CHAPTER ONE
CADE
I’ll take a building with real integrity over something flashy any day. Solid beams, right angles, concrete on stone. Decorative shutters or fancy mailboxes don’t matter to me. But if you pay attention to how a man runs his place, whether it’s a ranch or a security firm, you’ll know who he really is. The problem is, after Dallas, my career is hanging by a thread. One mistake, and it’s over.
Lone Star Security headquarters stands at the edge of Valor Springs, Texas. The town’s Main Street runs just five blocks, lined with old limestone and red brick, reminders of the oil boom days. Grayson Calhoun built LSS from scratch, literally. From the road, it looks like a classic Texas ranch house: low-slung, white, porches on every side. But the windows are bullet resistant, and the building could withstand a tornado or even a siege.
It’s early morning, the air sharp and bright with mesquite pollen. I park next to Gray’s truck, just like he told me to. From my seat, I scan the perimeter. Old habits stick. A stray dog sniffs around the mailbox, a couple of operatives grab coffee in the breakroom, and Josie, Gray’s daughter, sits in the porch shade with a paperback. She waves. I wave back, thinking about why Itook this job: kids like her deserve a world built on solid beams and right angles.
I stow my duffel, straighten my collar, and walk up the steps. The threshold creaks, but the door opens quietly thanks to oiled hinges—a sign of professionalism. Inside, the main office feels restrained and masculine: dark wood, wide windows, and walls crowded with topographic and political maps. An old retriever lies by the desk, thumping its tail once but not moving otherwise.
Gray stands by the window, arms folded. He’s broader than in his military days, hair receding, but still a wall. He turns, his gaze slicing through the morning like a blade. “Walker.”
“Gray.” I keep my tone neutral—no joy in returning here, but no option.
He gestures toward the cracked leather couch. I sit down, resting my elbows on my knees. He stays standing, looking out at the sycamores along the east fence. Our silences aren’t awkward. If anything, they feel more honest than talking.
“You settled back in?” he asks without looking.
“Getting there.”
“Good. Things here move slowly, but they don’t fall apart.” He pauses. “After Dallas, you’re on thin ice, Cade. Nail this, and you might get off it.”
I nod, feeling the weight of stakes no one’s spelling out, but both of us know.
He turns and leans against the window. “Got a job for you. Gloves-off detail—political angles, messy business.”
A subtle thrill runs through me. “Who?”
Gray grabs a manila folder and slides it across the coffee table. I open it and freeze. The first page shows a girl in her early twenties, caught mid-laugh, with perfect white teeth, auburn hair, and blue eyes that seem to challenge even in a photo. Mychest tightens, an instant reaction I don’t want. Gray glances at me. “Eyes up here, Cade. And no entanglements, please.”
I clear my throat. “Understood.”
I look through the rest of the papers: mug shots, transcripts, news clippings. There’s a public intoxication on a rooftop, a pink-champagne apology to an ex. But the eyes in the photo don’t show any regret.
“Protection detail,” Gray says. “Senator Munro’s daughter—Delilah. Recent threats. Could be bullshit, could be real. Pays out of D.C., comes with strings.”
I open to the last page: a redacted death threat and a voice-mail transcript so blunt it motivates action. I look up. “She stays in Austin?”
“Negative. Family ranch till mid-August. You’ll live there. Mae’s on logistics.”
Mae, Gray’s sister and LSS’s office manager, appears in a T-shirt and ball cap and sets an iPad on the table. “Morning, Cade.” She cocks an eyebrow. “You move out after lunch. There’s an extra burner cell on its way.”
Gray lets the silence stretch, then says, “This one will test you.” It’s both a warning and a challenge. I close the folder. “You know my answer.”
He grunts and walks toward the war room. Mae gives a quick nod and disappears into the kitchen. I finish my coffee, lean my head back against the cracked rail of the couch, and let out a breath. Starting a job always brings a turning point you don’t notice at first. Most of the time, you’re just lucky to make it through.
On the porch, Josie still reads. She looks up. “Got your marching orders?”
“Something like that.” I tuck the folder under my arm. “Her name’s Delilah.”
Mae returns with a key fob. “Truck’s armored. She hates trucks—prefers Jeeps with the top down. So you’ll have to be persuasive.”
I tap the fob against my palm. “What’s the real concern?”
Her smile vanishes. “Chatter out of Houston. She’s reckless and too naive for her own good. The last guy didn’t last a week. A competitor.”
I nod. “He quit, or she drove him out?”