1. Knight in Shining Tire Iron #2
Bishop glanced over his shoulder and leaned in, words just for me. “Orders are easy when you’re not the one catching rounds for someone else’s agenda.”
“Tell me about it.”
Beside me, Oscar froze. Muscles taut, ears forward. Trained for this, bred for war—but more than that, my partner. Years together meant I trusted him more than most men I’d served with. And right now, every line of his body told me the same thing: he had the scent.
Bishop’s eyes met mine—sharp, knowing. I nodded once.
“Moving,” he said, rifle up.
I stayed tight on his six, Oscar shadowing in silence.
Gunfire crackled ahead, muzzle flashes lighting the alley, the acrid tang of burned powder stinging my lungs. Two tangos, dragging the target—fast, but not fast enough.
“Taking left,” Bishop growled.
“Copy.”
Bishop fired first—one clean hit. I lined up and dropped the second. Both went down hard, the package crumpling to the ground, coughing and dazed.
“On your feet!” Bishop barked.
The man hesitated long enough for Oscar to lunge, teeth bared, a growl rumbling.
“Target secure,” I called into comms. “Exfil. Two minutes.”
We pushed toward evac, the rest of the team sweeping our flanks, but in the back of my mind, I knew—
We weren’t supposed to be this deep.
Six years later, I’d still remember this night. It was the moment I stopped trusting the people calling the shots.
***
Present Day
My sneakers pound the pavement with a steady rhythm, breath synced to the pace. Running clears the noise—one stride after another. The street is quiet, porch lights casting halos through the haze. Humidity clings, the Texas heat closing in.
McKinoak is small-town Texas at its core—lazy mornings, front porches, and people who wave whether they know you or not—a stark contrast with the past twenty years of my life.
Bishop brought me into Aegis. Security, extractions, high-stakes operations that blur the line between military precision and corporate efficiency. It’s not government work, but it serves a purpose. After leaving Delta, I needed that—even if it comes with its ghosts.
Oscar.
I take a breath, shaking off the thought as I round the last bend. I didn’t leave him. Not really. He has a good handler, someone I vetted myself, but the guilt gnaws whenever I think about him. We spent years together. Walking away from him felt like cutting off a limb.
Sweat trickles down my back as I roll my shoulders, walk inside, and go straight for the shower.
Steam, water, silence.
When I step out, I feel almost human again. A fresh T-shirt sticks to damp skin as I grab a Gatorade from the fridge. I’m about to sink onto the couch when movement outside catches my eye. Down the street, a car idles with hazard lights flashing. Not any vehicle—hers.
I don’t think. Keys gripped tight, I head out. She’s already behind the wheel, door snapping shut as I reach her. I lean and rap my knuckles on the glass.
“Need a hand?”
She startles, then rolls the window down, relief spreading across her face. “Yeah, that’d be great. I mean… I know how to change a tire, but I’d rather not do it in heels.”
A half-smile tugs at my mouth. “Fair enough.”
She pushes the door open and steps out. The first thing I notice is her legs—long, toned, leading up to a fitted skirt that’s wrecking my focus.
Up close, she’s even more striking. Not sharp. Not delicate. Natural, like she doesn’t have to try. I’m instantly drawn to her lips—deep, wine-colored, and begging to be kissed. I try to push the thought down, but it’s useless.
She looks at me with bright gray-blue eyes, and just like that, I forget how to breathe.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
Then, a noise pipes up from the car, snapping my focus. A kid, eleven or twelve, is watching us from the back window and grinning like he knows something he shouldn’t.
“See, Mom? Flat tires aren’t always bad.”
His voice is innocent. His tone? Not so much. Heat creeps up my neck as I glance her way.
“Spencer,” she scolds, the flush in her cheeks softening the edge. I fight the urge to laugh.
I stay quiet, running my fingers along the jagged rubber. The sidewall’s been cut clean through. “You got a spare?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she murmurs. “In the trunk.”
