Chapter 11
MASON
Iregister the man Lily’s staring at in one glance. Mid-forties, weathered face, the kind of build that comes from ranch work rather than gym time. He moves with the casual confidence of someone who believes he rules his world.
His name is Patrick Kelly. I recognize him from the photos Luke showed us last week taken from the camera we have set up around the Turner Ranch. Kelly is the new foreman, which makes him either very unlucky or very complicit in the operation over there.
I’ve hunted monsters all over the world, but sometimes the monster in your backyard is the scariest—and Kelly’s boss, Cole Turner, is that.
Turner runs everything out of his ranch—cattle, horses, drugs, guns, people.
He has more people in his pocket then I do lint.
Hell, half this county’s too scared to even say his name out loud.
We crossed paths with the Turners because of Emma. The Turners wanted her land. When she wouldn’t sell, his brother, Eli, started threatening her, but Jake handled it where the law wouldn’t. We thought that would end the situation. Instead, Turner came after Emma himself.
Turns out Emma’s ranch sits right on top of one of his favored trafficking routes and fills a gap in his pipeline. Her father died trying to expose Turner’s operation, and Emma had plunged into it before any of us realized how deep this thing really went.
Turner is a piece of work. After Emma nearly got captured taking photo proof of the trafficking, he came to Blackthorn Ranch and said Jake owed him for keeping Emma alive.
Do I think he’s going to try to collect? Yeah, I do. We’re working on taking him out, but he’s been lying low, running his operation out of different facilities. We’ve been a step behind for the past six weeks.
We have a feeling Kelly does more than just run Turner’s ranch. We just haven’t seen proof of it.
Yet.
How does Lily fit into the scenario? Because staring at her right now, there’s not a doubt in my mind that she’s involved somehow. You don’t radiate this kind of fear over someone you know nothing about.
That can only mean two things: that she’s involved or someone she cares about is a victim. My jaw tightens. I don’t like either option.
Kelly moves to the bar and orders a whiskey. He's four stools down from us, close enough that I can hear him joke with Hank about the weather.
I lean toward Lily, careful not to touch her, keeping my voice low. “You know him?”
“No.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp.
I watch her carefully. “You sure about that?”
“I've never seen him here before.” She reaches for her beer, but her hand trembles, just enough that I catch it.
“But you’ve seen him someplace else.” I keep my tone neutral, non-threatening. “You went on alert the second he walked through that door. You're tracking his every movement. You're—”
“I'm not doing anything.” She cuts me off, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. “And even if I was, it's none of your business.”
I prefer seeing her angry over scared any day. “It is if you're about to do something stupid.”
“Stupid?” Her eyes flash and she sits up, riled. “You don't know—”
“Then tell me, pretty girl.” I lean closer, close enough that I catch that citrusy lemon scent again. Her shampoo? I want to drown in it. “Tell me why you're interested in Turner's new foreman.”
She stills, obviously thinking. “He’s Turner’s new foreman?”
I lower my head, close enough to kiss her. “Cole Turner isn’t someone you want to mess with, and that includes the men who work for him.”
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then she reaches for her beer again—a defensive gesture, something to do with her hands while she processes all I’ve said. But as her arm stretches forward, her sleeve rides up, exposing her wrist.
And I see it.
Black ink. Precise lines. Numbers beneath the bars—small, clinical, permanent, tattooed on the pale skin of her inner wrist where it would be easy to scan, easy to track, easy to catalog.
A barcode.
The mark is unmistakable. I've seen it before—in the photos Emma took of Turner’s operation, on the women in the shipping containers. It’s Turner's signature—his brand. His way of tracking inventory.
My vision narrows. My breathing goes shallow. Every tactical instinct I have screams into sharp, cold focus.
Lily was the victim—one of the ones taken, marked, and processed through his network like cargo.
The pieces snap into place with brutal clarity. The way she maps exits before she sits down. The way she scans for threats with military precision. The panic when I moved toward her—not fear of me, but fear of any man closing the distance without permission.
How the fuck did she get out?