Hawk’s face darkened. “Jesus.”
Russ just wrote it down, pen steady, though I saw the tremor in his jaw. “That explains the clean-up,” he said quietly. “Can’t leave behind evidence if what you’re running is medical.”
Blade finally stilled his knife, eyes flat as stone. “Organ trafficking.”
Logan swore under his breath. “That’s not cartel territory. That’s international. Contractors. Labs. Maybe even governments looking the other way.”
I turned on him, my eyes sharp. “You’re saying you’ve seen this before?”
His throat worked, but he nodded. “In the sandbox. Units went missing. Locals disappeared. Reports buried. Always the same—clean sweep, no bodies, no casings. Like ghosts. We whispered about it, but command never gave answers.”
Hawk spat into the dirt. “And now it’s here.”
The weight of it pressed down on me, heavier than the storm. My men had faced war zones, trafficking rings, corruption in every shade—but this wasn’t just another fight. This was systemic. Protected. And if they were operating here, in Texas, it meant they already had roots.
I looked at each man in turn, letting the silence burn the truth into them. “This wasn’t random. We stumbled into something big. Bigger than cartel, bigger than cops on the take. They wanted us tested. Measured. And next time, they won’t pull back.”
Russ closed the notebook, his eyes steady. “So what’s our play?”
I clenched my fists, the scar on my knuckles burning with old memory.
“Our play,” I said, my voice low and final, “is simple. We hunt them down. We expose them. And we tear this thing apart before they take another soul.”
The men nodded, grim and silent, each one ready to bleed for it. Even Logan, standing at the edge of the circle, gave one sharp nod.
For the first time since the ridge, I felt it—not relief, not hope.
Resolve.
This wasn’t just survival anymore.
This was war.
58
Adam
We crowded into the back of the motel’s dingy conference room, the kind meant for church socials or business luncheons, not battle strategy. The table was scarred wood, the chairs wobbled, and the fluorescent light overhead buzzed like a fly. But it was private, and right now, privacy was currency.
Russ spread out the files he’d pulled together. Maps, dispatch logs, scraps of intel. Hawk leaned close, his good hand tapping rhythm on the table. Blade stayed silent, sharpening his knife with slow, steady strokes that set my nerves on edge but steadied his. Logan stood at the far end, hands braced on the chair back, his badge still clipped to his belt like a challenge.
“Alright,” I said, my voice cutting through the buzz. “We don’t have time for bureaucracy. We don’t wait for the Rangers to find answers—they won’t. This operation is too clean. Too protected.”
Russ slid a map across the table. “Routes in and out of the ridge. Vans came north from the border. No cartel markings, but the tires were military grade. Imports. Not standard issue here.”
Hawk grunted. “Means they’ve got funding.”
“Funding and clearance,” Logan added. His voice was low, steady. “I can dig into purchase records. But if this runs through contractors, the paperwork won’t be on any open server. It’ll be buried under fake shell companies.”
All eyes cut to him. He held the weight of it, didn’t back down.
“Do it,” I said finally. “But you don’t breathe a word to your department. Not one. This leaks, we’re finished.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Russ pulled another sheet forward, this one filled with numbers. “Medical supplies. Invoices routed through a clinic out of El Paso. On paper, it’s small—two doctors, one nurse. But their shipments don’t match their size. Too much saline. Too many refrigeration units.”
My gut went cold. Refrigeration. Storage. Preservation.
