"Maggie."
I glance at the document, at the cursive script. "Magnolia Brooks?"
Her jaw tightens, muscles flexing. "Nobody calls me that."
"Copy that."
I study the paperwork, the unsigned lines, the amount. Both signatures are required. They need her to sign. Which means whatever story her brother told her about their mother hiding something?—
Outside, I hear it. Vehicles approaching fast, engines roaring, tires on gravel.
Backup. Already.
"We're out of time." I grab her arm. "Move. Now."
She pulls away from my grip, snatches the trust documents from the table. "I need these!"
I don't argue. Don't have time. She'll need to see them later anyway when she realizes what they really mean.
We move through the warehouse fast. I take point, weapon up, scanning corners. Maggie follows closely, and moves right—reading my hand signals without instruction, staying in my blind spot, keeping low. Definitely trained.
Outside, the desert air hits us warm and dry. My truck is four hundred yards away across open ground. The headlights in the distance are closing fast.
"Run."
We sprint. Sand and scrub blur past. Maggie keeps pace with me, breathing hard but controlled, no complaints, no slowing down. Behind us, the roar of engines gets louder, and then gunfire erupts—poorly aimed, panic fire, rounds kicking up dirt ten feet to our left.
We reach my truck, I get her into the passenger seat, slam the door, and slide across the hood to the driver’s seat. The engine roarsto life. I slam it into drive just as the first cartel vehicle comes around the warehouse.
More gunfire. Rounds ping off my armored truck bed, spider-web my rear window.
I return fire through my window, three-round burst controlled and precise. The lead vehicle's windshield shatters, and the SUV swerves hard before the driver recovers.
I floor it, and we fishtail in the sand before the tires catch. Desert dust billows behind us, and bullets are still flying, but we're pulling away, faster—my truck is built for this kind of shit.
Highway 82 stretches out ahead, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the scrub. I check the mirrors constantly: two vehicles on our tail, black SUVs kicking up their own clouds, closing the gap despite my lead. I've got the faster rig and more ground clearance, but they're persistent fucks, spraying rounds that ping off the tailgate.
Maggie doesn't freeze. Adrenaline's still pumping through her; I see it in the set of her jaw. She twists in the passenger seat, snatching the AR-15 from the rack behind us—my spare, always loaded for bear.
"Hold steady," she snaps, bracing one elbow on the windowsill as she leans out, wind whipping her hair like a storm.
The first burst from her rifle cracks sharp over the engine roar, stitching holes across the lead SUV's windshield. The driver swerves, tires spitting out rock and sand, but she adjusts, cool as ice, and fires again. The vehicle fishtails hard, flips once in a plume of dust and glass, rolling to a stop in a crumpled heap off the shoulder.
The second SUV veers to avoid it, buying her a clean shot. She nails the grille—radiator explodes in a hiss of steam—and follows with a headshot through the side window. The rig slows, veering into the ditch, no more pursuit.
Damn. I've run with some of the best—SEALs, Rangers, you name it—but that was surgical. No hesitation, no spray-and-pray bullshit. She's a force, this woman, turning the tide like it was nothing.
And now, sliding back into her seat like she just finished arange drill, she holsters the rifle and asks, casual as a Sunday drive, "Where are you taking me?"
Not a blink, not a tremor in her voice. If anything, the firefight sharpened her edges. Impressed doesn't cover it; the woman's unbreakable.
We're clear. No more bullets, just the hum of the highway and the fading echo of gunfire. She settles back, fingers tightening on those trust documents, but her shoulders betray her now—a faint quiver running through them like a low current.
Her breaths come quicker, shallower, hitching in her chest as if the air's grown too thick to pull in deep. Blood from her temple wound drips steadily, dark spots blooming on the white paper in her lap like ink from a broken pen.
"Somewhere safe."
"What about Tyler?" Her voice rises. "You have to go back for him."
