Page 26 of Ranger's Code

The warehouse reeks—mildew clinging to the rafters, salt crusting the corners of broken crates, secrets hanging in the air like fog that refuses to lift. Someone has strewn empty pallets across the concrete floor in haphazard piles, as if they left in a hurry. Near the back wall, a whiteboard leans at an angle, half-erased notes smudged beneath a tangle of red string and pushpins.

On it, a map of Galveston. Circled in red: Sea Salt & Sugar.

Dalton lets out a low whistle. “Well. That’s subtle.”

I rip the map down, my knuckles whitening around the edges. I don’t just see a target—I see a perimeter, a noose tightening. I roll the map tight, the paper crackling under the pressure of my grip. “They’re not just targeting her,” I say, voice low and sure. “They’re boxing her in. Surrounding her like she’s already marked.”

We make it back to the bakery by dusk. The front is quiet, the last of the day’s customers long gone. Maggie’s at one of the corner tables, a damp cloth in hand, methodically wiping away flour and crumbs. The low light catches on the sweep of her cheek, and she looks up as I step inside from the back kitchen, the roll of paper in my hand like a declaration.

Her eyes flick from my face to the object, reading the tension in my posture before a word even leaves my mouth. She straightens slowly, cloth forgotten, her gaze narrowing as I walk toward her with purpose written in every line of my frame.

I walk straight to the main counter where she stands, the weight of what I carry in my hand pressing like an iron brand into my palm. Without a word, I unfurl the map on the polished surface, the paper edges curling slightly as they adjust to the space. The markings speak louder than anything I could've said. I don’t soften the blow, don’t preface it with a warning. I let the evidence speak for itself. Let her see it—every red circle, every line drawn toward Sea Salt & Sugar like it’s a target painted with a sniper’s patience.

“You’re not just a target,” I say. “You’re the last domino.”

She stares at the map, lips parted. “Why? Why does any of this matter to them? The Rangers, I mean.”

I look at her—really look. “It matters because what started as surveillance for my little sister turned into a full-blown criminal op. The Grangers are manipulating property, coercing vendors, and laundering money through fake supply chains. And you?”

She swallows. “Me? But what did I do?”

“You stood up. You didn’t sell.”

“Somebody offered to buy me out; I said no. It happens all the time.”

“But you’re one of the last holdouts. You became the block. That makes you dangerous.”

She leans back, arms crossed. “And what? You care because Kari does?”

“I care because you matter. To her. To me.”

She holds my gaze, not blinking, as the weight of my words sinks in. Her expression isn’t afraid—it’s steady, calculating, full of things she hasn’t said yet. Her eyes scan my face like she’s mapping every line, every twitch, every truth I’m not voicing. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but firm.

“You mean that?”

I don’t flinch. “Every word.”

She nods once, slowly, then looks back at the map. “Now what?”

“Now, I burn down anyone who gets close.”

* * *

That night, the four of us gather in the loft, the air thick with a quiet intensity that never quite eases. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but pressure—like the city itself is holding its breath. Maggie sits cross-legged on the couch, her back resting against me and nursing a mug of something hot. Her eyes flick occasionally to the windows as if expecting the silence to break with a sound that hasn’t yet come.

Gage leans against the far wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp and distant. Dalton perches on the kitchen island, body coiled like a runner waiting for a starting gun. And I—I sit with Maggie leaning against me, one arm wrapped around her, my hand resting lightly on her waist, my body thrumming with restrained energy.

The light is low, the room too still, and none of us say it out loud, but we all feel it. Something is coming. And it’s close.

Then comes the howl.

Low and primal, it rises from beyond the loft windows—a sound that doesn’t belong to the streets or the surf or any part of the city Maggie has ever called home. It threads through the air like an ancient summons, not loud, but so distinct it sinks into the bones. Not the sound of a stray dog or distant coyote. This is deeper. Wilder. A voice pulled from the marrow of something old—too knowing, too deliberate.

The others freeze. The silence that follows isn’t hollow—it bristles with the aftershock of recognition.

Maggie straightens slowly, her heart already thudding, and turns toward me. My jaw is tight. My eyes hold an ethereal light she hasn’t seen before.

I stand instantly. Dalton and Gage are already reaching for their weapons.

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