Chapter Five
The tire tracks told a story Shadow didn't like.
He crouched behind the Mother Road Motel, studying the impressions in the red dust. Wide tread, heavy vehicle, parked here long enough to settle before pulling out.
The pattern matched the truck from last night—the one that had been waiting at the access road, the one whose driver had put rounds in the dirt near Ramona's feet.
They'd been here. Watching. Waiting.
And they'd be back.
Shadow straightened, scanning the tree line that bordered the motel property. Nothing moved, but that didn't mean nothing was there. The Crenshaws had eyes everywhere in the eastern Panhandle. Thirty years of building an operation meant thirty years of building a network.
His phone buzzed. Striker.
"Two vehicles staged a mile east on the county road. Three men, rotating watch on the motel entrance."
"How long?"
"Since before dawn, based on the coffee cups in the truck bed. They're not hiding—they want us to know they're there."
Shadow's jaw tightened. Boyd wasn't subtle. Broken wrist or not, the man was sending a message: We're coming, and there's nothing you can do about it.
"Hold position," Shadow said. "Radio if they move."
"Copy."
He pocketed the phone and headed back inside. Ramona was where he'd left her—sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by papers, running calculations on a notepad with handwriting that got smaller as the numbers got worse.
She hadn't slept. He could see it in the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. But she hadn't broken either.
"We've got company," he said.
Her head came up. "Boyd?"
"His people. Two trucks, three men, watching the front entrance." Shadow moved to the window, checked the parking lot through a gap in the curtains. "They've been there since before dawn."
Ramona set down her pen. Her face was calm, but he could see the fear underneath—the kind of fear that came from being hunted, from knowing the predators were circling closer.
"How do you know it's Boyd?"
"Striker's got eyes on them. Can you ID a truck? Personal vehicle, not ranch fleet."
She stood, crossed to the window. He stepped aside to give her room, but not much—close enough to feel the heat of her, close enough to grab her if something went wrong.
"Let me see."
He handed her the small binoculars Hatchet had included in the kit. She adjusted the focus, scanned the distant tree line until she found what she was looking for.
"Dodge Ram. Dark blue, lifted suspension." Her voice was flat. "Dent in the rear quarter panel, driver's side."
"You're sure?"
"I put that dent there myself." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Fence post. He was on my property without permission."
Shadow filed that away—this woman who'd damaged a Crenshaw truck with a fence post because he'd crossed a boundary. Not the kind of woman who backed down. Not the kind of woman who'd be easy to protect.
Not the kind of woman he could stop thinking about.
"That's Boyd's personal truck," she continued. "He only drives it when he's making a point."
"The point being?"
"That this is personal now." She lowered the binoculars, met his eyes. "I embarrassed him. You broke his wrist. He's not going to stop until he's settled the score."
Shadow took the binoculars back, let his fingers brush hers in the exchange. She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
"Then we make sure he doesn't get the chance."
He crossed to the duffel bag Hatchet had sent—tactical supplies, medical kit, and a few items that would void warranties and violate federal statutes if anyone asked too many questions. The trip flare was at the bottom, compact and ugly and exactly what he needed.
"What's that?" Ramona asked.
"Insurance." He headed for the back door, the one that opened onto the service alley behind the motel. "Stay here. Don't open the door for anyone but me."
"Shadow—"
"Anyone but me, Ramona."
She opened her mouth to argue. He could see it building—the stubbornness, the refusal to be sidelined while someone else fought her battles. But something in his face must have stopped her, because she just nodded.
"Be careful."
"Always am."
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. Careful wasn't his style. Careful was for men who had something to lose.
You have something to lose now, a voice whispered. You just won't admit it.
He pushed the thought aside and went to work.
The trip flare took ten minutes to rig—positioned in the service alley, wired to trigger when the back door opened from outside. Anyone trying to breach from the rear would get a face full of blinding light and a three-second warning that Shadow intended to use.
Ridge appeared at the end of the alley, silent as his namesake.
