Page 12 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

TRACE

T race didn’t waste time. The moment the alert flashed across the panel, he moved.

Macy watched from the bed, her body still humming from everything they'd just done, but her instincts snapping back to alert as Trace crossed to the console.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"The safehouse just triggered a breach alert.

" He toggled the encrypted feed and scanned the readout.

"Motion sensors lit up along the eastern perimeter.

Surveillance lost visual two minutes ago.

Last image shows three figures approaching in tactical gear.

Two guards are down, one unaccounted for.

Whoever's out there is surgical. Professional. And headed this way."

He didn’t say it, but she heard the implication loud and clear: They were next.

"Get dressed," he said, already striding across the room. "We leave in five."

He checked the room without seeing it. The real scan was inward. He knew how to hold a perimeter and how to take a shot. What he did not trust was the heat in his chest that kept pushing him closer to her, the same heat that could make a careful man hurry.

She was off the bed in a heartbeat, tugging on her clothes while he double-checked the exit routes on the encrypted map overlay. Outside, the sun was just turning to a pale gold, washing over the hills like a lie. Everything looked calm. But Trace knew better.

They emerged from the safehouse like shadows. Trace guided Macy to the evac vehicle hidden beneath a collapsible camo tarp in the dry wash. A few quick adjustments to the netting and the vehicle was revealed—a blacked-out utility rig with reinforced armor and a modified silent engine.

"Impressive. Are we just leaving the other one?"

"Yep."He opened the passenger door and looked at her. "Get in. Stay low. Stay quiet."

She nodded and climbed in. He circled the front, scanned the ridge line, then slid behind the wheel and powered it up.

The vehicle purred like a jungle cat as they cut across terrain, sticking to low cover and avoiding thermal detection lines, thanks to a custom low-emission navigation array built directly into the evac rig.

It linked with pre-set pathing software and topographic scans uploaded before the mission.

It was the kind of stealth exfil system only Silver Spur could design.

The moment the alert hit, it came online automatically, marking a clean route and pinging their next jump point.

Whoever was after them would find nothing but dust.

Macy stayed quiet, watching him. Trace’s jaw was locked tight, his expression grim, every muscle in his face carved from stone.

His grip on the wheel didn’t waver. It was strong, certain, a steady force that radiated control.

The tension rolling off him crackled through the air, as if sheer will alone kept the vehicle grounded against the pressure building around them.

Controlled. Calculating. But beneath his calm exterior, he could tell Macy sensed it—the change in his posture, the way his hand tightened just a fraction more on the wheel.

The instant calculation gave way to action, his whole body shifted into combat readiness.

She broke the silence with a crooked smile. "So, what's the going rate these days for selling your soul and a backdoor into Silver Spur’s network? Or do you think someone just gifted it to Nexus as a party favor?"

He could feel the corners of his mouth tug up, in spite of himself. She was irrepressible. It was one of the things he liked about her.

"Not possible," he said in all seriousness. "We built that system ourselves. It's cleaner than DARPA's. But if they’re getting close, it means they’re working with someone who knows our tech."

She exhaled. "Meridian."

His head snapped toward her. "Say that again."

"Meridian Industries. Top three defense contractors. I saw them listed in a ledger Nexus kept hidden off-network. There were transfers disguised as consulting fees. Big ones."

Trace’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. "That’s more than circumstantial. That’s conspiracy."

Macy stared at the landscape rushing past. "Chet was the one who coded the shadow ledger. That’s why he got killed. Not because he had a conscience, but because he got greedy."

Trace glanced at her, surprised. "You think Chet was the mole?" He hadn’t expected that twist, not from her. And certainly not now, when they were already spinning on the edge of something bigger. His focus sharpened, the pieces beginning to align in a way that made his gut tighten. If she was right, they weren’t just looking at corporate sabotage or conspiracy anymore.

This wasn't personal, and it never had been.

"I know it. I found the routing path he used. He wasn’t smart enough to hide it properly."

"Did he know?"

"I didn't think so, but if he or they knew, why not just kill me?"

"Because killing you would make people ask questions they didn't want asked. Framing you was easier. My guess is Chet had become a liability. If they kill him and frame you, they get rid of Chet and you and that buys them time."

