Page 9 of Ranger’s Protection

I've seen it before. Hell, I've been it before, the first time someone tried to kill me in Afghanistan, I was functional through the firefight and then threw up for ten minutes straight the second we got back to base.

At least she's not throwing up.

Yet.

Behind us, the prisoner, Marcus Vale, according to the wallet I took off him before zip-tying his hands, shifts in the back seat. Testing the restraints. The sound of plastic creaking against wrists.

"Stop moving," I say without looking back.

He stops.

Smart. Not smart enough to avoid getting caught, but smart enough to recognize when pushing will get him hurt worse.

I'm taking the same back roads I used to get to the motel, but in reverse now and faster. The sedan handles better than I expected for a random rental car pulled from the Iron Phoenix's small fleet of civilian vehicles. Good suspension. Responsive steering. Diesel keeps them maintained the same way he keeps our bikes running, always perfect.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I wait until we're stopped at a four-way intersection before checking it.

**Phoenix:** *Status?*

I type back one-handed: *Package secured. Plus one. Twenty minutes out.*

**Phoenix:** *Plus one?*

*Prisoner. Has intel. Explain when I arrive.*

**Phoenix:** *Copy. We'll be ready.*

The light turns green. I pocket the phone and accelerate smoothly, taking the turn that'll put us on the county road leading back to Millhaven. Less traffic. Fewer cameras. More chances to spot a tail if Vale's people try to follow.

Speaking of which.

I check the rearview mirror for the dozenth time. No vehicles behind us that have been there longer than a mile. No motorcycles at all. No obvious pursuit.

Doesn't mean we're clear, just means they're not stupid enough to follow directly.

Vale is still silent in the back seat, staring out the window with that unblinking intensity that probably intimidates civilians. Doesn't do shit for me. I've stared down men twice his size with three times his body count. A Viper enforcer with a snake tattoo and a murder charge is just another Tuesday in my world.

Beside me, Delilah shifts. Small movement. Just adjusting her position. But it's the first voluntary motion she's made since we got in the car, which means some part of her brain is coming back online.

Good.

"You can ask," I say, keeping my voice low and even. Non-threatening. The tone I used to use when debriefing informants who were barely holding it together.

She doesn't respond immediately. I count to fifteen before she speaks.

"Ask what?" Her voice is hoarse. Rough from crying or screaming or both.

"Whatever you need to ask. About what happened. About what happens next. About anything."

Silence again. Longer this time. I'm starting to think she won't take me up on it when she finally says: "The man you killed..."

She trails off and I hear her shift in her seat, turning to look back at the prisoner behind us. Then she faces forward again quickly, like she can't stand to look at Vale for more than a second.

"Did you have to?" she finishes quietly.

The man by the nightstand. The one whose head hit the corner at exactly the wrong angle, who went down and didn't get back up. I knew she'd seen him. Knew she was trying not to look but couldn't help it.

"Yes," I say.