.”

“Pier thirty-seven. Old cannery building.”

The minute I divert my attention, the man bolts. I let him go. He has nothing more to tell us.

Dalton catches up, breath steady. “What’s at thirty-seven?”

My jaw tightens. "Pier thirty-seven. Old cannery. That’s all I got. “Let’s find out."

I tap my earpiece. “Gage, track the van in the alley and stay with Maggie.”

“Got it. Where are you and Dalton headed?”

“An old cannery near the marina.” I turn to Dalton. “Up for a little recon?”

Dalton grins. “Always.”

* * *

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