Page 3 of Ranger’s Justice (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #1)

CHAPTER 2

CASSIDY

P resent Day

Dallas, Texas

I drop the file onto Marcus Kane’s desk with more force than necessary. Papers scatter, spreadsheets slide across the polished wood, and my pulse thunders in my ears as I cross my arms and glare at him.

“That’s it,” I say. “That’s the proof.”

Marcus doesn’t flinch. He never does. He leans back in his leather chair, an unreadable expression on his face as he steeples his fingers and looks down at the documents like they’re a minor inconvenience. Like I didn’t just hand him a smoking gun.

I wait.

He stays silent.

Impatience flares in my chest. “Marcus...”

“I’m reading, Cassidy.” His voice is even, inscrutable, too calm.

I press my lips together and let him work, pacing the length of his office. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind him cast long shadows as the late afternoon sun sinks behind the Dallas skyline. Outside, the city hums with life—cars and people moving either with purpose or as if they don’t have a care in the world.

Inside, I feel like I’m drowning in stillness.

Marcus flips through the last page, exhales slowly, and closes the file. Then he looks at me, and I already know—it’s not enough.

Fury spikes through me, and I don’t even give him time to speak. “Are you kidding me?”

His lips press into a thin line. “I’m not.”

I plant my fisted hands, knuckles down on his desk, leaning in. “Marcus, that’s a direct link between Hollister’s accounts and the Del Toro cartel’s smuggling operation. I traced the wire transfers. I followed the offshore accounts. That money is dirty, and you damn well know it.”

He nods, but it’s not the agreement I want. “It’s suspicious, yes. It suggests…”

“It proves,” I snap.

His gaze sharpens. “It suggests, Cassidy. Not proves. These numbers won’t hold up in a court of law. All it proves is that money moved between businesses, and that isn’t illegal.”

I feel like I just took a punch to the gut. I straighten, crossing my arms as if I can protect myself from what I know is coming. “So that’s it? We do nothing?”

Marcus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks… tired. “Cassidy, you’re good at this. Damn good. But you’re also too close. You want Hollister to be guilty so badly, you’re seeing what you want to see.”

I stiffen. “You think I’m making this up?”

“I think you’re trying to force a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.” He gestures to the file. “What you have is circumstantial. It won’t hold. We need more.”

Anger burns in my chest. “And how do we get more, Marcus? Sit on our asses and wait for him to hand us a signed confession?”

His gaze turns sharp. “You think I don’t want him taken down? You think I haven’t spent years trying to find something solid enough to bury him? But this? It’s not enough. And if you push too hard, too fast, you’re going to get noticed, put yourself in danger and let him get away.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Fine.”

He stands, palms flat on the desk, eyes dark with warning. “Not fine. Not good. Dangerous. If Hollister gets wind that someone is digging into his finances, what do you think he’ll do?”

I already know, but I don’t say it.

Marcus waits. When I don’t answer, his voice drops lower. “He’ll clean house. He’ll bury whatever trail he left behind, and we’ll be right back where we started.”

A chill snakes down my spine. I hate that he’s right. Hate it, but that doesn’t mean I can let this go.

Marcus studies me for a long moment before lowering his voice. “Cassidy… I’m asking you to be smart about this.”

Smart? Nothing about this is smart.

But waiting won’t change anything.

I push off the desk and snatch the file back, shoving it and the other papers into my bag.

Marcus sighs. “Cass...”

“I get it,” I cut him off. “It’s not enough.” I shoulder my bag and head for the door.

He doesn’t stop me, but just before I step out, he speaks. “Cassidy.”

With my hand on the doorknob, I pause.

His voice is gentle. Too gentle. “Be careful.”

I don’t answer; I just walk out, head down to my office and go inside. I close the door behind me, toss my bag onto the desk, and collapse into my chair. I dump the contents of my bag onto my desk and clench my fists to keep from screaming.

I’d been up all night going over the evidence I’d been able to put together. I’d spent months doing it—spent all my free time painstakingly gathering it and piecing it together, but I knew Marcus would never go for it. I knew Marcus wouldn’t green light an official move on Hollister, but some stupid, reckless part of me thought—hoped—he’d back me up, anyway.

I was wrong. I rub my temples, breathing through the frustration, and begin to sift dispassionately through the papers on my desk. Marcus is right. What I have isn’t enough.

Fine. I’ll get more.

I fire up my laptop, pulling up the records again. The wire transfers, the shell companies, the shipment manifests linked to Hollister’s business. I stare at them, my father’s words whispering in my mind.

“Follow the money, sweetheart, and you’ll always find the truth.”

“Trust your gut—most people aren’t as honest as they seem or as we’d like them to be.”

My gut is screaming at me. My eyes catch on a single entry—a shipment moving through a warehouse near the border, set to transfer to an offshore account. The numbers don’t match. The timeline is too convenient. This is it. I don’t hesitate. I grab my phone, pull up the address, and make the decision that will change everything.

