Page 22 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

DALTON

T he second Gage confirms the file, I know the game has changed.

A chill slithers down my spine, coiling low in my gut.

It’s not fear. It’s something colder—darker.

Like the first breath before a storm breaks wide open.

My hand tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the worn leather.

My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, muscles tense with the instinct to protect, to fight, to destroy whatever threat’s coming for her.

Everything in me reconfigures, recalibrates. Because this isn’t speculation anymore. This is war.

We’ve left the coast and are barreling toward Team W’s remote ranch outside of Galveston before the sun has even cleared the horizon.

The predawn sky stretches in shades of murky violet, mottling into the storm-heavy gray smudging the horizon.

Salt clings to the humid breeze pushing through the truck’s cracked windows, thick enough to taste.

The tires thrum against uneven asphalt, the sound steady and brutal—a war drum that syncs with the pulse pounding behind my eyes.

Every bump jars the gear-packed bags in the back seat, and Kari’s shoulder brushes mine with each rut in the road.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like the future’s etched into the pavement and she’s bracing to read every line.

Heat rises in shimmers off the road as we rattle over a patch of washboard, and I catch the tension coiled in her posture—shoulders rigid, hands clenched in her lap, jaw locked tight.

Her breathing is shallow, almost too controlled, like she’s holding something back.

A tremor threads through her exhale—fear, adrenaline, maybe both—and it punches low in my gut.

She hasn’t said much since hitting send on the upload. I haven’t pushed. Not yet. But the silence is loud. Heavy. She’s in her head, working something out, and every instinct I have is split between pulling over to make her breathe—or flooring it until we’re somewhere no one can touch her.

My eyes flick to her profile—lips pressed tight, eyes glassy but locked forward. She’s terrified and determined all at once. And I don’t know which concerns me more.

I catch the tiniest tremble in her hand as it curls into a fist against her thigh, then releases. Again and again. A rhythm born of tension she won’t name aloud. I know that kind of restraint. Hell, I’ve lived it.

Say something , I think, but the words don’t come.

Because I’m not sure I want to hear what she’d say.

What if she tells me it’s already decided?

What if she’s made peace with a choice I’m not strong enough to accept?

The silence isn’t just hers—it’s mine too.

A shield I’m not ready to lower. So instead, I sit with the heat of her next to me, fighting my own need to pull her into the safety I can’t actually promise. Not until this is over.

Not when I can feel the storm building.

Gage’s voice had been clipped when we'd spoken. ' It’s real. No doubt. Some of the names in that file match flags we’ve been tracking for years. This isn’t cartel-run, Dalton. It’s way more complicated.'

Rush had picked up next. 'This is the kind of evidence that gets people disappeared. We need eyes on you two now. You’re coming here.'

No debate. No delay. One look at Kari and we both started packing.

Now, the iron gate to the ranch swings wide as we approach, Gage’s drone scanner already verifying us. The place is a fortress in camo: weathered barn, low-slung house, fencing reinforced with smart steel and embedded motion sensors. Quiet from the outside. Deadly on the inside.

Rush meets us at the door, armed and stone-faced, the barrel of his rifle angled low but steady. His eyes sweep over us with the same intensity he’d use clearing a hostile room. There’s no greeting—just assessment.

A humid gust stirs the edge of his shirt, carrying the faint scents of gun oil and pine sap, grounding the moment in sharp, familiar detail.

Something about it tugs at a part of me I haven’t touched in years—an old comfort born of warzones and trust forged under fire.

But there’s tension beneath it too, a crackle in the air, like we all know nothing about this is routine—even if we’re pretending it is.

Kari stiffens beside me, her frame going taut, breath catching before I even register the hitch in my own.

I scan Rush’s stance on instinct—feet planted, shoulders relaxed but ready, his free hand hovering near his thigh like he’s one second from drawing a sidearm.

He’s locked in. Alert. Ready for anything.

And right now, I wish to hell I felt the same.

Gideon appears a beat later, stepping into view just behind Rush. His eyes lock on his sister, narrowing with a mix of worry and something harder. Protective. Calculating. Bracing for whatever the hell we’re about to bring through the door.

