Page 3 of Protected By The Ranger (The Men of Ghost Security #1)

JAKE

W e won’t have to stay here long,” I tell Izzy as the elevator opens onto the floor where I work.

We only use one floor of the Pinnacle Building, but we own the entire building and keep the rest of the floors empty for storage and servers, and also because the kind of work we do means guys come to the office who don’t want to be seen or don’t want questions asked if they’re armed.

Ghost Security is busy, with everyone is in the office for the weekly meeting.

The office hums with a controlled energy that’s reminiscent of Ranger mission briefings.

Multiple screens display surveillance feeds, and a dangerous level of testosterone and Type A personalities mingle in close proximity.

I settle Izzy in Conference Room B with a cup of coffee and the stack of magazines she insisted on picking up on the way here, and which look out of place among the tactical equipment lining one of the walls.

She perches on the edge of a leather chair, her eyes wary as she looks around.

She’s been quiet all morning, but she seems more comfortable with me as her bodyguard, though I still don’t have a solid read on her—yet—to tell if she’s scared or if she’s just quiet sometimes.

“I’ll be right next door,” I tell her, gesturing toward the adjoining room where the team is already gathering. “This glass is soundproof, so you’ll have privacy and won’t have to listen to all of us. I’ve told the guys not to bother you.”

Her fingers wrap around the coffee mug, and she nods. “How long will this take?”

“Not long. Just need to brief the team and get everyone up to speed.”

What I don’t tell her is that I’m putting everything else on hold for this. Every other case, every other client—none of it matters right now. I know the other guys are going to give me shit over this, but I don’t care. I’ll call in some favors, and then owe some favors later on.

I push through the door into our main conference room, whereOwen Blake sits hunched over his laptop, with two cups from the new coffee shop next to him. He looks like he hasn’t left the office in twenty-four hours.This man makes workaholics look like slouches.

“When was the last time you went home?” I ask, noting the stubble and wrinkled shirt. “And what’s with the coffee cups? I thought all you drank was energy drinks?”

Blake glances up at me, but his eyes are unreadable. “I thought some variety would be good.”

I do a doubletake at Blake. More than anyone else here, he’s a man of routine and precision. The coffee shop is new.

“Home is where the servers are,” Blake replies without looking up. “What are you working on? I heard you offloaded some work.”

“Personal protection detail,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the job. “High priority. I’m taking point on this one personally.”

Blakefinally looks up, his dark eyes sharp despite the evidence of his caffeine-fueled all-nighter. “Since when do you do personal protection? That’s usually Hawk’s thing.”

Before I can answer, Zane Blackwoodstrolls in and drops into a chair with his feet up on the conference table, somehow managing to make even that casual gesture look calculated.

His dirty blonde hair is messy, and his grin suggests he’s about to regale us with sordid tales of his latest conquest.The man treats life like it’s one big party, but he has the sharpest tactical mind of anyone I’ve worked with. The man is also an unrepentant horndog.

“Personal protection, huh?” Zane’s eyes drift toward Izzy, and I resist the urge to step between him and Izzy’s line of sight. “Please tell me it’s the gorgeous blonde in Conference Room B because those curves make me wanna—”

“You don’t want to finish that sentence,” I warn.

My tone makes Zane’s eyebrows shoot up. His expression shifts, becoming serious for once. “Sorry, man. What can I say? She’s a looker.”

“That’s Hayden Dawson’s sister,” I continue, my voice carrying enough edge to make my position clear. “Look elsewhere.”

Hawk Sterling enters the room and closes the door. The guy’s a ghost when he wants to be—a former Special Forces sniper who can read a room better than most people read books.Hawk whistles and turns to stare at Izzy. “ That is Dawson’s sister? No wonder he never showed us her picture.”

The guys all laugh, and I force myself to keep my mouth closed. An unfamiliar sensation of possessiveness rushes through me. The idea of any of these men fantasizing about Izzy makes me want to do some rounds with a punching bag.

“Hayden?”Blakestraightens in his chair, suddenly more alert. “How’s he doing? Haven’t heard from him since he got back stateside.”

“He’s still at the VA hospital, healing and doing physical therapy. His leg is still fucked up, but he’s slowly getting better.” I pull up a chair and lean forward, elbows on the table. “But his sister’s got a stalker, and she came here to try and shake the guy.”

Zane’s feet hit the floor, and his entire demeanor shifts from playboy to professional. “What do we know so far?”

“Not enough. Started as fan mail, escalated to personal details, and now he’s tracking her movements before she posts them on social media.

” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by how little concrete information I have.

“She’s a musician. Isabelle Dawson. Performs under the name Bella. Based in LA, but here now.”

Blakeis already typing, his fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of precision that makes him invaluable. “I’ll run her social media accounts, see what patterns I can find. Cross-reference with public appearances, tagged locations.”

“Also need background on anyone with access to her schedule,” I add. “Management, venues, crew members.”

“On it.” More typing, the soft clicking filling the brief silence.

I glance toward the glass, where Izzy is flipping through a magazine fast enough that she’s obviously not reading it.

“This is Hayden’s sister,” I repeat, my voice carrying a warning as I look directly at Zane and see him ogling Izzy again. “Show some respect.”

Zane raises his hands in mock surrender, but his grin remains firmly in place. “Hey, I’m nothing but respectful. Just appreciating the scenery.”

“Find other scenery to appreciate,” I say, my voice tight as I stare him down.

“Why do you care so much? She your girl?” Zane asks, crossing his arms as he turns to face me.

“It’s not like that,” I say, but even I can hear how unconvincing I sound.

Hawk’s quiet voice cuts through the tension. “How long you planning to keep her under protection?”

