Page 16 of Ranger’s Oath (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #5)

GAGE

T he drone footage keeps replaying in my head even after Rush kills the feed.

Sadie’s face, caught in grainy surveillance, frozen at the porch rail.

My chest tightens as if the bullet meant for her already landed.

I grip the edge of the farmhouse table until the wood groans, trying not to show the team how much it affects me.

The truth is there anyway, written in the taut line of my shoulders, the throb in my temples, and the weight behind every breath.

Rush breaks the silence first. “We harden the perimeter. Every feed scrubbed. Every line checked.”

“Already on it,” I say, voice low but firm. “Dalton, sweep every relay. Deacon, check irrigation and power conduits. No corner untouched.”

The room charges. Dalton drums his fingers against the tabletop, restless, ready to move.

Deacon folds his arms, steady and unblinking, already mapping out solutions.

Gideon leans in closer to the monitors, brows drawn tight, his focus absolute.

Rush stands calm as ever, but I catch the faint crease in his jaw that says he’s feeling the same weight I am.

And Sadie—she hasn’t moved. She leans back like she’s lounging, but her eyes are wide and too watchful.

Her nails trace the rim of her coffee cup, scrape-scrape against porcelain.

She’s pretending calm, but I can see the tension.

And I hate more than anything that the others can see me watching her.

Every detail about her snares me deeper: the way she sits unnaturally still, the subtle tilt of her head, the brittle mask she tries to hold. Each small gesture winds through me like a chain I can’t loosen, drawing me closer even when I fight to keep my distance.

Rush clears his throat, voice cutting through the heavy silence.

“The drone controller dump gave us Pier One Logistics. Paper trail ties to a retired state senator, J. Winston Briggs, and to Falcon Shield Security. Both connected to the island network. Motive is simple. Witnesses die, the line keeps moving. One problem. They failed.”

Gideon lifts his head. “So they escalate.”

“Exactly.” Rush turns his gaze on me. “What we do next decides whether they burn out or dig in.”

I nod, though my throat feels like gravel. “Run a decoy convoy. Make them follow ghosts.”

Dalton frowns. “And leave the ranch thin?”

“No.” I slam my palm flat against the map. “We keep Sadie here under layered security. One in the war room, two on the perimeter, and one floating between. The convoy is bait. Let them waste resources chasing shadows while we lock this place tighter than a vault.”

Sadie arches an eyebrow, her voice cool and precise.

“So that’s it? Park me like a shipment and wait for someone to collect?

You’re missing the point, Ranger. I know how the press thinks, how donors whisper, which shell companies cut checks for the right kind of cover.

If you lock me in a room, you leave half the intel on the table. ”

The words land sharper than any quip. She leans forward, steady and unflinching. “Use me. Let me map the donor lists and vendor shells. I can track which names overlap with the shells you already flagged. Otherwise, you’ll spend weeks chasing what I can flag in hours.”

The room stills. Dalton’s eyebrows lift, Gideon mutters something under his breath, and even Rush tilts his head as though weighing her argument.

I bite back my first instinct to shut her down. She is not wrong, and that truth stings. My pulse ticks in my throat as I force my answer out. “Fine. Narrow scope. You flag overlaps between donor rosters and shell accounts. That is all. No calls, no outside contact. You work under Gideon’s eye.”

Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Deal.”

Rush’s gaze cuts across the table, sharp as steel. “Measured task. Contained lane. If she steps outside it, we shut it down.”

I nod once, jaw tight. Sadie leans back with a glint in her eye that says she knows she won this round. It is not victory, not really, but it is forward motion, and that makes it more dangerous than any firefight.

Her jab hit harder than I want to admit. I want to tell her she’s more than a point on a map, more than a liability to manage, more than a witness we’re sworn to shield. The admission rises hot in my throat, but I force it down, teeth clenched until the urge to speak passes.

Gideon’s eyes flick between us, sharp as glass. “You’re hovering, Remington.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“You’re doing more than that,” he mutters. “Never seen you lose your focus that fast.”

Rush doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have to. The silence he holds radiates heavier than Gideon’s jab, a quiet verdict that settles across the table like lead and makes the air harder to breathe.

I stand before anyone else can pin me down. “Convoy leaves at 0300. I’ll take point.”

“No,” Rush says. “You stay. Dalton and Deacon will run the decoy.”