But then his gaze flicks to me—and lands squarely on the alpha mark just to the right of the hollow of Kari’s throat. His expression darkens, jaw clenching, shoulders going rigid. I see the exact second he registers what it means. He steps forward, voice low and edged. "You marked her?"

I nod, trying to keep my posture loose. "She’s my fated mate."

Rush moves between us with military precision, voice like gravel. "Stand down. Both of you."

Before either of us can move, Kari lifts a hand and steps forward, eyes blazing. "Jesus Christ, put your egos and your dicks away. We have bigger things to deal with."

"You okay?" Gideon demands, stepping into Kari’s space, scanning her like he expects her to shatter.

She lifts her chin. "I’m fine. How's Maggie?"

He doesn’t look convinced. "Point taken, but define 'fine' with fewer bullet holes." Gideon and Maggie had gotten together during an op where Team W was providing protection to Maggie.

"I wasn’t shot," she says. "Neither was Dalton. But the truck didn’t come out of it looking pretty."

My lip twitches. Not the time to smile, but hell if she doesn’t make it hard.

Inside, the rest of the team waits. The tension is immediate—thick, electric, pulsing through the air like a current snapping beneath every breath. It rides the silence, tightens the space, and mirrors the hammering pulse behind my ribs.

Gage sits rigid at his console, eyes flicking over streams of data as they scroll in sharp, staccato columns. The glow from the monitors casts harsh angles across his face, sharpening the line of his jaw and deepening the furrow of his brow. Every movement is precise. Focused.

Deacon prowls near the far window, restless and watchful, like a predator in a too-small cage. Every movement is controlled, calculated—he’s not pacing, he’s preparing. Waiting for something to break so he can meet it head-on.

Gideon stands near the door, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders broad and unmoving. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Kari. His stare isn’t unkind, but it’s unyielding—protective, cautious, braced for impact.

Her presence alters the dynamic in the room, the center of gravity.

Every man in it feels the weight of her arrival.

Instincts on edge. Focus narrowed. Like something has already begun—and none of us know where it’s going to land.

Kari feels it too. The burn of eyes tracking her, the pressure of unspoken expectations pressing in from every corner.

Her skin prickles beneath the weight of it, but she keeps her spine straight, her expression unreadable, refusing to flinch even as her heart slams against her ribs.

I stay close to her, my shoulder brushing hers, grounding myself in that small contact. It’s not possession. It’s protection. My wolf settles but doesn’t relax, ears tipped, ready to respond.

The air is thick with sweat, purpose, and something electric—anticipation laced with dread.

We all know the stakes have changed. The rules no longer apply.

And whatever comes next? It’s going to cost us.

Gage has his setup live, screens flickering with data feeds and the changing topography.

Deacon paces like a caged predator. Gideon takes up position against the wall, arms crossed. I stay close to Kari.

Gage doesn’t mince words. "What she cracked is the keystone. There are ties to every branch we suspected—cartel, judiciary, federal procurement. Sookie handed us a map of every dirty handshake and deal we never had proof for."

Gideon pushes off the wall, voice low and tight, barely leashing the fury behind it. "Then we take the bastards out before they come for Kari."

I watch the subtle change in Gideon’s stance—shoulders back, jaw clenched, that soldier’s readiness sparking to life in a heartbeat.

Kari stiffens beside me, and I don’t miss the flash in her eyes—equal parts defiance and fear.

The air in the room tenses, as if the walls themselves are bracing for impact.

My chest tightens. "It’s not the cartel behind this. Not the big picture, not anymore."

Gideon swings toward me. "You really think they or the Reaper will just let her live now that she’s cracked it?"

"The Reaper is the one we need to neutralize. This isn’t about files anymore. It’s about her. He’s made it personal."

"The Reaper’s a ghost," Deacon says. "Tracking him has been like chasing smoke through a maze."

Rush cuts in, voice calm but edged. "Gideon and Dalton, you're both too close. If we move too fast, we lose the shot at the network. Move too slow, we lose Kari. Either way, this is a compromised room."

Kari steps forward, voice steady but low, the kind of calm that carries weight. Her eyes scan each face in the room, lingering on Rush before locking onto Gideon and then me. "Then use me."