Page 16 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

TRACE

T he drive to Nexus Technologies buzzed with tension and low conversation, the kind of focused chatter that kept nerves sharp and minds occupied.

Trace had his hands steady on the wheel, eyes sharp on the road, while Macy filled the space with her restless energy.

She balanced a tablet on her knees, checking schematics and system protocols she still remembered from her years in the building.

In the back, Hawke was checking magazines and muttering about how he hated babysitting, while Reed rode shotgun, his eyes on the mirrors.

“You two sure you can keep up?” Macy teased, not glancing up from the tablet.

Reed gave a dry chuckle. “Keep your head in the game, little girl. We’re here to make sure you don’t trip any alarms you can’t talk your way past.”

Hawke leaned forward, grinning. “I don’t mind the alarms. I just mind running in boots on asphalt. But if Trace says you’re worth it, guess we’ll find out.”

Trace cut them both a glance. “Eyes sharp. This isn’t a joyride.”

Macy arched an eyebrow. “Says the cowboy who thinks I can’t handle myself.”

Reed snorted. “You two sound like Harper and I..."

"Better than Jesse and Keely," Trace retorted.

"Hey, I heard that," said Jesse over the comms.

"The lot of you sound like some weird married couple, and I don't mean with the women," said Hawke. "Try not to kill each other before we get the proof we need.”

"Is he always this much fun?" asked Macy.

"No. You're catching him on a good day," quipped Reed.

Trace caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “You sure about this?” he asked.

“You asking if I can get in,” she said, eyes never leaving the screen, “or if I can help keep us alive once we’re inside?”

“Both.”

Her mouth curved. “Then yes, and yes. You going to keep questioning me, or finally admit you like having me on your team?”

Trace grunted. “We’ll see if you’re still smiling when the alarms start singing.”

“They won’t. Not if you follow my lead.”

That drew his gaze. “Your lead?”

“Don’t get huffy, cowboy. You get to play muscle. I’ll play brains. Classic arrangement. Ask Reed. I've heard Harper say it works for she and Reed.”All three men looked at her. "What? Just because you banned me from the club doesn't mean I haven't kept up with my friends."

The corner of Trace's mouth twitched, the closest thing he’d given her to a smile since they'd left the Iron Spur. “You call me muscle again and I’ll turn this muscle to turning your cute little ass to bright red when this is over.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Promises, promises.”

He strangled the groan that rose in his throat as Hawke and Reed chuckled. She knew exactly how to needle him, and part of him suspected she did it to keep him sharp. It worked.

Reed muttered, “Damn place looks hungrier than I remember.”

“Buildings don’t get hungry,” Hawke replied, adjusting his rifle. “People inside do. Let’s hope we don’t end up on the menu.”

Trace and Macy left the SUV three blocks out, the night pressing heavy around them. Hawke and Reed peeled off to set up overwatch and exfil cover, their voices a low growl in Trace’s earpiece promising backup if things went south.

The alleys swallowed them in damp shadow as they closed on the glass-and-steel bulk of Nexus, the building looming like a predator waiting for the first mistake.

Every step echoed too loud, every gust of wind carried the bite of risk.

Trace kept his frame low, Glock in his hand and an automatic rifle strapped across his back.

His gaze stayed sharp, sweeping every corner with relentless focus.

Macy tugged him toward a side entrance hidden near the loading bay, her confidence sharp enough to cut through the tension.

He held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. “Focus. It's up to you to get us inside so we can get the evidence.”

“Good. No pressure." They approached the door. "Keypad’s the same." She grinned. "They never updated the firmware,” she whispered. “Lazy. Watch my back... oh wait, that's wrong. Watch my six.”

She crouched by the keypad, tool roll already unspooled beside her. The dim light caught on the clipped wires as her fingers moved with practiced ease.

“Older relays chatter if you pulse the power at the seam. Locksport 101,” she said, working the leads with quick hands. “Dana would laugh at this.”

He planted himself between her and the open lot, every sense strung tight, the weight of the Glock steady in his palm, pulse drumming as the night pressed against them.

