Chapter 3
Liam
The phone was still warm in my hand when I hit the road.
Not running. Not quite.
But that hard-edged, ground-eating stride tore out of me—the one that always came when something inside me snapped clean in half.
My pulse hammered at my temples, sharp and punishing, every breath tight in my chest. My body knew this feeling.
Had known it since I was fifteen years old and learned exactly what it meant to be too late and not enough.
Get to the airfield. Get to Stephy. Get her home.
The night blurred past the truck windows—streaks of Texas black and gold smearing into one frantic smear. Owen’s Ford roared beneath me like it understood the stakes, the engine vibrating through the floorboards, shaking loose memories I never let myself look at straight on.
A slammed door. A scream. The cold, paralyzing realization that no one was coming for us except me.
My stomach clenched, violent and hollow.
Not again. Not her. God, don’t let me be too late again.
The phone buzzed through the truck’s Bluetooth, making me jolt even though I saw the call flash across the dash.
TOM MORRISON
Good. Owen had reached him.
“Liam,” Tom said the second I answered, his voice gruff with concern. “Owen told me what’s going on. The jet’s fueled, warmed, and ready whenever you are.”
Relief hit me low and sharp, like inhaling too fast after holding my breath for too long.
Tom had lived next door to Owen and Lou forever. I’d spent half my childhood in his barn, learning how to fix shit with my hands because fixing anything was better than feeling helpless. He was the kind of man who’d show up when things went to hell—quiet, steady, the opposite of chaos.
Everything I’d tried to become.
“Thank you,” I said, voice scraping out of me. “I owe you.”
“Nah,” he said. “Not on this one. You just get your friend home. Owen said she’s important to you.”
Important didn’t touch it. Important was a weak, flimsy word for what she was.
“I’m five minutes out.”
“I’ll have the hangar doors open. And Liam?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring her home safe, son.”
The line clicked off.
My chest tightened, a hard, prickling pressure right under my sternum—fear, memory, rage, all braided together. The same old phantom ache that lived under my ribs, the one that whispered: faster, faster, faster—before it’s too late.
I pushed the accelerator down, the truck surging forward.
The headlights carved through the dark Texas fields like they were clearing a path for me. Like they were begging me not to fail again.
Not her. Not this time.
The runway lights appeared in the distance, a beacon in the Texas darkness. Morrison’s Gulfstream would be waiting, fueled and ready. Owen's efficiency was legendary, and Tom Morrison owed him enough favors to fill a book.
Third call. Special Agent Diana Levvett—answered on the third ring. Music in the background, laughter. Normal people having normal Saturday nights.
"Walker? It's Saturday night, this better be—"
"I need a favor. A big one."
The music faded immediately. She was already moving somewhere quieter. Diana knew my voice, knew I didn't call in favors unless someone was bleeding or about to be.
"Talk to me."
"Stevie Wilson. The country singer. She was attacked tonight in LA. I need to know everything LAPD has."
"Stevie Wilson?" A pause. I could practically hear her mental gears shifting from off-duty to federal agent. "That's outside your jurisdiction by about a thousand miles."
I didn’t have time for this. ”Diana."
"How do you even—never mind. Give me ten minutes. I'll call you back."
The truck's engine screamed as I pushed it harder, the speedometer edging past a hundred on the final straight stretch to the airfield. The headlights swept across the tarmac, illuminating Morrison's jet—sleek, white, already glowing with pre-flight checks.
My phone rang the second I killed the engine. I hadn’t even yanked the keys out before the Bluetooth lit up the cab.
DIANA LEVVETT.
I answered on the first ring.
“Liam.” Her voice was different—official, clipped, running on adrenaline and dread. “How do you know Stevie Wilson?”
I grabbed my go-bag from behind the seat—always packed, always ready—and slammed the door with my hip.
“We grew up together,” I said, already moving toward the plane. My boots hit the asphalt hard, each step vibrating through my bones. “She’s… she’s family. What did you find?”
Papers rustled. A keyboard clicked. In my mind, I could see her exactly: hair in a messy bun, badge beside her laptop, lamp glowing in the corner of her kitchen like she’d abandoned dinner the moment she pulled Stephy’s name up.
“It’s not good,” she said. Her voice had that careful edge—like she was steadying herself before swinging the axe. “LAPD responded to a 911 call at 7:47 PM. Signs of forced entry. Evidence of struggle. The victim—”
“Stephanie.” My voice cracked like gunfire. “Her name is Stephanie.”
A beat of silence. Then Diana continued, softer now.
“Stephanie reported a male intruder gained access to her residence. He… physically assaulted her. The assault was interrupted when her assistant arrived home.”
The world tilted. Not a metaphor. My actual vision pitched sideways.
The runway lights smeared into streaks. My hand shot out to brace against the truck because my knees damn near buckled.
A low roar filled my ears—blood, rage, memory. I wasn’t sure.
“Liam?” Diana asked quietly. “You there?”
I swallowed once. Hard. “How far did it go?”
“According to the report,” she said carefully, “the assault was interrupted before completion. But Liam… there’s more.”
“Tell me.” My voice didn’t sound human. It sounded like something crawled up from the dark.
“This guy’s been escalating,” she said. “For months. Anonymous letters. Delivered gifts. Photos of her out in public. Photos taken inside her house.”
I stopped walking. Stopped breathing.
“Inside her—”
“Yes. Her bedroom. Her kitchen. Taken while she slept.”
White noise filled my skull. Why hadn’t she told me it was that bad? When she told me about him months ago, she said her team and security had it handled.