She moves around me toward the driver’s side, close enough for me to catch the scent of her perfume. Sweet. Intoxicating. She pops the latch, and by the time she straightens, I already have what I need. Dropping to a knee, I slide the jack under the frame and start cranking.
“Nice ink,” she says after a beat.
“Thanks,” I reply, leaving space for her to say more. She doesn’t.
Instead, she shrugs off her suit jacket and tosses it in the backseat. “God, it’s hot for April,” she mutters.
The movement draws my eye to her forearm—a guitar entwined with small flowers, just visible beneath her sleeve. Not the kind of tattoo you get on a whim.
“Nice ink,” I throw back, letting the corner of my mouth twitch.
Her gaze shifts to her arm before meeting mine again. The smile she offers doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks.”
I know there’s a story there, but I let it go.
“It’s not usually this warm?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Summer here is brutal,” she says. “But it’s usually late June before we see temperatures like this. God help us in August.”
“August in Texas?” I groan. “Guess I’ll find out if moving here was a mistake.”
“You’re new in town?” She asks.
“Yeah. I just took a job with Aegis Global.”
“Former military?”
I answer with a wordless nod. “Private sector now.”
The slightest movement shifts on her face—not wariness or surprise—just the guarded awareness of someone careful with trust. She tilts her head, filing the information away.
I grab the wrench and lean, breaking the lug nuts loose one by one. “I left the service a few months ago.”
She nods, understanding without me needing to explain. I keep working, the weight in her silence speaking louder than words.
“This work is different. Less deployment time. Still plenty of action. But we don’t take risky jobs unless we have to.”
She makes a quiet sound as I lift the spare onto the hub. I can feel her watching me—studying, assessing. She’s weighing every word.
I tighten the bolts in a star pattern, making sure the tire is secure before lowering the jack. The car settles with a soft creak.
Beside me, the shredded rubber lies in the dirt. I crouch, frowning. The tear is too precise. I stow it in the trunk, unease settling in my chest.
“This might seem paranoid,” I say, meeting her gaze, “but you should check your doorbell camera when you get home.”
Her brows pinch, the warmth in her expression cooling. “You think it was intentional?”
I give her a slight nod. “The cut’s too clean to be road debris. It looks deliberate. Probably happened overnight while it was parked.”
Something flickers in her eyes—concern, fear. I don’t like the idea of somebody messing with her car.
“I’m right across the street,” I add. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Okay, all set,” I tell her, giving the fender a quick pat.
“Thank you. Seriously. I owe you one.”
Before I can respond, the kid speaks up again— “I thought Miss ‘Independent Woman’ didn’t need no man?”
Her eyes widen. “Spencer Maddox,” she warns, but the smirk tugging at her lips gives her away.
He leans back, smug. “What? Just saying.”
She sighs, arms crossing as she glances at the window. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
I stifle a laugh, noticing how she manages him. Firm but warm. I like it.
He mirrors her, arms folded. “Nope.”
She turns to me, a smile breaking through the worry. “I didn’t catch your name?”
I offer my hand. “Mason. Matthew Mason. You can call me Matt.”
“Melina,” she says, her grip strong. Confident. “Melina Roderick. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
The moment our hands touch, there’s a spark—electric, sharp, and unexpected. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and that’s when I notice… no ring.
I hold on a beat longer than I should before letting go. “See you around, Melina.”
“See you around, Matt. And thanks again.” Her face could light up a war room. I nod and turn toward my house, but the connection between us doesn’t fade.
For the first time since I arrived, McKinoak doesn't feel like a stopover anymore. Maybe it’s the beginning of something more.
***
Melina
The entire drive to Spencer’s school, my mind keeps drifting back to him.
Matthew Mason. Even his name carries weight—steady, solid, a little rugged.
He looks the part too. Built like a man who has spent his whole life training for battle.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair just long enough to fall into a purposeful mess.
Earlier, it was still damp from a shower.
My traitorous brain ventures into dangerous territory at the thought.
