Page 9 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

DALTON

T he warehouse looks abandoned—at least on paper.

The gravel lot out front is pitted and uneven, and the faded signage above the corrugated metal doors reads Seawall Seafood Distribution like it's still doing brisk business in Gulf shrimp and blue crab.

But the moment I step out of my truck, I know better.

The air smells wrong. Not fish or brine—metallic, damp, stale. It hits the back of my throat like rusted iron and the memory of old blood, and for a split second, I’m not in Galveston anymore—I’m back in Kandahar, stepping into a weapons cache that had been used one too many times.

That same cold crawl dances up my spine, and I scan the shadows before I even realize I’ve moved.

Something about this place triggers instinct and memory in equal measure.

It hits the back of my throat like rusted iron and old secrets.

My shoulders tense before I realize it, instincts twitching with the same unease I used to feel clearing buildings in Kandahar—places where every shadow held the threat of a pressure plate or a hidden shooter.

The echo of sand and sweat, of radio static and held breath, is so vivid it claws at the back of my throat. It felt like walking into an ambush overseas. This isn’t just a warehouse. It’s a trap laid in silence and shadow. Like something festering just beneath the surface.

I circle wide, boots silent over packed dirt and broken shells, eyes sweeping every corner. Kari was right. The backend metadata traced here, and now I’m staring down a known smuggling front that was supposedly cleared months ago.

The dust near the door’s edge has been disturbed. Faint boot prints, recent. Size twelve, deep tread. I crouch, run my fingers across the edge.

Still fresh.

Inside, it’s dim. I don't bother with the lights—anyone smart enough to use this place knows better than to announce themselves with a flick of a switch. Instead, I pull out my tactical flashlight and let the narrow beam slice through the shadows, sweeping the corners for movement or signs of life. Stacks of empty crates line the walls. A desk sits near the loading dock, old coffee cup still stained on the rim. Whoever was here didn’t expect company—or they left in a hurry.

I move deeper into the space, pulse ticking louder with each step. There—near the back. Scuff marks streak across the dust-caked concrete, like something—or someone—was dragged. My boots whisper against the floor as I follow the pattern, pulse hammering in my ears.

Something's off—not just the marks, but the silence itself. I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. Every instinct screams that I’m about to uncover more than just a hidden passage. Dread and adrenaline churn low in my gut, twisting tight, even before I reach the panel that doesn’t quite sit flush.

I press my hand to it. The metal gives with a soft click, revealing a narrow corridor behind it. The smell intensifies—burnt copper, cold grease, something older beneath. The hair on the back of my neck rises like it’s been yanked.

I draw my sidearm, barrel sweeping the shadows.

Every step is deliberate, no creak and no stumble.

This setup has teeth, the sharp press of a blade just beneath the skin, ready to cut.

Cables run in tight bundles along the walls like the guts of a machine.

Exit routes are clearly marked, movement lines taped out.

This wasn’t slapped together by cartel foot soldiers; it’s a professional op.

A ghost nest. And I’ve walked straight into it.

My boot brushes something metallic. I kneel and pick it up—a shell casing. 9mm, recent discharge. I lift it to my nose. Still carries the faint scent of burnt powder. Fresh within the last day.

And then I see it.

A sigil—burned into the plywood wall at eye level.

Jagged and crude, but unmistakable. The sight of it stops me cold.

My stomach knots, and the air around me seems to tighten, heavy with memory and dread.

The symbol stares back like an old scar—one I’ve seen carved into bodies, etched in blood, painted across walls after massacres.

Rage boils low in my gut, but under it, something colder slithers up my spine.

Not fear. Anticipation. This isn’t just a message—it’s a challenge.

And it’s personal. The Reaper’s calling card. Three slashes through a broken ring.

My gut clenches. That symbol’s haunted every black op and intel report tied to the worst of the cartel's freelance assets. It’s more than just a threat—it’s a signature, a promise of pain.

My pulse spikes, heart thudding in a steady war drum rhythm, sweat prickling at the base of my neck as the air thickens like it's watching.

