Chapter 1 #2
The night was quiet. Too quiet, maybe—the kind of silence that settled over Carolina woods when something had disturbed the natural order. He moved through the shadows with Delta-trained precision, checking sight lines, scanning for surveillance, cataloguing every potential threat and entry point.
Nothing. No vehicles on the access road. No movement in the tree line. Either Slade's people hadn't tracked her yet, or they were better at hiding than Cargo was at finding.
He didn't believe the second option.
Which meant they had time. Not much—a woman running from a man like Slade would trigger searches, phone traces, every resource a defense contractor with military connections could bring to bear. But enough time to assess, plan, and get her somewhere safe before the hunting parties formed.
Cargo returned to the shop to find Rebecca exactly where he'd left her, the gun still in her hands, her eyes tracking his movement as he came through the door.
"Clear?" she asked.
"For now."
He pulled a chair across from her and sat, the manifests spread on the table between them. In the harsh light of the back room, the bruises on her face looked worse. The split lip had stopped bleeding, but it would swell more before it healed.
Warren Slade had done that. Had put his hands on this woman and tried to kill her because she'd seen paperwork she wasn't supposed to see.
Cargo added that to the list of reasons Slade was going to regret the day he'd started his operation anywhere near Black Ops Brotherhood territory.
"Tell me about him," Cargo said. "Everything. Start with how you met."
Rebecca set the gun on the table, within reach but not aggressive. Sharp positioning. Everything about her was perceptive, which made her survival more likely but also made this situation more complicated.
Observant women asked questions. Smart women noticed patterns. Smart women didn't just accept protection without understanding what they were being protected from.
"We met at the roadhouse," she began. "Eight weeks ago. He came in alone, ordered good whiskey, tipped well. The kind of customer bartenders notice."
"And he noticed you."
"He made sure I noticed him noticing." Her mouth twisted. "I should have recognized the play. A man like that, interested in a woman like me? There's always an angle."
"What angle?"
"Cover." The word came out flat. "I told you—normal girlfriend makes a man look trustworthy. I was camouflage. Someone to bring to events, to mention in conversation. 'My girlfriend Rebecca, she tends bar, isn't that charming?'" She shook her head. "I was convenient and disposable."
Cargo's jaw tightened. "He underestimated you."
"Most people do." She met his eyes, and for a moment the fear receded, replaced by something fiercer. "I've been underestimated my whole life. It's why I'm still here."
That fierceness hit him somewhere unexpected. The will to survive that burned in her, the refusal to be broken even when the world kept trying—he recognized it because he carried the same thing.
Different circumstances. Same core of steel.
"He was charming," Cargo said. "Until he wasn't."
"Until I asked questions." Rebecca touched the folder of manifests.
"I should have left it alone. Pretended I didn't see anything, waited until morning, then disappeared.
But I asked, and his face changed, and—" She stopped.
"You know what it looks like when someone decides you need to die. The mask coming off. The calculation."
"Yes." Cargo did know. He'd seen it more times than he could count. "You ran."
"I ran. Grabbed what I could reach and went out the window and didn't stop until I got here."
"Why here?"
"Because you're the only person I've met in four years who looks at the world the way I do." Her voice dropped. "Like it's all threat assessment. Like everyone's a potential danger until proven otherwise. I thought—" She hesitated. "I thought you might understand."
Cargo did understand. More than she knew.
"You stumbled into something serious," he said, pulling one of the manifests toward him.
"These serial numbers—I recognize some of them.
Military equipment that walked off Fort Liberty, probably through a corrupt supply sergeant who knows what won't be missed.
Slade's the operation's face, but he's got people on the inside feeding him targets. "
"So what do I do?"
"Nothing, for now." He gathered the documents, handling them with the care they deserved. "My club has resources. Brothers who can dig into Slade's background, find out who he's working with, figure out how deep this goes. You stay here, stay hidden, and let us work."
"Your club." Something shifted in her expression. "The bikers who come into the roadhouse sometimes. Special Forces patches on their cuts."
"Black Ops Brotherhood." Cargo stood, moving to secure the manifests in his personal safe. "Veterans who handle problems the system can't or won't."
"And you're going to handle Warren."
"I'm going to make sure Warren Slade never puts hands on anyone again." He turned to face her, letting her see the promise in his eyes. "You came to me for help. That means you're under my protection now. My club's protection. Whatever it takes to keep you safe—that's what happens next."
Rebecca studied him for a long moment, reading him the way she probably read difficult customers at the bar. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because some of the tension bled from her shoulders.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Okay. I trust you."
Three words that hit harder than they should. Trust was something Cargo had learned to live without—too many burned supply chains, too many operators who'd died because systems leaked and people failed.
But this woman, bleeding and bruised and running for her life, looked at him and said I trust you like it was the simplest thing in the world.
He was going to make sure she never regretted it.
"Get some rest," he said. "Back room's got a cot. I'll keep watch."
She nodded, standing on legs that were steadier than they'd been twenty minutes ago. At the door to the back room, she paused.
"Cargo." She said his road name carefully, like she was trying it out. "Thank you. For not asking questions I can't answer. For just... helping."
"Get some sleep," he repeated. "Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
She disappeared into the back room, and Cargo returned to his position by the window, watching the Carolina darkness for any sign of approaching threats.
Warren Slade was out there somewhere, realizing his convenient girlfriend had become a loose end that needed cutting. He'd be making calls, activating contacts, turning every resource he had toward finding the woman who'd stolen his secrets.
He had no idea she'd run straight to the one man in Fayetteville who specialized in protecting things that couldn't be compromised.
Cargo settled in to wait, his hand resting on his weapon, his mind already planning contingencies.
Rebecca Paulson had stumbled into his shop carrying evidence of military theft and bruises from a man who'd tried to kill her.
That made her his responsibility now.
His to protect.
And God help anyone who tried to take her from him.