Page 17 of Ranger's Honor
I encrypt the file, label it something harmless, and bury it three folders deep—far enough that he won’t find it unless he’s deliberately looking. And if he’s looking, we’ve got a much bigger problem.
Outside, his truck engine turns over. The low rumble crawls under my skin, vibrating through the walls and up from the foundation—a phantom echo that shouldn’t reach me this deep in the house, but somehow does. Like a warning, I feel in my bones.
I hover near the window, palm on the glass like I can stop him by willing it. I can’t. But I also know I’m not unprotected. Before he left, Dalton checked every lock, armed the perimeter alarms, and pressed a spare mag into my hand. His fingerslingered just long enough for me to feel the weight of it, solid and cold, before I slipped it into my pocket.
“Stay sharp,” he’d said quietly, eyes locking on mine like he was memorizing the way I looked in that moment. “You’re safe here. But if anyone tries the door, you make sure they regret it.”
The mag and the gun are still there now, heavy against my thigh—a silent reminder of what he expects me to do if anyone gets too close.
So I stand there and watch him drive off into something I can’t see, can’t control—and maybe can’t come back from. The low rumble fades, but the pulse of it still runs through the floorboards. I close the laptop, my heartbeat a little too fast.
I tell myself it’s the caffeine. Or the cold air. Or the fact that I’m hiding something from a man willing to put himself between me and whatever fresh hell I just uncovered.
But deep down, I know better. Whatever Sookie found didn’t just get her killed—it left a trail wide enough for someone else to follow. And I’ve just picked up the scent.
CHAPTER 6
DALTON
The warehouse looks abandoned—at least on paper. The gravel lot out front is pitted and uneven, and the faded signage above the corrugated metal doors reads Seawall Seafood Distribution like it's still doing brisk business in Gulf shrimp and blue crab. But the moment I step out of my truck, I know better.
The air smells wrong. Not fish or brine—metallic, damp, stale. It hits the back of my throat like rusted iron and the memory of old blood, and for a split second, I’m not in Galveston anymore—I’m back in Kandahar, stepping into a weapons cache that had been used one too many times.
That same cold crawl dances up my spine, and I scan the shadows before I even realize I’ve moved. Something about this place triggers instinct and memory in equal measure. It hits the back of my throat like rusted iron and old secrets. My shoulders tense before I realize it, instincts twitching with the same unease I used to feel clearing buildings in Kandahar—places where every shadow held the threat of a pressure plate or a hidden shooter.
The echo of sand and sweat, of radio static and held breath, is so vivid it claws at the back of my throat. It felt like walking intoan ambush overseas. This isn’t just a warehouse. It’s a trap laid in silence and shadow. Like something festering just beneath the surface.
I circle wide, boots silent over packed dirt and broken shells, eyes sweeping every corner. Kari was right. The backend metadata traced here, and now I’m staring down a known smuggling front that was supposedly cleared months ago.
The dust near the door’s edge has been disturbed. Faint boot prints, recent. Size twelve, deep tread. I crouch, run my fingers across the edge.
Still fresh.
Inside, it’s dim. I don't bother with the lights—anyone smart enough to use this place knows better than to announce themselves with a flick of a switch. Instead, I pull out my tactical flashlight and let the narrow beam slice through the shadows, sweeping the corners for movement or signs of life. Stacks of empty crates line the walls. A desk sits near the loading dock, old coffee cup still stained on the rim. Whoever was here didn’t expect company—or they left in a hurry.
I move deeper into the space, pulse ticking louder with each step. There—near the back. Scuff marks streak across the dust-caked concrete, like something—or someone—was dragged. My boots whisper against the floor as I follow the pattern, pulse hammering in my ears.
Something's off—not just the marks, but the silence itself. I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. Every instinct screams that I’m about to uncover more than just a hidden passage. Dread and adrenaline churn low in my gut, twisting tight, even before I reach the panel that doesn’t quite sit flush.
I press my hand to it. The metal gives with a soft click, revealing a narrow corridor behind it. The smell intensifies—burnt copper, cold grease, something older beneath. The hair on the back of my neck rises like it’s been yanked.
I draw my sidearm, barrel sweeping the shadows. Every step is deliberate, no creak and no stumble. This setup has teeth, the sharp press of a blade just beneath the skin, ready to cut. Cables run in tight bundles along the walls like the guts of a machine. Exit routes are clearly marked, movement lines taped out. This wasn’t slapped together by cartel foot soldiers; it’s a professional op. A ghost nest. And I’ve walked straight into it.
My boot brushes something metallic. I kneel and pick it up—a shell casing. 9mm, recent discharge. I lift it to my nose. Still carries the faint scent of burnt powder. Fresh within the last day.
And then I see it.
A sigil—burned into the plywood wall at eye level. Jagged and crude, but unmistakable. The sight of it stops me cold. My stomach knots, and the air around me seems to tighten, heavy with memory and dread. The symbol stares back like an old scar—one I’ve seen carved into bodies, etched in blood, painted across walls after massacres. Rage boils low in my gut, but under it, something colder slithers up my spine. Not fear. Anticipation. This isn’t just a message—it’s a challenge. And it’s personal. The Reaper’s calling card. Three slashes through a broken ring.
My gut clenches. That symbol’s haunted every black op and intel report tied to the worst of the cartel's freelance assets. It’s more than just a threat—it’s a signature, a promise of pain. My pulse spikes, heart thudding in a steady war drum rhythm, sweat prickling at the base of my neck as the air thickens like it's watching. I grit my teeth, tamping down the surge of rage curling in my chest like barbed wire. He was here. Close. Watching, maybe. And he left this behind like a sick joke.
I straighten slowly, shoulders tense, breathing through the scent of burnt wood and stale malice that still clings to the wall. It shouldn’t affect me this much—but it does. Because if the Reaper's involved, Kari’s already deeper in this than she realizes. The bastard’s been here.
Before I can process it, a flicker of motion glimmers in the periphery—sharp and fast, boot scrape against concrete, air pressure changing like a warning whispered too late.
"You’re not supposed to be here, Ranger."
Three of them. No scent, no warning. Black clothing, tight formation. One with a knife, two with suppressed pistols. My instincts scream, but it’s already too late. I fire once—wing the one on the left, a hiss of pain and blood in the air—but the others surge forward like shadows with teeth.
