Page 2 of Ranger’s Protection

Simple. Direct. Exactly what I need.

I pocket the phone and check my weapon, a Glock 19, chambered round, two spare magazines in my jacket. Knife on my belt. Keys in my pocket positioned so I can access them without fumbling. Every movement automatic, the kind of preparation that happens without conscious thought after enough years of needing to be ready for anything.

The walk to the motel takes ninety seconds. Long enough to catalogue every car, every window, every possible angle of approach or escape. The men by the office don't look up. Good. I'm not trying to be invisible, that draws more attention than blending in, just unremarkable. Another traveler stopping at a cheap motel off a secondary highway.

Room 23 is on the second floor, tucked in the back corner where the exterior stairwell dead-ends. Tactical nightmare. Only one way up or down, but at least it means anyone coming for her has to use the same route. Easier to defend. Harder to escape.

I take the stairs two at a time, keeping my tread light, one hand near my weapon. The walkway is empty except for a housekeeping cart abandoned near room 18. I make a mental note of it. It could be legitimate, could be cover, and keep moving.

Room 23's door is battered blue paint over cheap wood. I can see scuff marks near the handle where someone might've tried to force it before, or where a thousand guests kicked it open when their hands were full. The peephole is dark. No sound from inside.

For a brief, irrational second, I wonder if I have the wrong room.

Then I remember the code.

Three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, one knock.

Phoenix's contact was explicit about it. She won't open the door for anything else. Smart. Paranoid, but smart. The kind of paranoia that keeps you alive when men with guns are hunting you.

I knock. Three times, steady. Pause long enough to count two breaths. Twice more. Another pause. Once.

Silence.

I count to ten, listening. Nothing.

Then, faint, so faint I almost miss it, the scrape of a chain being moved. The click of a deadbolt. The second click of another lock.

The door opens four inches, and a sliver of face appears in the gap. One wide brown eye, a curve of freckled cheek, a tangle of reddish-blonde curls that catch the walkway's terrible fluorescent light.

"You're not what I expected," she says.

Her voice is softer than I anticipated. A little hoarse, like she's been talking to herself to stay awake or hasn't spoken to another person in days. There's an edge of exhaustion underneath, but also something sharper. Evaluation. She's not just looking at me, she's reading me.

"Graham Nash," I say, keeping my voice low and even. "Iron Phoenix MC. Phoenix sent me."

"You have ID?"

Smart. Paranoid. Definitely the right room.

I pull out my driver's license slowly, no sudden movements, and hold it up to the gap. She stares at it for longer than necessary, comparing my face to the photo, probably memorizing details in case she needs to describe me later. The accountant in her, maybe. The part of her brain that studies numbers, patterns and inconsistencies.

"You're supposed to be alone," she says.

"I am."

"How do I know that?"

"You don't," I admit. "But if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have knocked. I'd have kicked the door in."

She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to panic swallowed down hard. "That's not as reassuring as you think it is."

Fair point.

"Delilah Moore," I say. "Worked as an accountant for a shipping company that was laundering money for the Vipers. Witnessed a murder. Went to the police, who had Viper connections. Someone tipped off the club, and now you're hiding in a motel room waiting for someone to either kill you or get you out."

I pause, holding her gaze through the narrow gap.

"I'm here to get you out."