“As long as it takes.”

“And after that?”

The question catches me off guard. After that? I haven’t let myself think that far ahead.”Dunno.”

I pull out Izzy’s phone and hand it to Blake, who plugs it into his laptop.

The wall screen fills with Instagram DMs—dozens of them. Photos of her at coffee shops, walking to her car, leaving venues. Messages that start friendly and progressively become more invasive.

“This guy’s been at it for months,” I continue, scrolling through the evidence. “Look at these timestamps—he’s tracking her in real time.”

Blake leans closer, his expression darkening. “This isn’t random obsession. This is organized stalking.”

“How long until you find this asshole?”

“Working on it. This is gonna take some time.”

“Alright,”Hawk says finally. “What do you need from us?”

“Can we go somewhere?” Izzy asks as we cross the parking lot to my SUV, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. “I need some air. I’m not used to being cooped up like this.”

“I know a place,” I tell her. “I’ll take you up to King Mountain to my buddy’s bar. They’ve got good beer and excellent burgers. He’s good people.”

By the time I pull into the gravel lot of King Tap, we’ve been driving in silence for a full hour. It hasn’t been awkward, and Izzy isn’t as hunched as when we left HQ.

King Tap sits partway up King Mountain, a weathered building that looks its age. Pickup trucks and motorcycles fill the gravel parking lot, and classic rock music drifts through open windows.

Inside, the atmosphere is exactly what you’d expect—dim lighting, worn wood surfaces, and the kind of comfortable ambience that comes from people who’ve known each other for years.

Waylon King, the owner, raises a hand in greeting from behind the bar where he’s polishing glasses. Marian must have the day off.

“Jake! How the hell are you? Haven’t seen you in a while,” Waylon calls out.

“Hey, Waylon.” I guide Izzy toward a table near the windows, where afternoon light creates a warm glow that makes her hair look like spun gold.

Waylon brings over two beers without being asked, the condensation already forming on the bottles. “You two need something to eat?”

“Thanks, man.” I glance at Izzy, and she shrugs. “Two cheeseburgers would be great.” Even if she thinks she isn’t hungry, she should still eat.

When Izzy excuses herself to use the restroom, Waylon stays a moment before putting in our food order.

“I’ve never seen you look at a woman like you look at her,” he says without preamble, settling into Izzy’s empty chair. “Are you finally settling down?”

The question makes me uncomfortable. How in the hell could he notice something like that?

We only just walked in. “It’s not like that.

” Inwardly, I admit to myself that I wish it were like that.

Barely forty-eight hours with Izzy and she’s stirring things in my heart that I didn’t know existed.

She brings out a fierce protective side of me that no one has before, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

“If you say so.” Waylon’s expression suggests he’s not buying it for a second. “I tried to resist how I felt about Angelica, too. And now there isn’t a man alive happier to be married than I am.”

Before I can process what that might mean, Waylon stands as Izzy returns, sliding back into her seat with fluid grace. Waylon nods to her, then heads back to the bar.

“Tell me about Ghost Security,” Izzy says, her fingers tracing patterns on the condensation of her beer bottle. “How’d you end up working there?”

I take a pull of my beer and lean back in my chair.

“It was just time. I was in the Rangers for ten years, but I saw teammates die or get badly injured, and I got spooked. It doesn’t help anyone if you’re running into a firefight and worried about what-ifs instead of the mission at hand.

Then I took some shrapnel to my shoulder.

Thought it was a good time to discharge, even if I didn’t want to, so I called it a day.

Besides, Quincy, the guy who owns Ghost Security, offered me a job I couldn’t say no to.

Good pay and fewer people pointing a gun at me and trying to kill me. It was a good deal.”

Izzy is hard to read as she watches me. I don’t usually give a fuck what someone thinks of me, but I find myself caring deeply about Izzy’s opinion.

“What about you?” I ask, deflecting the conversation to her.

For the first time, her face lights up with joy, and it’s dazzling.

“I’ve always loved to sing. Hayden’s probably told you it drove him crazy when we were little, before I moved to Raytown with my mom.

Most people didn’t think I’d amount to much with my singing, aside from my high school choir teacher. Do you know the TV showThe Breakout?”

“Afraid I don’t. I don’t have much time to watch TV these days.” I haven’t made much time for anything other than work since I came back, and I don’t want to admit this to Izzy, but reality TV is a level of hell I never hope to visit.

“Well, long story short, it’s a singing competition.

I didn’t win, but I still got a lot of attention and a record deal.

That was nearly three years ago, and since then, I’ve been recording a lot, opening for bigger singers, and touring and playing in small clubs around the country.

It’s exhausting, but it’s the best thing in the world. ”

As Izzy continues talking, I catch something in her voice—a tension that suggests the best thing in the world comes with a price.

“But?” I prompt, sensing a lot more to the story.

“The pressure’s incredible,” she admits, her fingers tightening around her beer bottle. “Everyone wants a piece of you, wants to know everything about your life. Sometimes, I miss being nobody, you know? When I could go to the grocery store without wondering if someone’s watching me.”

The vulnerability in her voice triggers a deep protectiveness to surge in my chest. “Is that why you didn’t want security before this? Wanting to feel normal?”

“Partly. But also because...” She hesitates, then meets my eyes. “I worked so hard to get where I am. I didn’t want to admit that success could be dangerous. Thank you. For doing this, for taking care of everything. I know you’re a glorified babysitter right now.”

“Not at all. I’ve done protection detail before, but not for anyone I liked as much as you.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it, and I watch something shift in her expression.

Is it possible she could see me as more than her bodyguard?