I’m at the kitchen island, laptop open, finalizing the article. The keys clack under my fingers, the screen's glow harsh in the dimming light. The last paragraphs are almost done. Everything lines up like a noose, tight and unforgiving. I can feel the weight of it, the power of it. This story is going to burn everything down. The cursor blinks at me, mocking, as I read back the final line:The people of Valor Springs deserve justice, not silence.
I save the draft. Lean back. Rub my eyes, feeling the grit of too little sleep and too much screen time.
The cabin is warm, fire crackling low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the cedar walls. Outside, the January sun is already sliding toward the horizon, painting the sky through the window in oranges and purples.
I glance at the clock. Aaron should be back soon. The thought of him walking through that door, scarred hands reaching for me, low voice murmuring my name, sends a shiver down my spine, a mix of anticipation and the lingering fear I can’t shake.
I stand, stretching my muscles aching from yesterday’s training session. The flannel shirt rides up my thighs as I move, soft fabric brushing my skin. I walk to the window to look out, bare feet cool on the hardwood.
That’s when I see them.
Three men in black tactical gear. Masks pulled low over their faces. Moving fast and silent across the clearing toward the cabin, weaving through the long shadows of the live oaks like predators on the hunt. The lead one has a gun in his hand, thesecond a coil of rope, the third something too small to figure out what it is from this far away.
My heart slams into my ribs, so hard it hurts. I try to tell myself it’s just some of the other protection specialists running a drill. Would they do that this close to Aaron’s cabin?
I back away from the window, blood roaring in my ears. Grab the nearest thing to protect myself, a heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove, the weight solid and reassuring in my grip.
The front door explodes inward.
Wood splinters with a sharp crack, shards flying across the room like shrapnel. The lock gives way like paper, the door banging against the wall.
Two men rush in fast, boots thudding on the floor. The first one sees me, lunges.
I swing the skillet with everything I have.
It connects with his forearm, hard, the impact vibrating up my arms like a shockwave. He grunts, staggers back, clutching his arm, pain flashing in his eyes behind the mask. The second one is on me before I can swing again, grabbing my wrist, twisting viciously. Pain shoots up my arm, white-hot, burning, like fire racing through my veins. The skillet clatters to the floor, skidding across the hardwood with a metallic scrape.
I don’t stop.
I kick at the man, my boot connecting with a knee. The crack of bone or cartilage echoes. He swears, low and vicious, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free. I back up, heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else, the metallic taste of fear on my tongue.
The third man is in now. He’s bigger than the others, blocking the doorway like a wall. He’s the leader, I can tell by the way the first two glance at him, waiting for orders. His eyes are cold and flat behind the black balaclava, devoid of emotion, just purpose.
“You’re coming with us,” he says, voice muffled through the mask but cold, flat, like death itself. “Easy or hard. Your choice.”
I grab the kitchen knife from the block on the counter. It’s long and very sharp, the one Aaron uses to slice steak. The handle is smooth, cool in my palm. “Stay back.”
They laugh, a low, ugly sounds that make my skin crawl, raising goosebumps along my arms.
The big one steps forward, gloves creaking as he flexes his hands. “Put it down, reporter. You’re not getting out of this.”
I lunge, slashing at his arm. The knife whistles through the air. He dodges, faster than he looks for his size, grabs my wrist in a vise grip, twists until my fingers go numb from the pain. The knife falls, clattering to the floor with a dull thud.
I kick again, aiming for his groin this time. My foot connects with his inner thigh. He grunts, staggers back a step, breath hissing through his teeth.
The first man I hit with the skillet is up again. He charges, grabs my hair, and yanks my head back hard. Pain blooms across my scalp, sharp and stinging, like a thousand needles.
I scream, loud, raw, hoping someone on the ranch hears, the sound tearing from my throat until it hurts.
A cloth clamps over my mouth, and a sweet, chemical stench floods my nose, burning my lungs.
Chloroform.
I thrash. Buck. Fight with everything I have. I stomp on the first man’s foot, heel grinding down with all my weight. He yelps, grip loosening in my hair. I elbow the second in the ribs. He swears, doubles over. The big one recovers, pins my arms to my sides with one massive arm, squeezing until my ribs ache.
I bite at the cloth, twist my head, and manage to get a breath of clean air—cold, pine-scented.
“Aaron!” I scream, voice muffled but desperate, raw from the strain.
