Page 36 of Ranger's Code

I brush a curl from her temple, fingers trailing down to her neck where the mark pulses steady and sure.

“I didn’t fall for the wolf,” I whisper against her skin. “I fell for the fire.”

My phone buzzes.

Gage: Kari is safe. Two targets confirmed. You and M take the east dock. Dalton will meet you at the pier at midnight.

I stand, already moving, already switching gears. I leave her a note, but she’s already awake by the time I grab my gear.

“We going hunting?” she asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

I hesitate. “I was going to let you sleep.”

She stands, crosses the room, and starts tugging on her clothes with a glare that dares me to argue. “Oh yeah, because that’ll go well. Lock me in a tower and I’ll just burn the place down. Or pick the lock. Or bribe Dalton with baked goods until he lets me out. Either way, I’m not staying behind.”

She has a point.

We move through the shadows together, just the two of us. I lead the way, with Maggie close behind. We walk silently in the sand along the dock’s edge, scenting the wind as we do.

“Anything?” I ask.

She inhales slowly. “Sweet. Rust. Blood. And… mildew?”

I grin. “Old fishing trawler two slips over. But that blood scent? That’s real.”

We creep closer, following the scent trail until it leads us straight to the rusted door of a shipping container. Maggie presses a hand to the metal, then nods.

“Someone was here recently.”

I look at her, pride flaring in my chest. “You nailed it.”

She grins. “Told you I’m a quick study.”

I step close, voice dropping. “You’re more than that, Cupcake. You’re dangerous.”

She turns her head, meeting my gaze dead-on. “Then maybe you better quit calling me Cupcake.”

“Never happen.”

CHAPTER17

MAGGIE

The warehouse reeks of salt, rust, and old betrayal—like the air itself remembers every secret whispered between its decaying walls. The scent wraps around my senses the moment I step inside, dragging feelings and instincts to the surface in equal measure. It’s not just the tang of sea and metal—it’s something deeper, more corrupted, like the rot of long-buried lies finally exhaling into the open.

I step over a coil of rope near the entry, my flashlight casting long, wavering beams across the floor as I follow Gideon deeper into the warehouse’s guts. The corrugated metal walls moan with each gust of wind, like the place itself is bracing for what’s coming. Gideon moves with coiled grace—silent, watchful, lethal. There’s a weight to him tonight, a sense of focused violence barely leashed. But I don’t flinch. I’m not just a witness to his world. I’m part of it—fang or no fang, claws or not. I won’t be left behind.

“Back corner,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a vibration in the heavy air, chin tilting toward a shadowed recess where dust floats in slats of moonlight like suspended ash.

I follow the scent trail with a certainty that startles even me. Every breath brings a fresh wave of sensory clarity—the tang of rusted metal, the old motor oil seeping into concrete, even the faint trace of something chemical beneath the dust. The world around me vibrates at a different frequency now. My eyes lock on the trail as it curves behind a stack of shipping pallets, the air humming with the copper-bright buzz of purpose. A stained blue tarp sags over a pile of crates, its hem fluttering faintly in the breeze like it’s breathing. I don’t hesitate. Jaw set, I grab the tarp and peel it back in one swift movement. Gideon is beside me in an instant, and together we pry open the top crate, the crowbar groaning against the nails as secrets wait in the dark beneath the lid.

What we find looks mundane at first: boxes labeled as restaurant inventory—flour, sugar, yeast. But my senses, sharpened and strange, catch something wrong. Leaning in with slightly flared nostrils, I discover someone has tampered with the bags. Not torn—sliced. Too neat, too clean. Each one resealed with tape as if no one would ever look closer. I reach in, pushing aside the top layer of decoy goods. My hand brushes something stiffer, papery. Beneath the baking supplies lies a row of manila envelopes, the edges worn and labeled in block script. They’re not just hidden—they’re buried like a secret someone’s trying very hard to forget.

Gideon pulls one free, flips it open, and lets out a low whistle. “Shipping manifests,” he mutters. “Dozens of them. Nothing with the Granger name, but the LLCs match what Deacon flagged in the shell company sweep. They’ve been laundering everything through fake restaurant orders—dry goods, perishables, even fake invoice trails.” He passes one to me. “See the delivery addresses? Most of them are closed businesses. Half the others are fronts. This is how they’ve been moving product and money unnoticed for years.”

I lean in, fingers trailing over the meticulous, too-perfect rows of deliveries. “Food routes,” I murmur. “Smart. Quiet. Nobody questions a bakery truck or a produce shipment—especially not here, where half the traffic smells like shrimp and diesel.” My gaze flicks to Gideon, sharp and knowing. “They used the smell of normal to hide rot. It’s almost elegant in a disgusting way.”

“Come here,” he says, beckoning me to the next crate like he already knows what’s inside.

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