Cooper (Warrior Security)

Chapter 1

Ryan “Coop” Cooper

I checked the magazine on my Glock for the third time since we’d pulled up to the barn, counting rounds I already knew were there.

Fifteen in the mag, one in the chamber. The familiar weight of it tucked against my kidney was about the only thing keeping me grounded while Diesel launched into another one of his jokes from the driver’s seat.

“So this ATF agent walks into a barn, right?” Diesel’s laugh was already building, that wheeze-grunt sound that made my skin crawl. The SUV’s interior reeked of his cigarettes and stale coffee. “Farmer’s got his sheep all lined up, and the agent says—”

“Jesus Christ, not the sheep one again.” Snake didn’t look up from cleaning his fingernails with a butterfly knife in the passenger seat, the blade catching the late-afternoon sun streaming through the barn’s broken slats. “You told that one last week.”

“Different punch line this time, asshole.” Diesel pulled out a cigarette, his scarred fingers making the simple action look threatening.

Everything about Diesel looked threatening—six-four, shoulders like a linebacker gone to fat, face that had lost too many bar fights to count.

The kind of man who enjoyed violence the way other people enjoyed baseball. “See, this time, the farmer says—”

“Save it.” Snake’s voice stayed flat. “We’re here.”

Tommy laughed anyway, too loud, too eager. Kid couldn’t be more than twenty-two, all nervous energy and desperation to belong. But at least he had a normal name, unlike everyone else who sounded like a villain gang from some 1980s comic.

Tommy’s hand kept drifting to the Beretta tucked in his waistband, touching it like a talisman as we got out of the vehicle. “Maybe we could hear it on the drive back? I mean, if Coop don’t mind.”

Poor bastard had no idea these men would sacrifice him in a heartbeat. Diesel would feed him to the wolves without blinking.

I forced myself to chuckle. “Sure, kid. Nothing like Diesel’s comedy hour to make three hours feel like ten.”

“Ay, fuck you too, Coop.” But Diesel was grinning, showing teeth stained yellow from decades of cigarettes. “Least I know how to have a good time. You’re wound tighter than a nun’s asshole.”

The barn stretched around us—forty feet wide, maybe sixty deep.

Two exits: the main door we’d come through and a smaller door near the back corner, half hidden behind rusted farming equipment.

Hayloft overhead accessed by a ladder that had seen better decades.

Windows set too high to be useful as exits, but they’d make decent sniper positions if someone wanted to pin us down.

The smell hit in waves—old hay going to rot, motor oil from the equipment, mouse droppings, and underneath it all, that peculiar scent of abandonment.

Places left to die always smelled the same.

I’d learned that in Afghanistan, then Iraq, then a dozen other places Uncle Sam had sent me to play in the shadows.

Six weeks playing this role. Six weeks of being Coop—arms dealer, ex-military washout, man with connections and no conscience. Six weeks of laughing at jokes about dead federal agents, of talking about weapon shipments like they were produce deliveries.

The transformation was getting easier. That’s what scared me.

“This’ll work.” Snake finally looked up from his knife, those dead eyes scanning the barn with practiced assessment.

Where Diesel was obvious violence, Snake was the kind that crept up silently.

Never raised his voice. Never made threats.

Just looked at you with those flat, reptilian eyes until you understood that arguing would be the last mistake you ever made.

“Good sight lines from the loft. Multiple exit points. Far enough from the main road that nobody’s accidentally stopping by. ”

“Oliver’ll like it,” Tommy said, trying to sound knowledgeable. “Fits his parameters perfectly.”

The kid didn’t realize Oliver didn’t give a shit about his opinions. Julian Oliver cared about three things: money, weapons, and his grand vision of a new America rising from the ashes of the current government. Tommy was just cannon fodder, too stupid to realize it.

“I’ll check the loft for storage space.” Tommy headed for the ladder, eager to prove his worth to men who’d sell him out for pocket change.

