Chapter 4
ZANE
The woman in my bed stirs, her arm brushing against mine. What’s her name again? Something with an “L.” Lauren? Lila? Doesn’t matter. She’ll be gone by sunrise, same as all the rest.
I grab the phone, the cold metal grounding me. Damon’s private line. If he’s calling the burner, it’s not to shoot the shit.
I swing my legs off the bed, the hardwood cool under my bare feet.
The woman murmurs something in her sleep, her long hair fanning out on the pillow.
I move to the window, cracking it open to let in the night air, thick with the scent of the desert.
My apartment is small and bare—a one-bedroom with a couch that’s seen better days, weights stacked in the corner, and a single shelf lined with books I never finish reading.
It’s not home; it’s just a place to crash between jobs.
Flipping the phone open, I press it to my ear. “Zane.”
“I need you on surveillance.” Damon’s voice is clipped, straight to the point. “Her name is Mia Henson.”
The name clicks, like a gear snapping into place. I know it’s not from personal experience, but it sends my instincts buzzing.
“And the man terrorizing her,” Damon continues.
“Jason Whitmore,” I finish, the name leaving my mouth like venom. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Damon goes quiet for a second, and I know I’ve surprised him. “You know him?”
The memory hits me like a punch: Kandahar. The dead informants, the dirty deals, the look on Whitmore’s face when he walked away with a plea deal while the rest of us were left cleaning up his mess. The bastard’s name tastes like copper in my mouth.
“Yeah,” I say, voice tight. “I know him. Last I saw him, he was cutting a deal to save his own ass after botching a mission and getting good men killed. What the hell is he doing stalking a woman and her kids?”
“Long story,” Damon replies. “Right now, I need you on this. Can you handle it?”
I let out a sharp laugh, bitter and cold. “Six months ago, someone hired my old firm to track down his ex. We didn’t take the case. I later found out it was Jason making the request.”
“That’s her,” Damon confirms. “He’s been circling her, Zane. This guy doesn’t quit.”
I rake my hand through my hair. “I was too caught up in my shit back then. Well, I should’ve followed up. Should’ve done more.”
“You’ll do it now,” Damon says. “Get there fast. You’ve got the address.”
My phone pings with his text, probably Mia’s current address. I check it out. I’m in middle-of-nowhere Arizona, and she’s… far.
My hand tightens around the phone as I stare out into the night. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”
I scan the address before turning my attention back to Damon.. “Be careful. Whitmore’s a dangerous man,” he says.“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my jacket and keys. “I’ve got a score to settle.”
From my vantage point in the SUV, I’ve got a clear view of Mia’s modest house. Lights flicker in the upstairs window, and I see the faint silhouette of her pacing back and forth. I adjust the binoculars, scanning the street for anything out of place.
Damon’s call reached me while I was still out in the Mojave, wrapping up a two-day job guarding some Silicon Valley exec at a private retreat.
Without missing a beat, Damon arranged my transport—a quick chopper ride back to the city, then a company SUV waiting at the helipad, stocked with surveillance equipment and Mia’s file on the passenger seat.
Less than two hours later, I’m pulling up outside her quiet suburban home, gear in hand.
There are no breaks on this job, and that’s how I like it.
So far, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
The silence presses against my ears, thick with memories I can’t shake. They surface like bodies in a flood, refusing to stay buried.
The first time I met Jason Whitmore, he seemed like every other guy in our unit—steady, focused, dependable. A little too smooth, maybe. Too eager to please. But when you’re deployed, you don’t question a man who’s got your back. You just trust he’ll do his job.
And Jason did, at first. He knew how to blend in, how to make himself indispensable. When he offered to handle supply logistics, no one batted an eye. The job was thankless, a constant juggling act of requests and demands. He made it look easy. Too easy.
We’d heard rumors—rumors of him being hurriedly transferred out of another unit. There were accusations, but mostly that, because we had no one to confirm them with.
We didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.
The ambush happened on a routine supply run—one we’d made a dozen times before. I can still hear the pop of the first shot, the way it echoed like thunder through the desert. We hit the ground, returning fire, but the enemy was already on top of us. They knew exactly where we’d be, how we’d move.
Three men died that day. Martin, Stokes, and Alvarez. Good men. Men with families waiting for them back home.
It wasn’t until the dust settled and the bodies were bagged that we started piecing it together.
The intel had leaked to the enemy, the inconsistencies in the supply manifests, the deals made in shadowed corners.
Jason had been using our routes to traffic drugs, lining his pockets while putting us all in the enemy’s crosshairs.
When we confronted him, he didn’t deny it. Just smiled that smug smile and said, “It’s business.”
Business.
He cut a deal to save his skin, trading our trust for a reduced sentence. And I was left with a permanent reminder of his betrayal—a jagged scar running from my temple to my jaw, courtesy of the shrapnel that exploded inches from my face.
I adjust the rearview mirror, catching my reflection in the dim light. The scar stares back at me, pale and raised against my skin. It itches sometimes, though it’s been years. A constant reminder of how much I hate Jason Whitmore.
I grip the wheel tighter, pulling my gaze away. Mia’s house is quiet, the faint glow of the porch light casting long shadows across the lawn. She has no idea what kind of monster she’s up against.
But I do.
This time, Jason’s not going to get away.
Movement flickers in the corner of my vision—a black Land Rover crawling past for the third time tonight. My body goes rigid. It’s the same make and model Jason favored back in Kandahar. My fingers twitch, readying for action as I pick up the scope and zero in.