I start to argue, but the words crumble before they leave my mouth. He’s right. Walking away isn’t an option, not while she’s here. My jaw clamps tight, muscles straining as I hold myself in check, the urge to fight his order and the need to obey tearing at me in equal measure.

Later, I catch her in the hall. She is in leggings and a worn t-shirt, hair pulled into a knot, laptop under one arm. She slows when she sees me, almost as if she’s daring me to block her path.

“You plan on standing guard outside my door all night?” she asks.

“That depends,” I say. “You planning on working around me again?”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “If by working around you, you mean doing the job you refuse to let me do, then yes. Someone has to chase the threads your team doesn’t see.”

I step closer, heat tightening the space between us. “Threads can wait. Staying alive cannot.”

She tilts her chin, eyes bright with challenge. “And if my work keeps us alive? If donors and shell companies are part of how they fund this, then my laptop is a weapon. You can shove me into a corner, or you can let me use it.”

Her words hit harder than any flirtation. She is staking ground, demanding I acknowledge it. My pulse kicks, my wolf prowls, but I force myself to hold steady. “Stay inside the lane we agreed. Overlaps, donor rosters, vendor shells. Nothing else.”

She brushes past me, shoulder grazing mine as she goes. “Then you’d better keep up, Ranger, because I’m not sitting idle while the world hunts me.”

The contact sears through me, and for a heartbeat I almost haul her back, almost give in to the storm clawing at me. Instead I lock my fists at my sides and let her walk away, the sound of her steps echoing like a dare.

At 0300 the convoy rolls out. Dalton drives the lead, Deacon close behind.

Rush escorts them through to the exit, engines low, lights dark, every move deliberate.

From the patio I track the shapes until the faint glow fades into the distance.

The night settles heavily afterward. The silence presses hard against me, leaving my chest hollow.

If the convoy gets ambushed, I won’t be there to pull them out.

If the ranch is hit, I’m the one left standing.

Either way, the risk gnaws at me, a choice with no clean answer.

Sadie appears at the French doors, barefoot, arms crossed. “You don’t trust them to handle it without you?”

“I trust them,” I say.

She leans against the frame, eyes narrowing. “And you don’t trust me either. That cuts both ways.”

That earns a dry laugh from me. “You’re wrong about that. I trust you to be you. At least you’re honest about it.”

She doesn’t blink. “And you?”

Her eyes blaze with defiance, a heat that cuts straight through me, steady and unrelenting no matter how hard I fight to contain it. That fire follows me through long nights, fraying my focus and dragging every thought back to her until I can barely think of anything else.

I never say what it does to me, how the pull nearly breaks me, how close I come to closing the space between us.

Every breath of hers feels like the one thing keeping me anchored.

I’d burn down everything else if it meant she stayed alive, and that vow stays locked in my chest where no one can see it.

They come back slower than they left, a careful, patient line that eats the black like a ghost train.

Headlights stay low until the gate clicks and the first truck eases through.

I can hear the tires on gravel, metal sighing as doors unlatch, and the low murmur of voices over mics.

Dalton climbs down when his truck stops, boots whispering on the porch steps.

Deacon follows, rigid as always, eyes scanning even with the job done.

Rush stays clipped, hands on his rifle until I wave him out of it.

Up close the convoy looks the same as when it rolled: scuffed armor, straps still tight, the smell of diesel and cold sweat riding the night air. Nothing missing. No blood. No bent metal. Nothing to show there had been teeth baring in the dark. It should settle me. It does not.

Dalton stops a few feet from the house and lets the hood of his jacket fall back. He gives me a look that says everything and nothing. “All clear. Road clear for miles. No sign of movement that wasn’t ours.”

Deacon’s laugh is short. “We saw a fox that thought it was braver than it had any right to be. Scared the hell out of Harris until he almost shot it. Other than that, quiet as a graveyard.”

I force the laugh out of my chest, but it sounds like metal scraping on glass. “You saw a fox and not a man with an AK. Lucky fox.”

Dalton’s jaw ticks. “Luck and good eyes.” He shifts his weight and glances toward the patio where Sadie stands.

The light from the house frames her, small and fierce and barefoot, as if she came straight from sleep and decided the night could wait.

Her arms are folded, but she does not look cold. She never looks cold.