Chapter 7
They came at midnight.
Float heard the engines first—multiple vehicles cutting their headlights on the bluff road, running slow and quiet like predators circling prey. He'd been watching from the cabin window for three hours, waiting for exactly this.
"They're here." He grabbed his rifle and checked the magazine. Full. "Stay in the cabin. Watch the back."
Delaney moved to the rear window without argument, the hunting rifle steady in her hands. "How many?"
"At least two vehicles on the road. Probably more coming from the river."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. Good. He needed her solid, needed to know she could hold her position while he handled what was coming.
His phone buzzed. Cottonmouth: In position. Road covered.
Float typed back: River approach. I've got it.
He slipped out the back door and into the darkness.
The bluff dropped sixty feet to the river below—limestone cliffs and cedar roots, a trail that only someone who knew every inch of this country could navigate in the dark.
Float had fished this stretch of water for six years before he lost everything.
He knew where the banks were steep, where the footing was treacherous, where a man could slip and fall and never be found.
Tonight, that knowledge would keep Delaney alive.
He moved along the bluff edge, staying low, listening. The night was thick with cicadas and river noise, but underneath it he caught the sound of boots on gravel. Men trying to be quiet and failing.
Voices drifted up from below.
"—approach from the trail. Ellers takes point—"
"—she's got a biker with her. Just one—"
"—doesn't matter. Ten against two. Get the drive, get the woman—"
Float's blood went cold. Ten men. They'd brought ten men to take one photographer and the evidence she carried.
He keyed his phone again: Ten hostiles. Split approach—road and river.
Spillway responded instantly: Road team engaging in 60 seconds.
Float checked his position. The bluff trail emerged from the trees twenty yards ahead, a narrow path that climbed from the river to the cabin. Anyone coming up would be silhouetted against the water, visible targets in the moonlight.
He settled into the shadows and waited.
The first shot came from the road.
Not a warning—Ridgerunners didn't warn. The crack of gunfire split the night, followed by shouting, the roar of engines, the chaos of an ambush sprung.
Float heard men scrambling below. The river team breaking cover, trying to reach the bluff before their backup collapsed.
"Move! Move! Up the trail—"
Shadows emerged from the tree line. Four men, five, pushing hard up the narrow path. Float let the first two pass his position—they'd run straight into the cabin's sight lines, straight into Delaney's rifle—and focused on the ones behind.
The third man up the trail was the heavyset one from Delaney's photos. Database handler. Manager type.
Float let him pass too. Not his target.
The fourth man was Rick Ellers.
Wiry build. Forgettable face. The same hands that had smashed Delaney's camera and promised to do worse.
Float stepped out of the shadows.
Ellers saw him too late—turning, reaching for the gun at his hip, eyes going wide in the darkness.
Float hit him low and hard.
They went down together, rolling on the limestone edge where the bluff dropped away to nothing. Ellers fought like a man who'd done this before—elbows, knees, trying to create distance, trying to get his weapon clear.
Float didn't give him the chance.
He drove his fist into Ellers' throat. Felt cartilage crunch. Ellers choked, gasped, and Float used the moment to pin him against the rock, one hand on his chest, the other closing around the gun that was halfway out of its holster.
"You smashed her camera."
Ellers tried to speak. Nothing came out but a wet gurgle.
"You threatened her." Float stripped the gun from his hand and tossed it over the bluff. "You came to her studio, her home, and you told her next time it wouldn't be equipment."
He leaned in close, letting Ellers see his face in the moonlight.
"There isn't going to be a next time."
Ellers' eyes went wide. He tried to scramble backward, toward the trail, toward escape.
Float caught him by the collar and hauled him to the edge of the bluff.
Sixty feet of nothing. Limestone and shadow and the river running black below.
"This is for her," Float said.
He let go.
Ellers' scream lasted about three seconds before the rocks cut it short.
The gunfire from the road had stopped.
Float grabbed his rifle and moved toward the cabin, blood singing in his veins. The two men who'd passed his position were down in the clearing—one crawling toward the tree line with a bullet in his leg, the other motionless near the porch steps.
The cabin's back window showed Delaney still in position, rifle raised, eyes scanning the darkness.
She'd held her ground. She'd put bullets in men trying to reach her, and she hadn't run.