I’m going after it. With or without backup.

The warehouse smells like old oil and desperation. Stale cigarette smoke clings to the corrugated steel walls, mixing with the acrid scent of sweat and something distinctly metallic—blood, if I had to guess. The dim overhead lights buzz, casting long, flickering shadows across the concrete floor. This is a bad idea.

A catastrophically stupid idea.

I crouch behind a stack of rusted-out shipping crates, my heart hammering against my ribs as I listen to the indistinct murmur of Spanish echoing through the cavernous warehouse. The scent of old motor oil and rotting wood clings to the air.

Goddammit.

I’m not cut out for this. I balance ledgers, not infiltrate cartel meetings. I analyze risk, not throw myself into the middle of it. But the moment Marcus Kane dismissed my findings—again—and the police conveniently lost interest, I knew I had two options.

Let Hollister keep getting away with murder or prove it myself.

I chose the second. Which is how I ended up in a border-town warehouse at midnight, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans like I belong here, when in reality, I couldn’t stick out more if I were waving a neon sign that read “I am absolutely not a criminal.”

This was supposed to be simple—get in, snap a few photos, get out. That’s the way they always showed it in movies and television shows. But as I peek around the crates, my gut twists. There’s nothing simple about this, and it’s scary as hell. What am I doing here? At what point did I decide I was the heroine of a romantic suspense novel?

Seven men surround a semi-truck, the rear doors thrown open to reveal steel drums marked with the Del Toro cartel’s insignia. Money and product change hands in a silent, deadly rhythm. I don’t need a finance degree to know what I’m looking at—Hollister’s blood money at work.

I hold my phone low, snapping a few quick shots. My fingers shake, just a little, but I ignore it.

Here’s your proof, Kane. Let’s see you ignore this.

I move slowly, angling for a better shot, and step straight into a pile of broken glass. Shit. The sharp crunch echoes like a gunshot.

Every head turns in my direction. Bloody hell!

A man—big, barrel-chested, and very much armed—whips toward me, his gun raised before I can think of a plausible excuse for being here.

“?Quién carajo es esta?” he barks.

I do not freeze. Freezing is for people who want to get themselves shot.

Instead, I straighten, fixing him with my best “you’re beneath me” look. “Elena Vasquez,” I say, spitting out the fake name like it actually means something. “I’m with the broker. There was a discrepancy in the transfer.”

The bullshit rolls off my tongue smoothly, but the air in the warehouse tightens. Even though I’m not trained in law enforcement, it doesn’t take a genius to know how to read a room full of criminals. I am about ten seconds from getting a bullet right between my eyes.

One of the other men, lean with a snake tattoo curled around his neck, steps forward, gun still raised. “Never heard of you.”

I keep my voice even. “Not my problem.”

The first man narrows his eyes, stepping closer. Too close. I’m running out of time. What the hell am I supposed to do? What the hell have I gotten myself into? Before I can formulate an answer, a gunshot rings out, snapping through the thick silence.

For a moment, no one moves. Then chaos detonates like a bomb.

A man drops, clutching his leg. The semi driver yanks a pistol from his waistband. Someone else screams orders in rapid Spanish.

And then? More gunfire. I dive for cover—not in that perfect way heroines do in novel, movies and television series, no this is a curvy body hitting the filthy, cement floor, crawling as quickly as she can to get to something that even vaguely resembles safety.

Bullets rip through the warehouse, pinging off steel drums and shattering crates. I make my way toward what I think will be adequate cover, my pulse roaring in my ears.

This was supposed to be simple. Instead, I’m about to die in a goddamn border-town warehouse with a bunch of cartel assholes, and Hollister will still be living, breathing and getting away with it.

Footsteps thunder toward me. I whip my head up just in time to see a man lunging at me. Rage blurs his face as he raises his gun. A shot rings out—not from my gun because I don’t have a gun. I can handle a hunting rifle well enough, but I don’t own a handgun. For a fraction of a second, the man’s face registers shock and then he drops.

I twist toward the sound, and freeze.

The most gorgeous, muscular man—the kind that grace the covers of romance novels—stands in the middle of the goddamn chaos, his rifle still raised, his face carved from stone. His black tactical gear is a stark contrast to the dust and grime around him, the Texas Ranger star glinting faintly in the dim light.

He looks like a goddamn nightmare. His gaze locks onto me, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Another cartel gunman swings toward him. The Ranger doesn’t hesitate. One clean shot. The man drops without a sound.

I try not to be impressed but fail spectacularly.

The Ranger moves toward me with lethal precision, gunfire still erupting around us. I scramble back, but it doesn’t matter. He’s faster.

His fingers close around my wrist, yanking me up like I weigh nothing.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low, furious.

“Excuse me?” I yank my arm back, but his grip doesn’t budge. “Why are you mad at me? I’m just an innocent bystander.”

