Page 1 of Blade’s Edge (L.A.S.T. Defense #1)

Eight Months Ago

Jasper

The scent of stale coffee is about to do me in. That and Schaffer’s constant crunching. Who the fuck brings Cheetos on a stakeout? I’m gonna need to get my car detailed after this. Half the dashboard is covered in neon orange dust.

“He’s solid. How the hell do you think Urbanski and I made that bust last week? It was Carter’s intel that led us to that nightclub. He’s a goddamn sure thing.”

The radio squawks once, and Urbanski’s voice fills the car. “Got movement on the south side of the building. Three white males, one with a backpack.”

“Keep ‘em in your sights. We’re on our way.” I check my SIG while Schaffer crumples up the bag of Cheetos and shoves it under the seat. He pulls a fucking wet wipe out of the pocket of his blazer and tears it open. “Are you shitting me? Urbanski is on his own out there.”

“I’m faster than a duck on a June bug on my worst day,” he says with a cocky smile.

“Then get a move on.” I’m out of the car before he can make another smart-ass remark and halfway around the old warehouse in thirty seconds. Schaffer’s light footsteps follow quickly. Maybe he ain’t as slow as I feared.

Three loud pops sound from inside the building. I press myself to the wall, Schaffer at my side. “Dispatch, shots fired at 146thand Grand. Urbanski, Schaffer, and Blade on scene. Send backup!”

I motion for Schaffer to stick close. Where the fuck is Urbanski?

We hit the door on the south side together, Schaffer yanking it open while I check for hostiles.

Sweeping my gaze across the large space, I clock a handful of sleeping bags against one wall—along with a couple of shopping carts.

Squatters lookin’ for somewhere to stay warm.

Men and women huddle together while three guys hide behind a stack of pallets across the building, shooting at anything that moves.

From the east door, Urbanski fires back.

One of the asshole’s bullets hits something metal close to the squatters.

A man starts coughing, followed by another. “Gas!” one of them shouts.

“Get out! Move! Vienes por aquí. Corres!” I shout. Several shots ping off the concrete wall to my left. These idiots are going to get us all killed. “Hold your fire! You hit a fucking gas line! No dispares!”

“Fuck you!” a man shouts from the pallets before sending another dozen bullets my way.

Urbanski zig-zags through the warehouse, reaching the group huddled together against the wall in under ten seconds. “Go, go, go!” His voice turns hoarse. “Jas! The shutoff valve’s stuck!”

“Keep ‘em busy,” Schaffer hisses in my ear. “I’ll help Jonas.”

Busy? With what? The Texas Two-Step? If I keep shooting, I could bring the whole goddamn building down. Concrete flies off the wall and slices my cheek. “You assholes are gonna die if you don’t cut that shit out!”

One of them says something I can’t make out over all the coughing and crying coming from the opposite side of the warehouse. Schaffer, Urbanski, and the dozen or so squatters are almost clear.

“Fucking pig!”

A burst of gunfire echoes in the dimly lit space. My ears pop. Heat washes over me. The roar is so loud, I feel it in every cell of my body. Flames lick along the ceiling.

Fuck. I’m on my back, staring up at the support beams high above me. Another dozen sharp reports pierce through the dull hum in my ears—my hearing’s shot. Everything sounds like it’s under water.

Those jack-offs are still shootin’.

Rolling onto my side, I fire toward where I think they are. Again and again until I run out of bullets. One of them staggers out from behind the pallets and collapses.

“Jas!”

Urbanski. Fuck, he sounds bad. Or maybe that’s my busted eardrums. I try to get up, but my right leg won’t hold my weight. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. White hot and so deep, it cuts me in two.

I hit the ground. Bones crunch in my thigh. My palms are slick with blood. A couple of inches at a time, I lurch forward on my hands and knees. “Comin’. Hold…on!”

My vision’s hazy. Everything to my right is dark as fuck. I reach Urbanski’s side, as he starts coughing. A sharp piece of metal sticks out of his abdomen. Blood stains his lips. The side of his face is burned almost down to his cheekbone. “Did they…get out…?” he rasps.

I struggle to get close enough to hold his hand. He’s dead. He knows it. It’s in his eyes. The way the light’s fading. The blown pupils. And the heartache in his voice.

I strain to locate Schaffer. To find any evidence of the squatters. “They’re out. Stay with me, idiot. Backup is on the way.”

