Chapter One
Jackson Ward’s gut burned like a warning flare. Something was off. He couldn’t name it at first. The wrong rhythm in the cicadas. The horses were restless at the fence line of his ranch.
But he finally got it.
His instincts kicked in, and he knew someone was watching him.
The late afternoon sun stretched across the pasture, lighting the horizon in streaks of copper and red. From his porch, Jackson scanned the tree line, his fingers tightening around the edge of the railing. The stillness had weight.
The kind that pressed in on a man who knew the difference between quiet and danger.
He’d been back here at his ranch in Crossfire Creek for two months now, where he was supposed to be resting. Healing. That’s what his boss, Noah Riggs, had called it when he’d sent Jackson home from the last Crossfire Ops mission.
Take the time. Get your head straight.
As if a few acres of land and silence could fix what was broken.
His knee still ached where the blast had torn through him, and his ribs hadn’t stopped reminding him he was lucky to be breathing. But he hadn’t survived this long by ignoring his gut.
And right now, it was twisting tight.
He moved slowly, every step measured, and the limp was way more pronounced than he liked. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots, loud in the hush. A hawk called somewherein the distance, and the sound made the hair on the back of his neck lift.
Jackson reached for the rifle propped by the door. Habit. Muscle memory. First, in the military and then in the elite security agency, Crossfire Ops, had drilled it into him to read the threat before the threat read him.
And right now, there was a threat.
He swept his gaze across the field again, scanning the fence and the woods beyond. Nothing moved. Then, he saw it. A flicker of pale fabric at the far edge of the pasture.
Someone was definitely out there.
The sun caught on the metal of the back gate as it shifted. A flash, then gone. Whoever it was moved fast, slipping into the trees beyond the trail.
Jackson’s pulse steadied, focus sharpening like a blade. He had too many damn enemies to count. Old operations, bad blood, and the kind of men who never forgot being taken down. He had always figured one of them would come looking eventually.
Maybe this waseventually.
Of course, it could be just someone out for a walk, but the chance of that was pretty damn slim. The ranch that once belonged to his grandparents wasn’t anywhere on the beaten path. A mile from the main road and with no other neighbors anywhere in sight.
He stepped off the porch, rifle balanced in his grip, boots crunching through the dry November grass. Pain lanced through his leg, but he pushed past it, tracking the faint sound of movement toward the creek. The air smelled of cedar and dust and something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The trail narrowed under the trees, shadows stretching, and he caught one last flash of motion, just a hint between the oaks, before it vanished, disappearing into the trees.
The wind picked up, a sharp bite pushing through his leather jacket. Cool enough to make him curse under his breath. He kept moving, slow and steady, eyes checking the trail ahead.
The figure wasn’t moving anymore. Whoever it was had stopped near the pond, just beyond the trees.
Waiting.
Jackson didn’t call out. He’d learned long ago that silence could keep you alive. Sound gave away position, and he didn’t plan on being an easy target on his own damn land.
The air pressed tight around him, thick with tension. Even the cicadas had gone quiet again. He shifted his weight, wincing when his knee protested, and he scanned the open stretch between him and the water. If someone was aiming a rifle from the tree line, he was standing in perfect sight.
In case his visitor was about to be shot—or planning to shoot—he slipped off the path and ducked behind a cedar. Bark scraped his shoulder as he crouched low, breathing shallow. The surface of the pond rippled faintly in the breeze, catching bits of fading sunlight like shards of glass.
Behind him, his horses whickered from the corral, restless and uneasy. They always knew before he did when something was off.
He took that as confirmation.