Page 53 of Ranger's Honor
Dalton stops short, his body instinctively moving in front of mine, protective. Rush follows close behind and narrows his eyes. "That look better not mean what I think it means."
"Define 'better,'" Gage says without looking up.
Gideon raises an eyebrow. "You’re not usually this dramatic unless someone’s bleeding—or something’s detonating."
"Give him a second," Deacon mutters. "He’s about to ruin our night. I can feel it."
I step up beside Dalton, heart picking up pace. "Gage. What is it?"
Only then does Gage lift his eyes and hold out the tablet.
"We’ve got a problem," he says.
The room stills.
He holds up the screen.
An encrypted message pulses on the feed.
Reaper eliminated. Operations continue. New directive authorized.
Dalton’s jaw ticks. Rush crosses his arms. Gideon mutters a curse under his breath.
Deacon’s eyes narrow. "We barely buried the body."
"They don’t care," Gage says. "They’ve already got another one in place."
Dalton looks at me. "Then we find him."
Rush steps forward, jaw like granite. "Looks like the Reaper was never the end. Just the blade. This guy... he’s the hand that wields it."
Gideon exhales through his nose, muttering another curse. "Son of a bitch."
Deacon cracks his knuckles. "Then we end it."
The room holds its breath as the message dissolves, leaving only a blank screen. Whoever it is the Reaper answers to, he's already waiting.
Aruba
The ocean breeze is soft against my skin, warm and lazy as it drifts over the white sand and candlelit balconies of the private island resort. Beneath the gentle salt tang, I catch the faint sweetness of tropical blooms, carried on the rhythmic hush of waves against the shore and the distant laughter of lingering guests.
It’s the kind of night you could fall in love with—serene, romantic, the sort of beauty that makes you forget the rest ofthe world exists. My shoulders loosen, a slow exhale leaving my chest. I kick off my heels, the straps whispering against my skin as I sling them over my shoulder. Cool sand dusts my toes. A quiet laugh slips out as I watch the last of my friends weave toward their bungalows, wine-drunk and riding the high from the engagement party.
Old habits kick in. I check the maid of honor—water bottle in hand. The bride-to-be—phone plugged in and charging. A quick scan of the group confirms no one’s about to text their ex. Satisfied, I turn toward my villa tucked deeper into the lush landscaping, half-hidden from the main path.
That’s when the breeze dies.
It’s subtle, but my body notices before my mind does. The air feels heavy, weighted. The tiny hairs along my forearms lift.
Then the scent hits me. Sharp. Acrid. Chemical. My throat tightens on instinct, and my stomach pulls in tight, like it’s trying to make itself smaller.
Male voices filter in from the service road behind the resort—low, tense, clipped. The kind of tone that coils in your gut and whispers wrong.
I know I should walk away. I even take a step in that direction. But curiosity—or maybe something darker—hooks into me. My pulse is louder now, pushing blood against my ears. I veer toward the sound, keeping my steps quiet, and slip behind a hedge. My knees bend instinctively, body lowering as I peer through a break in the foliage.
Three men stand in a tight triangle. One’s wearing the uniform of local law enforcement, his shoulders rigid, palms lifted in a pacifying gesture. The other two are wrong from head to toe—civilian clothes, hard edges, eyes that don’t care who’s watching. One grips a case. The other’s holding a gun.
Heat prickles along the back of my neck. My breath shortens, shallow.
