Page 51 of Ranger's Oath
I crouch low, ears pinned tight, vision shimmering with firelight. Smoke rolls in thick, choking and hot, stinging my throat and eyes, but I stay rooted. Whoever set this blast is still out there, watching for weakness. They want panic, want us scattered, want me off balance. They’ll get nothing but my teeth.
The night is far from over, and the true strike still waits in the dark, coiled and ready to fall. This was only the opening move.
CHAPTER 20
GAGE
The explosion slams through me, rattling my bones and shaking the ground beneath my boots. Fire roars skyward, lighting up the port like a flare meant to call every enemy within miles. Smoke churns thick and acrid, stinging my eyes even behind the visor.
Through it I catch the sound of Sadie’s growl tearing across the comms, raw and feral and alive. She’s close. Too damn close.
My pulse kicks hard, hammering in my throat as I squeeze off the last rounds in my magazine, cutting down a contractor scrambling for higher ground before he can find a clean shot at her.
“Rush, left flank! Gideon, get me eyes on the ridge!” My voice cuts through the static.
The Rangers snap into rhythm, gunfire rattling in precise bursts that cut through the storm. Deacon’s curses ring over the comms, rough and relentless, followed by Cassidy’s bark—feral, furious, and protective as Sadie holds the ground tight by the truck, a pair of wolves refusing to give an inch even as bullets chew the night around them.
I break cover and push forward, boots pounding across the cracked asphalt. My sight locks on the evidence truck whereSadie crouches low, her silver fur reflecting the firelight like molten steel. She’s guarding it with every ounce of fight in her body, ears pinned, muzzle slick from the last bastard who thought he could take her. My chest tightens at the sight, equal parts fury and pride.
Another shooter rises from behind a stack of containers, rifle trained on her. I don’t think—I move. My rifle bucks against my shoulder, and the man drops with a spray of sparks from the crate behind him. Sadie’s head snaps toward me, those eyes catching mine for a split second in the chaos. She doesn’t need words. She knows I’m here.
“Cover her,” I snarl, sliding into place at her flank. The fire eats at the panel of the truck, heat radiating hard enough to burn exposed skin. I sling my rifle, yank the vent lever with gloved hands, and wedge the doors open. Smoke gushes out in a violent rush, the wind dispersing the flames before they can swallow the cargo.
Sadie’s growl eases into something softer, almost relief, a sound that rumbles low before fading. She presses close, her fur brushing against my leg, grounding me in the chaos. For an instant the gunfire, smoke, and fire fall away, and it feels like the world narrows to just her and the bond between us. I almost forget we’re still in the middle of hell.
With the blaze contained, we pivot fast. Rush’s commands snap across the comms, coordinating sweeps. Gideon calls out bodies fleeing the far docks. Deacon cuffs two dazed contractors who made the mistake of surrendering too close to Cassidy. She prowls tight circles around them, teeth bared in a way that makes the men’s faces drain of color. I almost let her finish the job, but Sadie trots between them, her growl sharp, her will steady. She’s not porcelain—she’s fire.
We sweep the cargo hold. Ledger books stacked in waterproof crates. Hard drives sealed in foam cases. Everythingthey tried to hide sits waiting for us. I signal Rush. “We’ve got the proof.”
“Transmit it.” His voice is tight, controlled. The weight of what we’re holding isn’t lost on any of us.
I kneel by the truck’s uplink port, sliding a drive into place. The device hums as it locks in, and a steady stream of files begins to dump in quick succession. Red lights blink and change to green one after another, each confirmation a jolt of relief as the evidence flows into the network.
Rush’s confirmation comes over the comms. “Governor’s office has it. Council delegate too. No way they can bury this.”
The liaison arrives in a crisp suit that looks out of place in the chaos. She carries a slim tablet and a polite dossier. Her greeting is all protocol and no warmth.
“Office of Regional Adjudication, Liaison Marie Halvorsen,” she says, voice even. “We were alerted to an unregistered change of status originating from Aruba. We need a controlled interview to determine whether administrative sanctions are appropriate.”
Rush stands and inclines his head. “You are welcome to an interview on our terms. It will be overseen, logged and recorded. No surprises. We will protect the subject’s safety and the integrity of the process.”
Gage adds, steady as stone, “We will be present. You will not remove anyone without a signed order from a superior on record and a legal observer present. If this is about procedure, we will comply. If this is an attempt to scrub evidence, we will not.”
Halvorsen’s eyes flick to Sadie, then back to Rush. “This is an adjudicative process, not a criminal one. But if unapproved medical or transformative procedures are confirmed, regional oversight will have recommendations. That can include sanctions, restrictions and mandatory monitoring.”
The liaison’s last sentence lands on the room like a verdict in embryo. It is the first time the turn feels less like a privatewound and more like a public responsibility. The stakes widen. The choice we made will not be a secret forever.
Sadie pads close, her fur brushing my arm in a steady pass. Her eyes lock on mine, calm and fierce, the kind of gaze that cuts through smoke and chaos. The hum of her trust runs hot down the bond, anchoring me in the storm and reminding me what I’m fighting to protect.
The aftermath rolls fast once the evidence goes live. Screens flare with feeds we hacked from the port’s own cameras, showing contractors opening fire, shipments offloaded, faces caught in the glare.
It happens in stages, each move deliberate and visible. At dawn, secured packets drop onto multiple feeds—governor’s office, federal prosecutors, even one routed through a consortium of investigative journalists. Subpoenas follow, crisp and merciless, locking accounts and freezing assets before money can vanish offshore.
By midday, arrests cascade: a CEO walked out of his glass tower in cuffs, a contractor led from a gated compound while neighbors film on their phones, a regional board member blinking against flashbulbs as warrants strip the smirk off his face. Each arrest is a nail driven into the coffin they thought untouchable.
But power doesn’t fold quietly. A fixer tied to Senator Grayson tries to quash one warrant before it can be served, leaning on an old judge with promises of reelection funds. Team W moves faster, sliding evidence through back channels and onto the docket of a federal circuit that can’t be bought. Bythe time the fixer realizes, the order is signed, the raid already underway. The message is clear: no shield holds.
The men exhale hard, chests heaving, but it isn’t celebration. Not yet. The air still feels charged, the kind that prickles across skin before a storm breaks. We know better than to relax. Every takedown slices one head from the hydra, and something darker lurks just beyond the firelight, waiting for its turn to strike.