Something fierce and possessive roared through Float's chest.
Mine.
He cleared the remaining men from the bluff approach—three more who'd frozen when their leader went over the edge, easy targets in the moonlight. Two dead before they could raise their weapons. The third surrendered with his hands up and got a rifle butt to the skull for his trouble.
Cottonmouth's voice crackled through the night: "Road's clear. Four down."
"Bluff's clear." Float kept his voice level even though his pulse was still hammering. "Ellers is dead. Went over the edge."
A pause. Then: "Good. Bring the woman to the compound. This location's burned."
Float holstered his rifle and walked to the cabin's front door.
Delaney met him on the porch, the hunting rifle still in her hands. Her eyes swept over him—checking for damage, cataloging threats, the same systematic assessment she brought to everything.
"You're not hurt."
"No." He stopped in front of her, close enough to touch. "You?"
"No." She looked past him to the bodies in the clearing. "How many?"
"Ten came up the bluff. None of them are leaving."
Her gaze moved to the edge where he'd thrown Ellers. She didn't ask. She didn't need to.
"The one who smashed my camera?"
"Over the cliff." Float reached out and took the rifle from her hands, needing to touch her, needing to confirm she was whole and safe and still here. "He won't hurt you again. He won't hurt anyone."
Delaney held his gaze for a long moment. Something passed between them—understanding, maybe. The acknowledgment of violence done in her name.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." Float's voice came out rough. "Just let me get you somewhere safe."
They loaded the Jeep in fifteen minutes.
Spillway and Cottonmouth handled the bodies while Float helped Delaney gather her gear. The laptop came out of the floor safe, the backup drive went into her jacket pocket, and everything else got thrown into bags without ceremony.
"Location's compromised," Cottonmouth said when Float passed him near the tree line. "They knew where to find you. That means they've got eyes we haven't found yet."
"The compound?"
"Clean sweep last week. And we've got better security than a river cabin." Cottonmouth's expression was unreadable in the darkness. "She handled herself?"
Float looked back at the cabin, where Delaney was hauling her camera bag to the Jeep with the same determination she brought to everything else.
"She put two men down from the back window. Never flinched."
Something shifted in Cottonmouth's expression. Respect, maybe. Or recognition.
"Good. We're going to need that."
"What do you mean?"
"Ellers was the field crew leader. There's someone above him running this operation." Cottonmouth started walking toward his bike. "We killed the hands tonight. The head's still out there."
Float watched him go, then turned back to Delaney.
She was standing by the Jeep, arms crossed, watching the bodies being dragged into the trees with an expression he couldn't read. Four years in the Army, she'd said. Photographing things that didn't officially exist.
She'd seen worse than this. But that didn't mean she had to see it again.
He crossed to her and put himself between her and the bodies, blocking the view.
"We're moving to the compound. You'll be safer there."
"Will I?" Her voice was flat. "They found this place. They'll find me wherever I go."
"Not there." Float reached out, couldn't stop himself, and cupped her face in his hands.
Her skin was cold, her eyes were steady, and she didn't pull away.
"The compound is Ridgerunner territory. It's got walls, cameras, brothers on patrol twenty-four hours a day.
Anyone who tries what happened tonight will die before they get through the gate. "
"You can't promise that."
"I can." He leaned in close, close enough that his breath warmed her lips. "Because I'll be the one killing them."
Delaney stared at him. He saw the moment she decided—not to believe him, exactly, but to trust that he meant every word.
"Okay." She stepped back, breaking the contact. "Let's go."
Float let her pull away. Let her climb into the Jeep and start the engine and pretend that whatever had just passed between them was nothing more than adrenaline and proximity.
He knew better.
She was under his skin now. In his blood. The woman who'd stood in the back of a cabin with a rifle and held her ground while men came to take her.
Ellers was dead. The river crew was scattered. But the operation behind them was still running, still watching, still hunting.
Float swung onto his bike and pulled out of the clearing, the Jeep's headlights steady in his mirrors.
The compound was an hour away. Delaney would be safe there, surrounded by brothers who'd seen her prove herself tonight.
And Float would be right beside her, making sure nobody got close enough to threaten what was his.
Not again.
Not ever.