I keep my back to the cliff drop-off, eyes locked on the single dirt track that snakes up from the main road. One way in. One way out. It’s a classic setup for a whistleblower meet, the kind that screams paranoia, but after six months of this story, I’ve earned every ounce of caution. Sources vanishing like smoke, cryptic texts warning me off, shadows that feel like eyes on my back. Tonight could be the break I need—the audio proof tyingDeputy Harlan Tate to Victor Ramsey’s dirty money, the bribes that greased the wheels for those massive land grabs.
11:43.
Come on, Source_47. Don’t leave me hanging.
I shift my weight from one boot to the other, gravel crunching softly underfoot. My fingers tighten on the envelope containing three thousand bucks in crisp twenties, a pittance for what this contact claims to have: recordings, timestamps, account numbers, the smoking gun that turns my story from local scandal to federal takedown. Ramsey’s empire crumbles, Tate goes down with him, and I get the byline that finally puts me on the map.
11:44.
Any second now, those headlights should pierce the dark.
Instead, I hear footsteps. Not from the road, but from the shadows to my right, the dense cedar thicket, black as pitch.
I spin, my hand diving into my pocket for my pepper spray, heart slamming against my ribs.
A man materializes from the darkness like he was born in it.
Tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill the night, long duster coat swaying with his stride, black Stetson pulled low to shadow his face. He’s moving fast, purposeful, boots silent on the gravel despite his size.
I open my mouth to scream, to demand who the hell he is.
His hand clamps over it first, his big, rough, calloused palm sealing my lips, smelling faintly of leather. His other arm bands around my waist like iron, lifting me off the ground in one effortless motion, pinning my arms to my sides.
Panic explodes.
I fight, twisting like a wild thing, kicking backward, my heel connecting with his shin. It’s like kicking a tree trunk—solid, unyielding. I throw my elbow back, and it glances off abs thatfeel carved from stone. I bite down on his hand, teeth sinking into the meaty part of his palm.
He doesn’t even grunt. Doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his grip, hoists me higher against his chest, and starts walking like I’m a sack of feathers, like carrying a thrashing, furious woman is just part of his evening routine.
I manage to wrench my mouth free for a split second. “Put me down, you bastard!”
“Quiet,” he says against my ear, voice low and calm, rough with a Texas drawl. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m getting you out.”
Getting me out? Out of what?
I thrash harder, nails raking at his arm, but he’s got me locked tight, his body heat bleeding through his coat into my back. He’s solid everywhere, hard muscle, no give, the kind of strength that comes from years of pushing limits. His breath is warm on my neck, steady, controlled, while mine comes in panicked gasps.
He carries me deeper into the trees, away from the overlook, to where a matte-black pickup is hidden under low-hanging branches. The tailgate is down. He sets me inside it like I’m something breakable and explosive all at once, one hand still over my mouth, the other pinning my wrists together in his scarred grip.
Up close, in the faint moonlight filtering through the cedars, I finally see him.
Strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a thin scar running from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Eyes the color of a winter sky—pale blue, piercing, unreadable but intense, like he’s already mapped every escape route in my mind. His hands are rough, scarred knuckles, calluses that speak of hard work, fights won, maybe lives taken. And his voice, God, his voice, low, gravelly, the kind that vibrates through you, makes you feel it in your bones.
“Listen to me,” he says, leaning in close, his face inches from mine. “My name is Aaron Jenkins. Your editor, Laura Price, hired me. She knows you’re in danger. Those men coming up the track right now? They’re here for you. I’m your bodyguard. I’m getting you out alive. Nod if you understand.”
Bodyguard? Laura hired a bodyguard?
My mind races. Laura’s been nervous, sending me texts about pulling back, calls asking if I’m sure about the meet. But this? Sending a stranger to snatch me from the shadows?
I stare at him, heart still thundering. He’s not lying. I can feel the calm certainty in his voice, the way he holds me without hurting, just restraining. But trust? That’s a big ask.
Still, I nod once, sharp, reluctant.
He releases my mouth but keeps his grip on my wrists, loose now, almost gentle. “Good. We’re leaving. Stay quiet.”
I open my mouth to demand more. I want to ask how he knows Laura, why she didn’t tell me, what the hell is going on, but then I hear an engine, low and predatory, coming up the road. Headlights sweep the overlook, catching the edge of my Jeep in their glare.
Aaron’s eyes flick to the light, then back to me. “Decision time, Megan. You come with me now, or you stay and take your chances with them.”