I grit my teeth, tamping down the surge of rage curling in my chest like barbed wire.

He was here. Close. Watching, maybe. And he left this behind like a sick joke.

I straighten slowly, shoulders tense, breathing through the scent of burnt wood and stale malice that still clings to the wall. It shouldn’t affect me this much—but it does. Because if the Reaper's involved, Kari’s already deeper in this than she realizes. The bastard’s been here.

Before I can process it, a flicker of motion glimmers in the periphery—sharp and fast, boot scrape against concrete, air pressure changing like a warning whispered too late.

"You’re not supposed to be here, Ranger."

Three of them. No scent, no warning. Black clothing, tight formation. One with a knife, two with suppressed pistols. My instincts scream, but it’s already too late. I fire once—wing the one on the left, a hiss of pain and blood in the air—but the others surge forward like shadows with teeth.

I drop to a knee, pivot hard, yank the injured one into my line of fire.

He becomes my shield, dead weight and soft resistance.

Knife guy lunges, and the blade glances across my shoulder.

A flare of white-hot pain burns down my arm, but I shove it aside.

Adrenaline kicks in. No time to register pain.

No margin for error. These aren’t street thugs.

They’re trained. Fast. Precise. Like they’ve done this before—and survived.

My breath saws in and out, every muscle coiled, heart hammering like a warning drumbeat.

One wrong move, and I’m done. But I don’t back down.

I twist, shove, brace for the next strike.

I’ve been here before. I know how this ends.

The only question is how many of them can I take down. I’m outnumbered.

The pressure builds in my chest, primal and absolute.

I fight it down, but my control slips. I feel the shift ripple through my bones, a deep, instinctual realignment that shudders straight into my core before the mist rises—rolling across the floor like fog with a mind of its own. Thunder cracks in my skull.

"No," I grit out, voice rough. "Not here."

But it’s too late.

The mist coils around me, thick with color—deep amber and storm blue—before it surges upward, blinding and alive. My body doesn't break—it re-forms. Sight sharpens. Scent blooms. Sound roars.

The warehouse vanishes in a rush of instinct. The floor beneath me vibrates with footfalls. My ears flick, zeroing in on the staccato breath of my attackers. The tang of sweat, adrenaline, and copper floods my nose. I smell panic—and it smells like victory.

When the mist peels back, I stand on four massive paws.

My senses explode to life—scent hits first, sharp and complex.

Blood, fish guts and something sour lingers in the air.

I hear the scuttle of a rat through rusted ductwork, the flap of a tarp in the rafters, the near-silent racing of three human hearts, one of them staggered and uneven.

Adrenaline hums through me, but it’s sharper now, more primal.

The wolf feels it all—each vibration of air pressure, every change in temperature, the echo of danger carved into concrete and steel.

I bare my teeth, muscles coiling as instinct takes over.

A massive wolf made of rage, bone, and intent.

My claws scrape the concrete. My lips curl back.

They freeze.

A shot cracks—the impact stings my shoulder, but it’s a gnat bite. I roar and surge forward.

The first crumples beneath me, ribs caving under the force of my strike. He lets out a strangled grunt—more reflex than cry—before he collapses in a heap, motionless. I barely register it before the second makes a break for the exit.

I give chase, paws thundering across the concrete. He doesn’t make it two steps. My jaws clamp down on his thigh, tearing muscle from bone. The scream that erupts is brutal, primal. I yank him down hard—his body skids across the floor, blood blooming fast beneath him like an oil slick.

The third—the one with the blade—charges. Wild-eyed. Desperate. I launch at him mid-lunge, my full weight smashing into his chest. He crashes into the wall with a dull, wet crack that echoes through the rafters. He slides down, unmoving, breath ragged if it’s there at all.

I stand over them, breath coming hard, heart a thunderclap in my chest, blood hot on my tongue. I’m panting, blood on my muzzle, heart hammering like a war drum. But it’s not over.

