Page 3 of Ranger’s Protection

The eye watching me doesn't blink. I can see the calculation happening behind it: weighing risk against risk, danger against danger. Trusting me could get her killed. Not trusting me could get her killed. No good options, just the least bad one.

She closes the door.

For a second I think she's decided I'm the worse risk, and I'm already mapping out contingencies: how to convince her, how long I can stay here before the exposure becomes too dangerous, whether I should call Phoenix for backup instructions.

Then I hear the chain slide free.

The door opens.

She's shorter than I expected, barely comes up to my shoulder, and rounder everywhere. Curves under an oversized hoodie and jeans that have seen better days. Her hair is a wild mass of curls pulled into a ponytail that's given up halfway through, strands escaping in every direction. Freckles everywhere, across her nose, her cheeks, disappearing under the collar of her hoodie.

And her eyes.

Wide, brown and exhausted but still sharp. Still taking me in with that same intensity. I have the distinct sense that she's categorizing everything about me the way I cataloged the approach to this room, every detail filed away, every inconsistency noted.

"You really came alone?" she asks.

"I really came alone."

"Why?"

"Because one person is harder to track than two. Now pack everything and be fast."

"I've been packed for two days."

She turns and grabs a duffel bag from the bed, already zipped, already ready. Smart. She's been waiting for this exact moment, preparing for it while she waited alone in this terrible room.

I scan the space quickly. Unmade bed. Takeout containers on the dresser. Curtains drawn tight. The kind of chaos that comes from being trapped somewhere you can't leave but can't settle into either.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"No," she says. "Nothing I want to remember about this place."

"Good. We need to move."

She slings the bag over her shoulder, winces slightly at the weight, and follows me to the door. I step out first, scanning the walkway. Still empty except for that housekeeping cart. The men by the office are still smoking. No new vehicles in the lot.

Nothing's changed, which means nothing's wrong yet.

I gesture for her to stay close. She does, falling into step behind me with the silence of someone who's learned to move quietly. We take the stairs quickly but not frantically, just two people checking out, nothing worth noticing.

We're three steps from the bottom when I hear it.

Motorcycle engines.

Not just one. Multiple. The unmistakable roar of bikes being pushed hard, getting closer fast. My hand goes to my weapon. Delilah freezes behind me, one hand gripping the railing.

"Is that—" she starts.

"Yeah."

The bikes swing into the parking lot from the far entrance. Four of them, riding in a tight formation. I catch a glimpse of cuts, colors I don't recognize, patches that might be Vipers or might be someone connected to them.

Doesn't matter which. They're here, and we're exposed.

"Back inside," I say. "Now."

But Delilah's not moving. She's staring at the bikes, her face gone pale, one hand pressed to her mouth like she's trying to hold in a sound that wants to escape.