The open expanse felt like a rifle scope waiting to line them up.

Her fingers worked furiously, the bypass tool glinting in the dim light, tiny sparks reflecting in her eyes.

Each second stretched, thick with the threat of discovery.

Then the pad blinked green, sharp against the dark.

She turned, smug despite the danger, and whispered, “Thirty seconds. New record.”

“Good girl,” he murmured.

The praise landed hard in him. He had kept those words locked down for years because it bound more than obedience. It bound trust. If he took that trust and failed her, the break would not be hers. It would be his.

Her breath hitched, a flicker of nerves she buried beneath a practiced roll of her eyes.

Her pulse thudded in her throat, a mix of adrenaline and the heat Trace stirred in her, but she masked it with sass.

“Stop distracting me. We have evidence to steal, and I’d rather not get caught because you can’t keep your mouth shut. ”

Inside, the air carried the sting of recycled ductwork, antiseptic, and a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat.

Trace didn’t have a name for it, but he knew the type—sterile, chemical, the kind of bite that spoke of wires stripped too hot, circuits burned, things pushed past their limits.

He glanced at Macy. "Did it always smell like this?"

She nodded. "Yes, it clung to everything—clothes, hair... like a shroud."

Experiencing the scent for the first time, he could understand. It unsettled him with its strangeness, twisting in his gut, a reminder of just how deep she’d been in this place—and how much she risked walking back into it.

She moved ahead with determined strides, ponytail swinging, confidence cutting a path through service halls only someone who had lived and worked here would know.

Trace shadowed her, Glock low but ready, every muscle strung tight.

His gaze swept doorways, corners, shadows, every nerve on high alert for the ambush he knew could come at any second.

.

“You sure this is the right floor?” he asked.

“Positive. Chet kept his shadow ledger in the R he could imagine it once cluttered with someone’s plant and mug, laughter or humming filling the air.

Now the silence pressed in like a ghost of everything ordinary that had been scrubbed away.

Macy dropped into a crouch beside a locked cabinet.

Trace watched her closely, noting the tight line of her mouth, the sweat collecting at her temple.

For a heartbeat her hands shook, nerves bleeding through before she stilled them with a sharp breath.

Fear shadowed her eyes, but defiance flared brighter, sparking like a live wire in the dark.

“Give me a minute,” she whispered.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” Trace answered, voice even but edged with steel.

She cut him a look, wicked and teasing despite the tension. “You really enjoy timing me, don’t you?”

“Motivates you.”

Her laugh was soft, edged. “Motivates me to imagine what happens if I miss the mark.”

Trace leaned close, his tone rough against her ear. “That imagination will become reality if you’re not careful.”

Her fingers faltered for an instant, then flew faster, urgency in every movement. The lock snapped open with a click that sounded too loud in the tight alcove. She slid a drive into the port, and the monitor flared, code cascading across the screen in a pale glow.

“Got it,” she whispered, adrenaline tight in her voice. “Pulling metadata. Ghost signatures are intact.”

“Talk simple, Macy.”

“They rewrote the logs, but the prints don’t match. I can prove tampering.” She glanced up at him. “This clears me.”

“It helps. Now hurry.”

Trace’s jaw set as he scanned the data rushing by. Beneath layers of fronts and blind transfers, one name surfaced again and again—Kells. Always hidden, always pulling strings.

“It’s Dorian Kells,” Macy breathed. “He’s been behind it from the start.”

Trace gave a grim nod. “Then he’s the one we burn next.”

Bars pulsed across the screen, steady until one froze jagged, the glow painting Macy’s face. Her breath hitched.

“Problem?”

“System hiccup. Might’ve triggered a silent flag.”

Trace’s gut clenched. “That’s it. We’re moving. Grab the drive.”

She yanked it free, shoved it into her pocket, and they slipped into the hall. The corridor narrowed around them, shadows thick, a red glow pulsing above the far exit like a predator’s eye snapping open. Motion sensors live. Every step forward would be noticed.

“Trace,” she whispered.