“Tell Louann…” He gurgles as he fights for another breath. “I…love…her and the…kids.”

I can’t feel my right leg anymore. Or my hip. Everything’s blurry as fuck, but I think I hear sirens in the distance. “Urbanski? Open your eyes, asshole. That’s…a goddamn…order!”

But his entire body relaxes, and I know. He’s gone.

Emi

The scent of antiseptic turns my stomach.

I didn’t want this story. I’ve only been back at work for three days.

My morning passed in a flurry of phone calls—my grandmother’s bank, the probate lawyer, the various charities she designated as beneficiaries of her trust. I’m drained, and it’s only noon.

Grief steals so much of my energy every day. Dealing with the minutiae of death. The last wishes of the woman who practically raised me. So many decisions I never knew I’d need to make. At least we had time to prepare. But it’s still exhausting.

Still, I’ll be damned if I let Danny Riscaldo scoop me. It’s his favorite game, and I’m sick of it. One more “Buck up, little lady, your time will come,” and I’m gonna make sure he has a permanent hitch in his giddy up.

At least Nelson—Channel 5’s news director—has my back.

“This could be big, Emmylou. Rumor has it, the fibbies were circling the warehouse after the explosion. Find out why. But do it quick before Danny works his contacts and freezes you out.”

Gritting my teeth, I stride down the hospital corridor like I’m not about to lose my lunch all over the dull, scuffed linoleum. What did the charge nurse say? Room 762? Or Room 726? Dammit. I should have asked him to write it down.

By the time I reach Room 762, the memories are hitting hard and fast. The EMTs dragging my big sister away from me.

Mama screaming at the doctors to do something.

All the blood. Everything going soft and quiet, despite half a dozen people working on me at once.

Dying. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Coming back…that was harder.

I press a hand to my stomach to quell a burst of nausea. Twenty years, and I still can’t smell antiseptic without panicking.

“Focus, Emi. You have a job to do.”

My little pep talk isn’t near enough. But I’m fixin’ to land the biggest story to come across my desk since I moved back to Austin.I can let the abyss of my memories swallow me tonight in the darkness of my apartment.

“Eyes on the prize. Network news or bust,” I whisper.

The riot inside my head settles to a dull roar. The scents of the hospital fade into the background. I can do this.

I angle a quick glance through the open door to Room 762.

Lieutenant Jasper Blade—the only Texas Ranger to survive an explosion at an empty warehouse two nights ago—lies in a narrow bed with his eyes closed.

His right leg is in traction, his arm in a sling held tight to his body.

The side of his face looks like an angry horse dragged him ten miles over rough road.

Shit. What if he’s still unconscious? The explosion was two days ago. I thought he’d be up to talking by now. But the Department of Public Safety hasn’t responded to any of my calls.

“Who the fuck are you?” a man drawls.

I jerk back and almost drop my tablet. Shit.

He could be Jasper’s twin. His hair is darker, his face a little thinner, but they’re otherwise almost identical.

Stubble shadows his jaw, and as he pushes to his feet, the fluorescent lights glare off the shiny badge clipped to the double belts the Rangers so often wear.

“I’m Emmylou Marsh from Channel 5 news.”

“Get out. My brother doesn’t have a damn thing to say to you.”

“This is a developing story. Rumor has it, the Marquez gang lost several members of their organization in that explosion. Were the Rangers investigating them? They’ve been linked to the Cordova Cartel on numerous occasions.”

“I said, ‘ Get out. ’” He stalks toward me, the fire in his bloodshot blue eyes so bright, I want to look away. But this is my damn job and I’m gonna do it.

“Channel 5 was first to report on the explosion that left two decorated Rangers dead and Lieutenant Blade in critical condition. The Department of Public Safety won’t comment on the investigation. What was going on at that warehouse? It hadn’t been occupied for a year.”

“None of your goddamn business,” Jasper’s brother grits out. “You want a statement, go talk to our media relations liaison.”

“Surely you don’t want to let speculation run wild, Ranger Blade?—”

“It’s Stone. Captain Stone. Do you think I give a shit about your… speculation ? My brother ain’t gettin’ out of here for God-knows-how-long, and he sure as fuck don’t want to talk to you!”

“AJ. Shut up. Or…better yet…go home.” From the bed, Jasper struggles to focus on the two of us facing off in the doorway.Pain crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he lets out a shudder.

AJ flinches like someone jerked a knot in his spine, turns back to his brother, and shakes his head. “No.”