Sirens rise in the distance. Someone must have heard something and called it in. I can already imagine the headlines—massacre at the docks. Local law won’t know what they’re walking into, but someone else might. Someone watching. Someone who won’t miss the trail I left.

If they trace it back to Kari—her files, her IP, her name—it won’t just be a scandal, it’ll be a direct line to everything she’s uncovered.

Every target she’s flagged. Every connection she’s chased.

She’ll be caught in the crosshairs of a war she didn’t sign up for, and it’ll be my fault for walking her straight into the blast radius.

I can’t let that happen.

I bolt, crashing through the back exit into a patch of wild growth long forgotten behind the dock’s boundary line. Pain knifes into my ribs, sharp and sudden, but I push past it, running fast and low, my heartbeat matching the rush of wind tearing past.

Not fear… urgency.

If Kari sees me like this—sees the wolf prowling behind my eyes—she won’t flinch. She won’t run. She’ll understand exactly what she’s looking at, because it’s what stirs under her own skin.

Gideon had wanted her safe, tucked behind steel and code, layers of protection and locked doors.

But Kari refused; she wouldn’t hear it. Said she wouldn’t live in a damn fortress while people like Sookie died for speaking the truth.

She even told him she'd rip the locks off herself if he tried to override her wishes and upgrade her security.

Even though we share a wolf-shifter commonality, it doesn't make it any easier. I’m not ready for that look yet—the one that says she sees too much. That she sees me, all of me, even the parts I’ve spent years trying to chain down and silence. The wild. The lethal.

But if I don’t get to her in time… if I don’t get between her and whatever hell the Reaper's about to unleash, if I don’t show her what she means to me, then everything I’ve fought to control will mean nothing.

No. Not an option.

I weave through a line of scrubby trees and tangled brush beyond the fence—a narrow buffer of overgrown foliage and wind-stunted trees whose wiry branches whip at my flanks. Blood, salt, gunpowder fill the air behind me.

But one scent cuts through it all like a beacon.

Kari—citrus, ink, and that sharp scent that is only hers.

It tightens something deep inside me. My lungs seize around it, the wolf inside me howling at the tether it creates.

She’s frightened, and that undoes me more than the blood on my muzzle or the ache in my shoulder.

That one time together was enough to etch her place into my soul, deep and permanent.

The bond isn’t sealed—not yet—but I know it’s there, waiting.

She’s mine. Always will be. I don’t need the bite to prove it.

I feel her fear, sharp and unshakable, but it’s not for herself—it’s for me.

And that… that cuts through everything. It shoves every hesitation aside, hones my focus to a single point.

Protect her. Keep her breathing. Whatever’s in our way, I’ll tear it down.

Citrus. Ink. Fear.

Kari.

Sharp and potent. Laced through the air like a challenge and a plea. I track it like a lifeline, lungs burning, legs relentless. I will reach her.

I run. Not because I’m afraid, but because if anyone other than our kind sees me like this, they will start asking questions I won't be able to answer. I move through the landscape, using cover when I can and speed when there is none available.

Sent trails crisscross the ground. Blood, gunpowder, and sea salt.

Beyond all of it? Vanilla, ink and Kari.

The barest trace of her fear—sharp and clinging like static before a storm, cutting through the other scents.

It punches straight through my chest, dragging everything in me toward her with a primal urgency I can’t shake.

I angle south, tracking the familiar scent like a lifeline. My body aches, my shoulder throbs, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. She’ll be waiting.

I need her to be safe.

Even if it means exposing the wild edge I’ve kept buried—soaked in blood, bone, and instinct forged in war. I may well have to bare the visceral, unvarnished truth of what I am. A creature honed by violence and driven by something darker.

But she’s one of us. A wolf in her own right.

She won’t flinch at the fur or the blood.

She won’t mistake instinct for brutality.

She’ll see past the violence to the truth beneath.

She won’t see a monster. She’ll see a reflection.

She’ll see me, and just possibly, she’ll still want what she sees—bloodied, breath ragged, heart hammering with a hope I barely dare name.