The streetlight catches a glint of metal in the driver’s hand. Not a weapon. A rock.
My gut tightens. He’s testing defenses, playing his usual games. The fucker always liked toying with his prey before making a move.
I’m out of the SUV before I finish the thought, instincts driving me. The rock leaves his hand, arcing toward the siding. I’m on him before it lands, muscle memory from years of close-quarters combat taking over.
My body moves on autopilot, years of training guiding me. The rock arcs from Jason’s hand just as I reach his car. It’s already in midair when I make my move.
I grab the window frame, planting my boots on the running board, and reach in. “Motherfucker!” The word rips out of me as I latch onto his collar with both hands and yank.
Jason’s startled grunt barely registers before I haul him out of the car through the open window. He lands hard on the pavement, the air forced from his lungs with a satisfying oomph. But Jason’s always been quick. Too quick. He rolls and comes up swinging.
The first punch catches me in the ribs, the sharp pain blooming like fire. He follows up with an elbow aimed at my temple, but I deflect it, shoving him against the side of the Land Rover.
He scrambles, flipping onto his back, and he kicks me in the shin. I grunt but don’t give him an inch, dropping my knee onto his chest to pin him down. He twists violently, his elbow cracking into my side, and my grip slips just enough for him to push me off balance.
I snarl, rolling to my feet as Jason pulls himself up. He’s already aiming for the car door, but I lunge, slamming it shut before he can climb in.
“Zane Williams,” he says, that damn smirk curling his lips. “Didn’t expect to see you playing babysitter.”
I don’t waste words. I grab for him again, but Jason ducks, his knee driving into my thigh and his palm smashing against my chest. The move buys him just enough space to scramble back toward the driver’s side.
“Not so fast!” I grab for him, but his foot shoots out, catching me square in the stomach. My breath hitches, and in the split second it takes to recover, he’s in the car, the engine roaring to life.
The tires screech as he floors it, his laughter trailing behind him like a taunt. The Land Rover fishtails before straightening, taillights fading into the dark.
I’m left standing in the street, chest heaving, adrenaline surging through my veins. My scar burns like it’s alive, a sharp pulse matching the pounding of my heart. The bastard slipped through my fingers.
The Land Rover peels away into the night, tires squealing as porch lights flicker on up and down the street. My ribs scream as I push myself upright.
Jason’s gotten better at close combat, I’ll give him that. But his tactics? Same old shit—testing defenses, probing for weaknesses. I should’ve seen the knee coming a mile away.
I take a step toward my car, willing my legs to move after the bastard, but he’s already gone. Too quick this time. My hands flex at my sides, itching for another chance. There’ll be one. There always is.
The sound of a door opening snaps my attention back to the house. A woman stands framed in the doorway, barefoot in leggings and an oversized hoodie, her hair loose around her face. She’s a picture of fury and fear, every muscle taut, her expression daring me to make the first move.
Mia.
My heart lurches in my chest. Damon sent me the address, no picture, but it has to be her. Even dressed like this, she’s breathtakingly beautiful. I feel my heart stutter, something I haven’t felt in years now.
“Who are you?” she demands, her voice sharp as a blade. “Why are you outside my house?”
Her eyes are locked on mine, like she’s deciding whether to slam the door or grab a weapon. Can’t say I’d blame her for doing either. I keep my posture loose and my hands visible, though every instinct screams at me to scan the street again.
“Zane Williams,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Damon sent me.”
The name seems to strike her like a blow, but she recovers quickly, her jaw tightening.
“Good thing, too,” I add, “considering your ex just tried to put a rock through your window.”
Her face pales, the mask of anger slipping for just a second before she steadies herself, steel sharpening her spine. “Jason,” she says, and it’s not a question.
“Yeah. Came by in his Land Rover. Took off when I stepped in.” I jerk my thumb toward the street. “He’s testing the waters. Seeing how close he can get.”
“Damon gave me no indication he already sent someone,”, her voice clipped. Her gaze flicks to my car, to the street, anywhere but me, like she’s piecing the night together in real time.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I can be as quiet as a ghost. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“That’s not the point. This isn’t how this works. I don’t want to be kept out of the loop when my daughters’ lives are at stake.”
I kind of see why she would react like this. I’m not a parent, never thought of myself as one, but I get the protectiveness.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“This isn’t babysitting.” My voice drops, cool and firm. “It’s protection that you already agreed to. There’s a difference, and if tonight didn’t prove that, I don’t know what will.”
She doesn’t say anything but I can see her shaking. My gut twists. The last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable. I take a step towards her. “I’m sorry Damon didn’t tell you I would be here, frankly neither of us thought it necessary and that was clearly an oversight on us. ”
She stares at me, fury simmering just beneath the surface, but I can see the fear there, too, tightly leashed. The kind of fear Jason counts on. Preys on.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to duty.”
Finally, she exhales sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she says, though the word sounds more like a surrender than an agreement. “But at least let me clean those cuts,” she says, stepping forward. “Before they get infected.”
I should refuse. Every rule I’ve ever followed in this line of work says not to blur the lines, to keep things professional. But there’s something in her eyes—determination mixed with a compassion I don’t deserve—that roots me to the spot. She’s not asking; she’s already decided.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My voice comes out softer than I intended. Professional, sure, but not cold.
She hesitates as if surprised by my response, then gestures for me to follow. I trail behind her, stepping into her house for the first time.