“I. Don’t. Want. You. Here.” Each word is stronger than the last, until Jasper is practically shouting, though his voice is thick, the words slurring with exhaustion—or maybe pain.

“Well, that makes two of us. You’re an asshole when you’re on morphine, Jas.” AJ grabs his jacket and Stetson, his voice dropping to a whisper as he adds, “And all I’ve got left.”

Jasper doesn’t react when AJ stalks out of the room. Only turns his unfocused gaze to me. “You’ll have to…excuse me, ma’am. Pretty drugged up here. Mind tellin’ me who you are again?”

“Emmylou Marsh with Channel 5, Lieutenant Blade.” I hold out my hand, only to drop it seconds later when it clicks that the sling won’t let him return the gesture.

Jasper fumbles for the bed remote, then groans as he tries to get more comfortable. The pulley system keeping his leg immobile foils his attempt. His left hand starts to shake.

“Let me help.” Tucking my tablet under my arm, I snag the controller, cradle his hand in mine, and curl his fingers into position. He’s warm, his skin rough and covered with tiny scratches from the explosion. “Oh, shit. Did I hurt you?”

“No, ma’am,” he manages through gritted teeth. “Breathin’ does that all on its lonesome.”

In another few seconds, he’s raised the bed enough for us to have a conversation, but the effort cost him. With a sigh, his eyes drift closed.

I should let him rest. But if I go back to the newsroom with nothing, Danny will never let me live it down. And it’ll be that much harder for me to convince anyone I belong in a more competitive market.

Sinking down into the chair AJ was using, I cross my legs at the ankles and balance my tablet on my knee. Before I can finish searching for “AJ Stone,” Jasper coughs weakly.

“Sorry,” he rasps. “Can’t stay awake for shit.”

“Lieutenant Blade, I don’t want to?—”

“Jasper.” His chapped lips twitch into what might be a frown. “Not…on the job at the moment.” After another long pause with his eyes mostly closed, he clears his throat. “You said…Emery? Emily?”

“Emmylou Marsh. Emi.”

“Emi. I’d shake your hand, but…” Jasper nods toward his right arm with a heavy sigh. “If Media Relations won’t talk to you, I shouldn’t either.”

I flash him one of my practiced smiles and hope he doesn’t notice the grief lingering in the depths of my eyes. “Then why haven’t you kicked me out already?”

“Spent all my piss and vinegar on my brother.” His words start to slur. “Can’t see much…at the moment, but you’re…a prettier sight than these walls.”

A flush creeps up my neck. It’s my job to look good. Always put together. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, short skirts and heels whenever I’m “on the clock.” Being hit on is a daily occurrence. Sometimes even an hourly one.

Hell, there’s a local subReddit where a few hundred of Austin’s least respectable dude-bros post screen captures of my news reports so they can critique every outfit choice and speculate about my menstrual cycle and cup size.

But Jasper Blade doesn’t seem like one of those guys.

I sit back and drop my facade. The perfect smile, the composure. I’m not Emmylou Marsh, on-air reporter anymore. I’m just Emi. “Is there anything you need, Lieutenant—uh, Jasper? Water? Another blanket?”

“To be able to piss standin’ up.” After a beat, he swears under his breath. “Fucking hell. Sorry. My head is killin’ me and my filter’s broke as fuck.”

“Concussion? How close were you to the blast?” Concern softens my tone. I shouldn’t push him. The man almost died.

“Not close enough,” he whispers. “You should go.”

“Jasper, if I go back to my news director with nothing, he’ll give this story to Danny Riscaldo.

He’s a misogynistic, sanctimonious ass who thinks he’s better than everyone else at the station.

Is there anything you can tell me? What were you, Matt Schaffer, and Jonas Urbanski doing at that warehouse in the middle of the night? ”

The shift in his expression is almost instantaneous.

Tension stiffens his entire body. He wraps his fingers around the bed rail and pulls himself up a little straighter.

“Schaffer and Urbanski were two of the bravest men I knew, Ms. Marsh . They got thirteen civilians out of that warehouse before it blew—while under fire. Urbanski died in my arms. You want a story? Report on them.”

His sudden burst of strength fades away, and he collapses against the pillows. “I’m done talkin’. Leave. Now.”

“I’m sorry, Jasper. Truly.” I can’t get out of here fast enough. Some days, I hate the person my job requires me to be. Today is one of them.