I pushed off from the wall. “I’ll check the back section. See how much weight those old stalls can hold.”

“Don’t take all day jerking off back there.” Diesel lit his cigarette, the flame from his Zippo casting shadows across his scarred face. “Oliver wants an answer by tonight. This place works or it doesn’t. Simple as that.”

“Everything’s simple to you, Diesel.” I kept my tone light, teasing. The kind of ballbusting these assholes expected. “That’s why God made you big instead of smart.”

Snake’s lips twitched—barely perceptible unless you were watching for it. Getting Snake to almost-smile was like getting a compliment from God. It meant you belonged. It meant you were trusted.

It made me sick to my stomach.

The stalls were darker, afternoon shadows pooling in corners where the light couldn’t reach. The floorboards creaked under my weight, but they were solid. They’d hold crates of weapons, ammunition, and whatever else Oliver was planning to stockpile for his revolution.

Footsteps whispered from behind the last stall—too light for a man, too deliberate for an animal.

My hand found my Glock without conscious thought, thumb on the safety, finger indexed along the frame. I eased around the corner, footfalls silent on the packed dirt.

A woman emerged from the shadows, camera raised to her eye, studying how the light fell through a gap in the wall.

She was adjusting the lens, completely absorbed in her shot, oblivious to the danger she’d just walked into.

Blonde hair twisted up in a messy bun, wisps escaping to catch the light.

Green flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal delicate wrists.

She lowered the camera, and the world stopped.

Those eyes—warm and golden in the afternoon light. That little furrow between her brows when she concentrated. The way she bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. The scatter of freckles across her nose that she’d always tried to cover with makeup.

Mia Thornton. After all this time, Mia fucking Thornton.

My chest constricted like someone had wrapped steel cables around my ribs and started cranking them tight. Every muscle locked rigid, fight-or-flight instincts screaming contradictory orders.

Run to her. Run from her. Protect her. Get her the hell out before—

She looked up, and our eyes met.

The color drained from her face. Her lips parted, my real name starting to form—

I moved fast, hand coming up sharply for silence. Three strides and I had her backed deeper into the stall, using my body to block anyone’s view from the main barn. She hit the wall with a soft gasp, camera clutched to her chest like armor.

“You can’t be here.” The words came out low, urgent, completely different from the lazy drawl of the Coop these guys knew. To her, I was Ryan, and hearing my regular voice after six weeks felt like breaking character in a performance where forgetting your lines meant death.

“Ryan? What are you—”

“Don’t say that name. Please.” I glanced back toward the main barn.

Diesel’s cigarette smoke drifted up toward the rafters.

Tommy’s footsteps echoed from the loft above, heavy and careless.

Snake had gone quiet—which meant he was listening.

But then again, Snake was always fucking listening. “They can’t know that name.”

Confusion flooded her features, searching my face for answers I couldn’t give. “What’s going on? Why are you with those men?”

“There’s no time. You have to get out. Now.” Her vanilla scent filled my lungs, and I saw the pulse jumping wild in her throat. That spot I used to kiss first, every time.

Christ. Focus.

“I’m working.” That stubborn chin tilt that meant she was digging in. God, I had loved it so much once. Now it was going to get her killed. “The real estate company hired me to photograph—”

“I don’t care if God himself hired you.” Desperation bled into my voice. She needed to understand. Needed to be afraid enough to run. “I am with people who will kill you just for being here. For seeing their faces. Because it’s Thursday and they’re bored.”

Diesel’s laugh rang out, ugly and harsh. Mia flinched. Good. Be afraid. Be smart. Be alive.

“What are you doing with these people?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is you leaving. Back door, where you came in.” I nodded toward the corner where that smaller door waited, barely visible. “Your car?”

“Quarter mile down the access road.” Her voice had gone small, scared. Good.

“Go. Run. Don’t look back. Don’t stop until you’re three towns over.”

