Page 4 of Ranger’s Protection

"I know him," she whispers. "The one in front. That's… Oh god, that's the man from the office. The one who—"

She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.

The murderer she witnessed. Here. Now.

I grab her wrist and pull her back toward the stairs. "Inside. Go."

This time she moves, stumbling up the steps while I cover our retreat. The bikes are spreading out, blocking exits, and I’m sure they've done this before. Hunting someone. Cornering them.

We make it to the second-floor walkway before one of them looks up and sees us. He points and shouts something I can't hear over the engines.

They all look up.

And I realize with perfect, crystalline clarity that we’re not getting out of here safely.

Not even close.

Chapter 2 - Delilah

The man pointing at us has a face I see every time I close my eyes.

Thin lips always pressed into a cruel line. Scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Tattoo of a snake crawling up the right side of his neck, the head disappearing behind his ear. Dark eyes that don't blink often enough, like he's always watching, always calculating.

The exact same face he wore when he pressed the gun to David’s temple in the office supply closet while I watched through the gap in the door, too terrified to breathe, too frozen to run.

He killed David for skimming money. Shot him execution-style while two other men held him down. I heard David begging. Heard the gunshot. Heard the sound of his body hitting the floor.

Then I heard them talking about how to dispose of it, where to dump the body, whether anyone would notice he was gone.

I would. David had a daughter. Seven years old. Brought her to the office sometimes when his ex-wife couldn't pick her up from school. She'd sit at his desk drawing elaborate princesses while he finished paperwork, and he'd always have gummy bears in his drawer for her, the good kind, the expensive organic ones because Emma had food allergies.

I reported it because Emma deserved to know what happened to her father.

Now the man who killed him is here, staring up at me with recognition dawning across his face, and I can see the snake tattoo flexing as he tilts his head.

"Inside," Graham says again, his voice harder now. Not asking. Commanding.

This time my body obeys before my brain catches up. I stumble toward room 23, my duffel bag banging against my hip, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the strap.

We reach the door, still open from when we left thirty seconds ago, and Graham pushes me inside ahead of him. I stumble across the threshold and turn just in time to see him sweep the walkway with his eyes one last time before following me in and slamming the door shut.

Three locks engage in rapid succession. Deadbolt. Chain. The push-button lock on the handle that wouldn't stop a determined child but might buy us seconds.

Every second counts when men with guns are coming.

"Bathroom," Graham says. "Get in the bathroom and stay low."

"What are you—"

"Bathroom. Now."

He's already moving, pulling a gun from somewhere under his jacket, checking something on it. The weapon looks huge in his hands but somehow also natural, like it belongs there.

I should move. I should follow his instructions. I should do literally anything except stand here staring.

But my legs won't cooperate.

Graham glances at me, and something changes in his expression. Less commanding. More concerned. "Delilah. I need you to trust me. Get in the bathroom. Lock the door. Get in the tub and stay down until I tell you it's safe."