His eyes darken. “That’s not how it looks, Ms. Marlow,” he snorts.

How the hell does he know my name? I glare up at him, trying not to notice the way he’s pressed against me, all heat and dominance.

“Let me go, Ranger.”

His grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make a point.

“You think I’m letting you run straight into another gunfight?” His voice vibrates with something dangerous. “Not happening.”

Another bullet whizzes past, slamming into the crate beside us.

The Ranger curses under his breath, then moves fast, yanking me hard against him as he spins. For a split second, I’m fully pressed against him, his body a wall of pure strength and power. Then he shoves me behind what passes for cover.

“You stay put,” he growls. “For once in your life, do as you’re told.”

“How do you know anything about me?” I hiss.

“Later,” he snarls.

Oh, I hate him. Hate the control in his voice. Hate the fact that he’s right. But most of all? I hate that, despite everything, my pulse isn’t racing from fear. It’s racing because of him.

The warehouse is a battlefield of gunfire and smoke, but all I see is him. The Ranger stands in the middle of the chaos like he owns it. As if someone created it just for him. His dark eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the mayhem like a blade. The air between us snaps taut.

I should run, but I don’t.

Because for all the bullets flying and cartel men dropping like dominos, the most dangerous thing in this goddamn warehouse is the man standing next to me, glaring at me like I just made his shit list. I barely register the sound of the gunfire. His presence eclipses everything else.

His rifle is slung against his chest, his black tactical gear smeared with dirt and blood. His expression is like carved stone, unreadable—except for the fact that I know, without a doubt, that he’s pissed as hell.

My pulse pounds as he moves in. I lift my chin. “Fancy meeting you here, Ranger.”

His jaw tightens. “You’ve got about ten seconds to tell me why the hell you’re in the middle of a cartel shootout before I throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here.”

Oh, hell no. I plant my feet. “You’re not throwing me anywhere.”

Gripping my wrist with an iron-hard hold before I can react. “You just lost your vote,” he growls, yanking me forward.

I struggle against him.

“Not now.” He pulls me in close, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re coming with me, whether or not you like it.”

A cartel gunman pops out from behind a crate, rifle raised—The Ranger spins, shoving me behind him. One shot. The man crumples.

My stomach knots, but I don’t have time to process it before the Ranger grabs me again. “Move. Now.”

I should fight. I should tell him to go to hell. Survival wins out, and I follow his lead, my boots pounding against the concrete as he maneuvers us toward the loading dock. More cartel thugs shout in Spanish, trying to regroup, but the ranger team is cutting them down with precision strikes.

I steal a glance at the carnage as we run—bodies on the ground, blood pooling beneath crates.

Jesus.

We reach the side door, and the Ranger slams it open, dragging me into the humid night air. The heat is suffocating, thick and heavy after the gunfire-filled warehouse. A black SUV sits idling at the curb. The Ranger doesn’t slow down, he wrenches the door open, spins, and before I can react… he lifts me off my damn feet and shoves me inside.

I curse, scrambling upright as he slams the door behind and heads around the front of the SUV to the driver’s side.

I twist toward him, furious. “For the second time, how the hell do you know anything about me?”

The Ranger flips a file onto my lap as he drives. “That’s everything we have on you. And trust me, it’s not light reading.”

I glance at the worn manila folder, then at him. “Does this flatter me or worry you?”

“Cassidy Elaine Marlow,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “Grew up in Houston, moved to Dallas after your father died. Your mother married Joseph Hollister a couple of years later. You and your sister weren’t thrilled about it.”

“You don’t know that.”

He shoots me a look. “Neither of you took his name.”

My fingers tighten around the folder. “And?”

“You work for a top-tier insurance company specializing in executives in the oil industry, including K&R. Handle numbers, risk assessments, financial tracking. You’re not in the field, but you’re the reason people get home. You find patterns others miss. You’re damn good at it.” His grip flexes on the wheel. “But you’re not trained for what’s coming, and you don’t belong in the middle of this.”

I flip open the file—financial records, company reports, even an old internship contract. My breath catches at the last page. My father’s death certificate.

The Ranger’s voice drops lower. “We know you suspect Hollister had a hand in his death. We know you’ve been looking into him for years. This is bigger than you think.”

I keep my focus on the pages, willing my pulse to stay steady. “So what? You’re here to warn me off?”

His exhale is slow, measured. “I’m here to tell you that if you go after this alone, you won’t get another chance. The cartel isn’t just after money. This is personal. And whether or not you like it, that makes you my problem.”

I snap the file shut, turning toward him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good,” he murmurs, gaze locked on the road. “Because I’m not here to hold your hand. I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“What the hell is your problem with me? And what the hell is your name?”

“Zane Rushton. People mostly call me Rush.”

“So what now?”

The Ranger grips the wheel, muscles tight as steel cables. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because the moment he looks at me again, his eyes burn.

And I know—I just made a very big mistake.