Nope. Absolutely not. We’re not going there.
I grip the wheel tighter, but the image doesn’t budge—square jaw, a hint of scruff, eyes the color of aged whiskey.
Forearms thick with muscle, veins prominent beneath sun-warmed skin.
Strong, calloused hands moving with the kind of precision that suggests he’s handled far more complex tasks than changing a tire. And those shoulders… that back…
I blow out a slow breath, forcing my attention once more to the road as I ease into the drop-off lane.
“You’re quiet,” Spencer muses, shooting me a knowing look. “Thinking about your knight in shining tire iron?”
I almost choke. “I’m sorry… what?!”
“Remember? The guy who totally saved us from an unspeakable tragedy this morning. The one you definitely weren’t checking out.”
I scoff. “I was not checking him out.”
“Mhm. And I’m the King of England.”
“Spencer Maddox—”
He cackles, cutting me off. “Oh, come on, Mom. It’s not like you’re subtle.”
I point a warning finger at him, though we both know it’s for show. “You know what you’re not? Funny.”
He grins completely unbothered. Sometimes I swear this kid is way too aware of me. I shake my head, pulling the car to a stop in front of the school. “Alright, kiddo. Be good today, yeah?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m always good.”
I arch a brow. “Really? So, you didn’t get sent to the principal’s office last week for excessive sarcasm?”
Spencer flashes a smile like that was the best thing he’s ever done. “That… was a misunderstanding.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, dragging out the word. “Go. Before you make me late.”
“Later, mom.”
He shuts the door and takes off toward the school entrance, already caught up in conversation with a friend.
I roll down the window and call out, “Love you, buddy!”
He freezes mid-step, throwing a horrified look over his shoulder at me. “Mom!”
I grin, laying on the horn to drive it home. “LOVE YOU!”
“Dear. God. Stop,” he groans, picking up his pace while his friend laughs.
As I ease out of the parking lot, my gaze flicks to the phone mounted on the dash. I have to review the camera footage when I get home.
Matt wasn’t wrong about the tire—it did seem slashed. I hadn’t noticed anything off, but unease lingers.
That will have to wait, though, because right now, I need to get to Dallas and crush this pitch.
***
By the time I pull into my driveway that afternoon, the buzz from my meeting still hums beneath my skin.
I think James liked the pitch. At least…
he didn’t throw me out of his office. Landing him as a client could mean steady income for months, and in freelance work, that’s as close to job security as it gets.
As I cut the engine and reach for the keys, I stare at the place where my car was parked overnight. The unease from this morning creeps back, low and tight in my stomach.
Matt told me to check the doorbell camera, but what he doesn’t know is that I have two extras—one angled over the driveway, the other covering the side yard. Declan bought them for me last Christmas, insisting we needed more security with him not living at home anymore.
Secretly, I’d thought he was being overprotective.
Now? I’m grateful as hell.
I step inside and drop my purse on the counter, heading straight for my laptop. My fingers move quickly as I log into the Ring app and pull up the driveway footage.
I scroll through hours of recordings, staring at nothing but stillness and shadows. And then—
3:26 a.m.
A figure.
My stomach clenches.
At first, it’s just a shape at the edge of the frame. I lean in, my breath caught, moving the timeline back, then nudging forward, frame by frame.
Movement.
A man emerges from the dark, slow and intentional. He stops at my car, hovering near the rear passenger wheel. His posture is tense, head tilted like he’s listening for something. Waiting.
Then—one quick, sharp motion.
I don’t need to see the blade. I know exactly what I’m looking at.
He slashed my tire.
A cold prickle runs up my spine as I rewind and scrub through the clip again, searching for anything I can use. The angle isn’t great. No face. Just broad shoulders, a hood pulled tight, and the way he moves is methodical, like he knows where the blind spots are.
Something about him feels… familiar. Just out of reach, but there. Someone is sending a message, and I can’t shake the sick feeling they’re only getting started.