Chapter One
Garrett McCall braced under the bar, muscles tight as he pushed through another slow rep. The ache in his shoulder was sharp, a reminder of the op that had gone bad a week ago. He told himself the weight would work it loose, force the stiffness out. He needed control. Discipline. The rhythm kept his mind steady.
If he let go of that rhythm, the memories crowded in. Not just the chaos from last week, but years of missions that never really left him. Some with his current team, Crossfire Ops. More from his time in the Marines.
Faces. Sand and blood. Screams that still clawed through his head in the quiet hours. Baggage stacked so high it threatened to crush him. He could feel it eating at the edges of him like acid, and the only way to fight back was to keep moving.
Push harder. Don’t stop.
He would have stuck with it until his arms gave out if the training room door hadn’t flown open.
“Garrett?” he heard the woman call out.
Isla Prescott. Crossfire Ops’ top tech. Of course, she was a whole lot more than that to him, and she was part of that old baggage he was battling.
Garrett racked the bar and sat up fast. Yeah, it was Isla all right. She stood in the doorway, breathless, short choppy blonde hair sticking damp against her temples, blue eyes wide and frantic. Her phone was clutched tight in her hand.
Hell.
Something was wrong. But then he’d known that when he heard her call out his name. Even though they worked on the same team and had that baggage filled history together, Isla didn’t make it a habit of seeking him out.
He swiped sweat from his face with the towel. “What is it?”
“Trudy just called,” Isla blurted. Her voice was sharp, uneven. “She says someone’s out back at the ranch. Lurking near the sheds. She sounded scared.”
Garrett got another blast of the old baggage. And instant worry. Trudy Darcel. His foster mother. The woman who’d actually given a shit about him and vice versa. Trudy also wasn’t the sort to blow anything out of proportion. If she had sounded scared, then she likely had a damn good reason to be.
Garrett tugged his shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to damp skin, and shrugged into his jacket. Isla stayed close on his heels as they cut through the hallway and pushed outside.
The early evening air slapped him in the face. Late February, cold enough to sting his lungs, a reminder that winter wasn’t ready to loosen its grip. Gravel crunched under their boots as they hurried to his truck.
He climbed in behind the wheel, Isla sliding into the passenger seat. The engine rumbled to life, headlights spearing through the dark as he pointed them toward the road. Ten miles of blacktop stretched ahead, ten miles to the ranch where he had spent a decade of his life. Isla, eight years. Long enough for the place to carve itself deep into both of them.
“Did Trudy say anything else?” he asked, his voice low.
Isla shook her head. “No. Just that someone was out there. I considered telling her to call the county cops, but I figured we’d get there faster.”
They would. Because unlike the county cops, this wasn’t just a job for them. This was Trudy. This was a woman they’d protect at all cost.
He tightened his grip on the wheel. “Call Trudy,” he ordered, his voice activating the truck’s command system. The console lit up, dialing.
The line rang. And rang.
No answer.
His gut knotted hard, alarm spiking through him. Trudy might be seventy-three, but she sure as hell wasn’t fragile. She had a will of iron and the instincts to match. If she wasn’t picking up, then something was very wrong.
Garrett pressed harder on the gas. They had to get there. Fast.
The truck ate up the road, tires humming over the blacktop as the Hill Country rolled past in the dark. Ridges loomed like jagged shadows against a clouded sky, live oaks knotting the land on either side. It was country Garrett knew by heart. Every mile cut the distance between him and Trudy, and every mile tightened the coil in his gut.
Beside him, Isla shifted. He caught the gleam of metal as she drew a pistol from the slide holster at the back of her jeans and set it across her lap.
His eyes flicked to the weapon, then to her. “How you doing?”
She knew what he meant. He didn’t have to spell it out. That mission a year back had left her broken, spine opened up on an operating table. He knew the injury had been serious. Knew it was the reason she had been pulled from the field. What he didn’t know was how far she could push herself now if it came down to a fight.
“I can still kick a trespasser’s ass if it comes down to it,” Isla assured him, her gaze steady on the road ahead.