She reached for my hand, and the familiar warmth of her fingers sent electricity shooting up my arm, straight to a heart I’d thought I’d trained to stop feeling. “Ryan, I—”

“Don’t.” The word came out harsher than intended, and she flinched. “Just go. Please, Mia. If you ever cared about me at all, go.”

Something in my voice convinced her—maybe the desperation, maybe the barely controlled fear. She nodded, already backing away, moving like a ghost toward that rear door.

I turned, forced myself to walk loudly toward the other section of stalls, scuffing my boots against the floor. Making noise. Being Coop, not Ryan.

“Nothing back here but rat shit and broken boards,” I called out, pitching my voice to carry. “If we store anything here, we’ll need new plywood. Maybe some poison bait stations.”

Her footsteps whispered across the old hay. Almost there. Ten more feet to the door. Twenty seconds to the trees. Two minutes to her car—

“Hey! Someone’s back there!”

Fuck.

Diesel’s voice cracked like a whip from outside.

Through the gap in the stalls, I saw him coming around the barn’s exterior—must have stepped out for a piss or to check the perimeter.

He had Mia by the wrist, dragging her back through the door she’d almost escaped out of.

She struggled against his grip, feet sliding in the dirt as he hauled her inside like a rag doll.

“Look what I found sneaking around outside.” Diesel shoved her forward into the open space of the barn. She stumbled, caught herself, camera still clutched against her chest with her free hand. “Little mouse made it about ten feet before I spotted her.”

My mind went into overdrive, calculating angles, distances, probabilities. Three armed men. Diesel close to Mia, Snake with the fastest draw I’d ever seen, Tommy fumbling but armed. My Glock had sixteen rounds. I might get Diesel before Snake put two in my head.

Might.

“The hell is she doing here?” Tommy started down the ladder, hand fumbling for his Beretta. “This place is supposed to be abandoned.”

“I’m just a photographer.” Mia held up her camera with her free hand. Christ, her voice. Still musical even when terrified. “The real estate company sent me to—”

“Real estate? Who cares?” Tommy’s voice pitched higher as he reached the ground. “She’s seen the trucks. The plates. Our faces. She knows we’re here.”

I watched Mia’s face as understanding dawned. Watched her realize these weren’t just crude men who’d let her go with a warning. The little color she’d regained drained from her skin again, leaving her pale as winter moonlight.

“Then we got ourselves a problem, don’t we?” Diesel kept his grip on Mia’s wrist, yanking her closer. “And I only know one way to solve problems like this. Quick and permanent-like.”

Six years. Six years, I’d stayed away to keep her safe.

Six years of checking her Instagram from burner phones, of driving past her apartment at three a.m. just to see her lights on and know she was alive.

Six years of knowing there were other men holding her, kissing her—I may not have ever seen it, but it was happening—living the life I’d walked away from.

All to keep her out of my world, because I knew I brought danger.

I never dreamed it would be this sort of danger.

“Please, I won’t tell anyone—” Mia’s voice broke.

“’Course you won’t.” Diesel’s free hand went to the knife on his belt. “Dead girls don’t tell stories. How you want to do this, Snake? My way takes longer, but it’s more fun.”

Snake stepped forward, drawing his SIG Sauer in one fluid motion. No emotion on his face. Just business. “No time for games. Two to the chest, one to the head. Clean.”

He raised the pistol, aiming center mass.

Mia’s eyes—those beautiful eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon—went wide with terror. A sob escaped her throat. She was going to die, thinking I was just standing here. Watching. Doing nothing.

Snake’s finger moved to the trigger.

My body coiled tight as piano wire. Three seconds until he fired. I could draw, maybe get one shot off before—no. The math didn’t work. She’d still be dead.

Two seconds.

There had to be another way. Had to be—

One second.

I had to fucking do something, even if this got me killed. I stepped forward, using the drawl I’d perfected the past six weeks.

“Hang on there. I don’t think so, fellas.”