"Perimeter's clear," the tail gunner reported. "No movement in the tree line, no vehicles on the back roads. They're focused on the front entrance."
"For now." Shadow finished the wiring, tested the connection. "They're waiting for something. More men, maybe. Or orders from Ellis."
"You think the old man's running this personally?"
"I think Boyd's wrist means Ellis can't ignore us anymore." Shadow straightened, wiped the dust from his hands. "The barn fire was a message. What comes next is a statement."
Ridge nodded, his deep-set eyes steady. The man didn't talk much, but when he did, it was worth hearing.
"Watch rotation," Shadow said. "Four-hour shifts. You take first, I'll relieve you at—"
His phone buzzed again. Striker.
"Third vehicle just arrived. Four more men. They're gearing up."
Seven men total. Plus whoever was driving the trucks. More than enough to overrun a motel with three defenders and a woman who'd already lost everything once.
Shadow's chest tightened. Not with fear—with anticipation. The familiar coiling of violence, the readiness that had lived in his bones since McAlester, since before.
"How long until they move?"
"Unknown. But they're not just watching anymore. One of them's got a shotgun out."
Shadow looked at Ridge. The tail gunner's expression hadn't changed, but his hand had drifted to his belt, to the knife that lived there.
"Change of plans," Shadow said. "We're not waiting for them to come to us."
He strode back toward Ramona's room, mind racing through options. The motel was defensible, but not against seven men with rifles. They could call for backup from the compound, but that was two hours away—plenty of time for Boyd to burn this place down with all of them inside.
No. They needed to move. Get Ramona somewhere safe while he and the brothers dealt with the threat.
He pushed through the door without knocking.
Ramona was on her feet before he'd finished entering, papers clutched in her hands, eyes wide.
"What is it?"
"More company." Shadow crossed to the window, confirmed what he already knew—the distant glint of sunlight on chrome, more vehicles joining the watch position. "Boyd called in reinforcements. Seven men, at least. Probably more coming."
"Seven—" She stopped, processed. "He's serious."
"He was always serious. Now he's angry." Shadow turned to face her, letting her see the truth in his eyes. "They're not watching anymore. They're gearing up."
"For what?"
"For whatever it takes to make you sign that paper."
Ramona's chin came up. That stubborn set to her jaw, the one that made him want to shake her and kiss her in equal measure.
"I'm not signing anything."
"I know." He closed the distance between them, stopping just inside her space. Close enough to touch, close enough to protect. "Which is why we're leaving."
"Running?"
"Repositioning." His hand found her elbow, steadied her. "There's a difference."
"Doesn't feel like one."
"It will when we come back and burn Boyd's operation to the ground."
Something flickered in her eyes—not hope, exactly, but something adjacent. Trust, maybe. The beginning of it.
"Where are we going?"
"Compound. It's fortified, defensible. You'll be safe there while we deal with this."
"And my distillery? My land?"
"Will still be there when this is over." He let his grip tighten, just for a moment. A promise. A claim. "I told you—we don't let predators hunt on our borders. The Crenshaws have been hunting too long."
Ramona was quiet for a moment. He could see her calculating—the risks, the costs, the chances of survival if she stayed versus if she ran.
Smart woman. She'd weigh every option before she moved.
"Okay," she said finally. "I'll go to the compound."
Relief washed through him, unexpected and unwelcome. He shouldn't care this much. She was a job, a protection assignment, a problem to be solved.
But he cared anyway. And that was going to be a problem.
"Pack your documents," he said, releasing her arm. "Everything you can't replace. We leave in five minutes."
"What about you?"
"I'll be right behind you." He was already moving toward the door, toward the fight he could feel building in the distance. "Ridge will drive you. Striker and I will handle the tail."
"Shadow."
He paused, hand on the doorframe.
Ramona stood in the middle of the motel room, surrounded by the paperwork of her life, looking smaller than she had any right to. But her voice was steady when she spoke.
"Don't do anything stupid."
He smiled—the real one, the one that made women nervous for reasons that had nothing to do with violence.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He left before she could call him on the lie.