“No DNA,” she continued. “No prints. No usable security footage. Either this guy’s extremely lucky, or—”
“Or he knows what he’s doing.” My voice was a blade, the words dripping venom.
“Exactly. We’re talking professional counter-forensics. Gloves. Shoe covers. Avoided cameras. He studied her routines. He’s trained, Liam. Really trained.”
My blood went cold.
“Military?” I forced out. “Law enforcement?”
“Could be. Could also be private security. And Liam…” She hesitated. Never a good sign.
“Her security company filed a report two hours ago claiming the breach was due to ‘client negligence.’ They’re positioning her as the problem.”
“Son of a—” I bit off the word, vision flashing white. “She pays them. They were supposed to protect her.”
I was supposed to protect her.
I ran a shaking hand through my hair. The metal of my truck door was cool against my forehead. I’d failed again. First Mom, and now Stephy.
“That’s not all.” Diana’s voice flattened. “Her management team has already called LAPD three separate times. They’re pushing to keep the incident quiet. Their priority is minimizing publicity.”
So they were more worried about headlines than her safety. Of course they were.
My rage sharpened, focusing into something surgical, deadly.
“The stalker?” I asked, already heading for the plane again.
“In the wind. No trace. No trail. No ID. LAPD is classifying it low priority.”
“Low priority?” The words tore out of me like shrapnel. “She was attacked. In her own home.”
“I know, Liam. But without evidence or her going public—”
“She’s not going public.” I hit the runway at a jog. “She’s coming here.”
A pause.
“To Texas?” Diana asked, incredulous.
“To where I can keep her safe.”
She exhaled slowly. “Liam… you know he won’t just give up. If he’s this obsessed, this calculated—he’ll follow her.”
“Let him try.” My voice was cold. Dead calm. The dangerous kind of calm.
“Let him fucking try to get to her here.” I’d like to see the bastard try.
“Liam—”
“Thanks for the intel, Diana. I owe you.”
Her voice softened. “Just… be careful. Both of you.”
“One more thing,” I said, stepping into the glow of the hangar lights. “Send me everything. The full case file.”
“That’s—”
“Please.”
A beat. Then a resigned sigh. “Check your email in an hour.” She hesitated. “And Liam? Whoever she is to you… she’s lucky.”
I closed my eyes, the wind stinging them.
“No,” I whispered, stepping toward the jet that would carry me to her. “I’m the lucky one.”
I hung up and jogged up the jet's stairs. Tom Morrison's pilot, Jim Garrett—ex-Air Force, flew combat missions in Afghanistan, now flew rich ranchers around Texas—took one look at my face and didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Mr. Blackwood called. Said it was an emergency." He was already moving toward the cockpit. "Where to, Ranger Walker?"
"LA. Fast as you can make this thing go."
"Yes, sir. We'll be wheels up in three minutes."
The jet's interior was all cream leather and polished wood, the kind of luxury that Tom Morrison wore as easily as his ancient boots. I collapsed into a seat, suddenly aware of the adrenaline shaking through my system. My hands were trembling—not from fear, but rage. Rage that something terrible happened to Stephy. Rage that I wasn’t there to stop it. Just pure, white-hot rage.
As the engines spooled up, I pulled out my phone again, started making lists.
Charlie at Austin PD could run background on her security team.
Rodriguez at the Rangers could check for similar stalking patterns, see if this matched any known predators.
My buddy Tommy at LAPD might be able to get me more than Diana could through official channels.
My phone started buzzing with texts.
Sophia: Owen told us. I'm getting her room ready. Tell her we love her.
Clay: Anyone who hurt her is a dead man walking.
Maggie: I'll cook. Comfort food. The works.
Even Hunter, who never texted anyone: Property secured. She'll be safe.
This was my family. Except for Soph, they'd never officially met Stephy, but they were ready to protect her like she'd been born a Blackwood.
Because in all the ways that mattered, she was already one of us.
The girl who'd held me through the worst night of my life.
The woman I'd loved since I was fifteen years old.
The only person outside my family who really knew me.
The plane lifted off, and I stared out at the Texas landscape falling away below, each light a family, a home, a place where people were safe.
Somewhere in LA, Stephy was locked in her bedroom, terrified and alone, waiting for me.
Her security had failed her. Her management had failed her.
The entire system meant to protect her had failed her.
But I wouldn't fail her. Not now. Not ever. Even if it already felt like I had for not being there.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ranger Walker, we're at cruising altitude. ETA to LA is four hours, fifty-two minutes."
Four hours and fifty-two minutes. I pulled up the email from Diana, started reading through the police reports.
Each detail made my vision go a little redder.
The photos taken of her sleeping—at least thirty of them over six months.
The underwear stolen from her drawer. The letters describing in graphic detail what he wanted to do to her.
The scratched-out faces of any man photographed near her, replaced with violent threats.
And through it all, her team had minimized it. Called it "fan enthusiasm." Suggested she was overreacting. One email from her manager actually suggested the attention was "good for her mystique."
I was going to destroy them all. Legally, professionally, completely. But first, I was going to get Stephy safe.
"I'm coming for you, Steph," I said to the darkness outside the window, to the miles of nothing between us. "Just hold on, sweetheart. I'm coming for you."
The jet carved through the night sky, chasing the sunset toward California. Every minute felt like an hour. Every mile felt like a betrayal. But I was coming. And God help anyone who tried to stop me from getting to her.
God help anyone who'd hurt her.
Because Texas Rangers didn't forgive. And they sure as hell didn't forget.