Page 45 of Ranger's Honor
"Where are Sutton and Cassidy?"
Maggie’s face changes. Serious. "On the road. The Alpha of New Orleans offered sanctuary. They’re heading that way now."
My chest squeezes. "That far?"
"Rush wanted them out of reach. There were whispers someone’s tracking mate pairs. And Cassidy’s still not one hundred percent."
"And you?"
She folds her arms. "I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave Gideon. And I’m damn sure not leaving you."
Emotion crawls up my spine, thick and hot. I grip her hand. "Thank you."
Before she can reply, the rest of Team W files in, the atmosphere darkening as the stakes take over. Gage clicks a few keys, and the warehouse blueprint flashes onto the main screen—a grainy but detailed schematic of crisscrossing walkways, rust-stained loading bays, and a maze of storage units that look more like industrial coffins. A faint hum from the speakers buzzes under the image, like the building itself is exhaling.
Rush leans forward, eyes narrowing. Deacon crosses his arms beside him, his jaw clenched. Behind me, Dalton adjusts his stance, the scrape of his boots against the concrete cutting through the tense silence.
"That place looks like it was built for trouble," Maggie mutters, stepping up beside me. "Perfect for a trap. Or a grave."
The air in the room thickens as we stare at the screen, each of us seeing something different—danger, opportunity, an endgame finally within reach. For me, it lands like a slow surge of static threading through my nerves—part adrenaline, part dread. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I know there’s no turning back.
"We push the broadcast tonight," he says. "Signal goes out from the marina warehouse. Coordinates are clean, line-of-sightis tight, and we’ve got visual coverage on all four angles. The second they take the bait, we lock it down."
Rush nods. "This is a one-shot deal. Make it count."
Dalton lingers near the back of the room, arms crossed, silent but watching me like I’m already halfway gone. His eyes are locked on me—not with doubt, but something heavier and more protective. I feel it down to my toes, a heat that curls low in my belly and sharpens my focus.
The intensity of his stare doesn’t flinch, not even when the others shift around us, and for a breathless second, it’s like the whole room vanishes. I square my shoulders, but inside, part of me wavers under the weight of his gaze—both a promise and a warning. He’s braced to lose me. I’m braced not to let that happen. His eyes don’t move. His body’s still. But his wolf is pacing.
I meet his stare. Neither of us looks away.
I slide into the chair in front of Gage’s gear and start typing, fingers moving on muscle memory. Every line of code, every upload simulation, every contingency—I run through them all again, double-checking, triple-checking, chasing down the tiniest thread of doubt.
My fingers tremble on the keys, but I force precision. I focus on the cost of failure—Dalton's face, the implications of the files, the fallout if I miss something. My jaw locks. I blink hard, forcing away the image of lifeless eyes and the chill of merciless precision that’s haunted this entire case. A bead of sweat slips down my temple.
My pulse pounds. This isn’t just code—it’s a trigger, a weapon, a last shot at justice. My nerves are frayed, but my mind is clear. I have to be sharper than the fear.
Thunder rolls low in the distance, a slow, growling warning that rattles the warehouse walls and settles like a chill beneathmy skin. The storm isn’t just approaching—it’s watching, waiting, coiling itself into something ready to strike.
"Storm’s rolling in," Deacon mutters, peering out the window.
"Fitting," I say under my breath. I can feel it, too—the pressure drop, the prickle of something coming.
Dalton moves in behind me, close enough that his heat seeps into my back—steady, searing, like a brand waiting to claim. The contrast is sharp: his warmth against the cold storm air slipping through the building’s cracks. It sinks into my spine, chasing the chill from my bones, and for a moment, every other sound dulls beneath the pounding of my pulse. His nearness steals my breath, stirs a slow burn low in my belly, and I grip the desk to steady myself. The weight of his gaze pins me in place. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. I can feel the promise in his presence—that he’d break the world before he’d let it claim me.
But he also knows he can’t stop this. Not the trap, not the storm, and not me. That knowledge flickers in his eyes like a lightning flash—brief, brilliant, and laced with agony. His jaw tics, a pulse pounding at his temple, but he holds his ground. It’s killing him, letting me walk this edge alone, but he knows I have to. And I know he’ll be right behind me the second I fall.
I finish the broadcast trigger, my fingers slick with sweat as they hover over the final keystroke. The warehouse is silent except for the low hum of Gage’s tech. With a sharp breath, I press down, and the screen flickers. One keystroke, and the fake data packet surges out like a live wire, pinging the IPs we want watching. It feels like unleashing a bloodhound on a scent trail—there’s no calling it back now.
"It’s done," I say. My voice sounds foreign in my throat. Steady but thin. Like it took something from me.
Rush speaks into his comm. "Positions. Now."
Everyone scatters—boots slamming against the floor, jackets rustling, weapons being brought up into ready positions. The room explodes into motion like a single breath shattering into fragments, each piece hurtling toward its mark with lethal precision. A rush of cold air spills through the door as it swings open, carrying the scent of rain and ozone, jolting me fully into the now. The weight of what we’re about to face settles like iron in my gut—but there's no hesitation. Only momentum.
The warehouse is less than a mile from the coast. Old, partially condemned, built like a tomb of rust and sea-salted concrete. I crouch behind a shipping crate, pulse thundering, laptop wired into Gage’s secured uplink.
Rain needles sideways through the broken window slats, stinging against my exposed skin like shards of glass. The wind howls like something feral, slipping through every crack and seam, wrapping around my body with icy fingers. I shiver, not just from the cold, but from the volatile charge winding through my veins—the storm outside is nothing compared to the one building inside me. I bottle it, harness it, forcing the chaos to harden into focus. I need it sharp, not splintered.