Trace muttered a sharp curse and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, launching the rig onto a paved access road.

The tires gripped the asphalt with a snarl, the sudden momentum pressing them into their seats.

Gravel spit in their wake as the vehicle surged forward, the shift from off-road grit to hard pavement jarring yet seamless.

Trace kept his eyes trained ahead, his muscles tensed like a loaded spring, the pulse in his jaw ticking harder now with the weight of what they were heading into.

They merged with traffic before hitting a side lane that led to a nondescript warehouse with nothing but a Silver Spur logo stenciled discreetly on the gate.

Inside, a cascade of security protocols activated in rapid sequence.

First came the biometric palm scan, cool and precise beneath his hand.

Then the voice prompt—encrypted, low-toned, and requiring exact cadence.

A retinal scan followed, brief but blinding in its intensity.

Doors hissed open with hydraulic grace, each one revealing deeper layers of the stronghold.

They advanced through reinforced corridors until the final door sealed behind them, ushering them into the war room.

It was a cavernous chamber alive with pulsing data feeds, live comm channels, and wall-to-wall intel monitors.

It was the nerve center of Silver Spur Security, and the only place left where the truth couldn’t hide.

Screens lined the walls, each pulsing with live intel. Three operators turned from their consoles the moment Trace stepped inside.

"Status," he barked.

Jesse spoke first. "Take it easy Trace. We're already on it. We scrubbed the signal logs from the safehouse. There was a spike in an outdated frequency band, one Nexus used for ghost transfers. We found a breadcrumb trail."

Another analyst, Thompson, picked up the thread. "It links to Senator Patricia Haines."

Trace whistled. "This isn't just corporate espionage, it's treason."

Jesse nodded. "Haines has been diverting defense contracts to Meridian for years. Nexus was the middleman."

Thompson pulled up another feed. “And the alias Macy flagged earlier—a man we believe to be Dorian Kells—keeps showing up in Meridian’s hidden transfers.

He’s not on the official rolls, but he’s moving money on a scale that makes Haines look like cover.

” The name landed heavy in the room. Trace felt the shift: the target wasn’t just politics, it was power with teeth.

Macy stepped forward, her voice sharp and steady. "And now I’m the fall girl." She tossed a glance toward the screen, then back to Jesse. "Let me guess—cleaned out my accounts, revoked my clearances, and left me with a reputation in flames? Real subtle."

Jesse winced, then nodded. "You’ve got friends here, Macy. And we don’t burn our friends or our protectees."

"Good," Macy replied, lifting her chin. "Because I’m not going quietly. Let’s peel this thing back and see who else we can take down while we’re at it."

Jesse looked at her and then at Trace. He nodded as Jesse continued. "They pinned the breach on you. Your name is on the false transfer log."

Macy didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms and grinned. "Then we take the log apart. Piece by piece. And if they buried it deep, we bury them deeper."

Trace looked at the team. "Gear up. We go hunting."

He turned to Macy, his voice lowering just enough to draw her in. "You ready for this?"

"Do I get to wear something badass and shoot things?"

"No. You get to stay here and be safe. You're not an operative, Macy. Besides, I don't want to hear you complain that the tactical gear ruins your outfit."

"Please. I know I can make tactical look hot."

Trace shook his head.

"We might need her," said Jesse. "We can make sure she stays safe."

Trace looked from Jesse to Macy and back again.

"Trust me, keeping them close is often the best way to handle it," added Reed as he entered the warehouse.

Trace shook his head in surrender and handedher a lightweight tactical vest from the gear rack. "Put this on. It’s Kevlar-lined. You’ll thank me later."

She slipped it on and fastened the clasps with an ease that caused him to cock an eyebrow at her.

“Range days require gear,” she said, snugging the shoulder strap. “Plates slow you down, but soft armor keeps you moving. I prefer mobility.”

That earned her an appreciative look. He checked the fit and adjusted one strap near her shoulder.

"Perfect," he muttered. "Stay close to me. You move when I move. You shoot only if you have a clean shot."

"Got it, boss. Try not to get shot."

"Not in the plan."

Trace turned to Jesse. "Get the perimeter sweep uploaded into my tactical head-up display, the digital interface flashing with real-time motion tracking and heat signatures across the map. I want a clean exit path."