Page 39 of Ranger's Oath
Dalton’s voice comes in tight over the comm. “Not a standard reefer. Modified vents, internal baffling, hardline uplink soldered into the control pack.” He swears low. “Encrypted short burst radios piggybacked on the sprinkler controller. Firmware signature is bespoke. This is above Pier One’s pay grade.”
The word lands like a punch. My chest tightens. Whoever set this up had resources and a level of craft that costs more than the usual contractor fee.
My chest tightens. “That’s not cargo.”
Deacon swears low. “Living bodies.”
Before I can reply, a harsh beam of headlights cuts through the dark, washing the lot in white. Two black SUVs swing in hard, tires crunching over the gravel loud enough to echo off the stacked containers. Every Ranger freezes for half a beat, instincts flaring. Their arrival is wrong. It's too early, too aggressive. The schedule didn’t call for them for another hour, which means either someone changed the playbook or we’ve walked straight into one of theirs.
“Dalton, fall back.” My voice is ice. “Now.”
He bolts into motion, planting the final cam with practiced precision before vanishing into the steel labyrinth. For a heartbeat I track the blur of his movement, every muscle in me coiled to cover him, before the shadows swallow him whole.
I sweep the rooftops, every sense straining. Then a shape wavers against the skyline, faint as smoke, and a hard gleam winks back at me. A scope. Trained on my chest. My pulse kicks like a rifle recoil, the knowledge that one squeeze of a trigger could drop me right here tightening every muscle.
Adrenaline punches through my veins, hot and ruthless. Every instinct demands I spring, close the gap, and end the threat in a spray of violence. My muscles tighten for the strike, teeth grinding with the need to act. But I drag it down, lockingit behind discipline like a cage door. Professionalism over bloodlust. Always, no matter how much it burns.
“Rush,” I whisper. “We’re compromised. Pull us clean.”
The order comes instantly. “All units, exfil. Quietly.”
We ghost out, engines firing only once the distance cloaks us. The city swallows us whole, neon bleeding across wet pavement as we weave back through the dark streets. Inside the vehicles the silence presses like a weight, every Ranger locked in his own head replaying the images we pulled from that yard.
My own chest is tight, lungs aching as if I left part of myself back with that container. The thought of those figures penned in the cold gnaws at me, their blurred shapes imprinted on my scope like ghosts that refuse to fade.
Back at the ranch, dawn bleeds pale across the horizon. My body is still wired, jaw locked, muscles thrumming with leftover adrenaline. In the kitchen Sadie sits with a mug and her laptop, the glow washing her face. She looks up the instant I step in, eyes catching mine like she had been waiting all night.
“Well? Did you get your proof?”
I drop into the chair opposite, fixing her with a look. “You don’t get to ask that.”
“I don’t?” Her brows lift, sharp as a blade, daring me to deny her. “Let me get this straight. I’ve been shot at, kidnapped, and forced into a new life I didn’t choose, and now you’re telling me I don’t get to know who’s gunning for me? That’s adorable, Ranger. Try again.”
I plant my palms flat on the table, the wood groaning under the pressure. She’s not wrong, but the weight of what we saw tonight is too heavy to lay on her shoulders. “You need rest, not reports.”
She leans closer, smile laced with steel. “You keep telling me what I need. Funny how it never matches what I want.”
The heat between us spikes. My restraint thins with every second. I could reach across, drag her into my lap, and she’d fight me only to burn just as hot. Instead, I grind out, “Off the laptop. Now.”
Her laugh is low, dangerous. “You planning to toss me over your shoulder and carry me to bed, Ranger?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
"That might be fun," she quips.
Her eyes glitter, lips curving, and the kitchen shrinks around us until it feels like there’s no one else in the world. Dalton drops his pack on the counter, Deacon pulls off his gloves, but their movements barely graze my awareness.
Every nerve strains toward her, every thought tilts in her direction. The sight of her mouth softening into that taunt makes my pulse hammer low and insistent, a rhythm I can’t ignore. All I see is Sadie. All I want is Sadie, raw and close, heat breaking between us until I stop pretending I can resist her.
Rush clears his throat, pulling us back. “Briefing in the war room. Gage, now.”
The board glows with satellite feeds, light washing our faces in a cold, sterile glow. Dalton uploads the cam footage, the image slow to resolve, grainy but damning once it sharpens. Faint blurs shift within the refrigerated container, irregular patches of heat where there should be uniform cold. Not boxes. Not food. Human shapes, crowded and restless, trapped in steel.
My gut twists. Trafficking. Exactly what we feared.
Rush lays it out clean. “Pier One Logistics fronts for Falcon Shield. Ownership traces to Senator Briggs, retired. He’s been bankrolling security contracts on private islands across the Caribbean. Motive’s clear. Kill the witness, salvage the pipeline.”
Gideon taps the screen and adds, “Also the comms signature and firmware match a relay we confiscated on a different case tied to a government contractor. Too clean for a mid-tier crew.”
