WOODCREEK

WOODCREEK

CHAPTER SIX

Cassidy Woodcreek resembled her mother in so many ways. Both had swan-like necks and golden hair they wore like crowns. Under the moonlight, Cassidy’s tanned skin shimmered with an almost untouchable glow. Her figure turned heads — girls envied her; boys adored her. Among them, Jake Hunter was the one who had captured her heart. Their love, young and reckless, bloomed like a spring flower.

Her father, Michael, disapproved. Too young, he would say. But to Cassidy, forbidden love was the sweetest kind — Romeo and Juliet reborn in the heat of Texas.

The sunset that evening sank like molten fire over the horizon, yielding to the silver reign of the moon. Cassidy and Jake had been invited to a spring break party near a lake, the waters reflecting the burning light of an oil rig in the distance. After a few beers, Cassidy stripped down and leapt into the glowing lagoon, her body a vision against the fiery surface.

Jake followed, tossing his shirt and jeans aside, diving clean as a pro. Laughter echoed across the lake. They wrestled, splashed, and kissed with abandon, his strong shoulders lifting her high, her laughter ringing like bells. The Texas night was hot and heavy, the air filled with the buzz of cicadas and the smell of spilled beer. Their friends watched with envy or admiration before leaving them alone under the moon.

Wet skin against wet skin, their kisses deepened until the world around them faded.

“Do you love me?” Cassidy asked, her voice breaking the silence between breaths.

“Of course, I do, Cass,” Jake replied, startled by her sudden question.

She hugged him, but her eyes held a storm.
“Come with me to Florida.”

Jake’s expression darkened. “I can’t, Cass. My place is here in UT. I’m joining the football team this summer.”

Rage and heartbreak flickered across her face. She climbed out of the lagoon, water dripping from her body like a mermaid dragged ashore. Pulling on her clothes with trembling hands, she stormed away.

“Cass! Wait!” Jake shouted.
“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath.

Cassidy climbed into her white Mercedes Benz — her sweet-sixteen gift from Michael — and sped off. Tears blurred the dashboard. The alcohol twisted the highway into shifting rivers of light. She flicked on her hazard lights in panic, but instead of safety, the flashing caught the eye of a patrol car.

Red-and-blue strobes filled her rearview.

“Good evening, ma’am,” the officer said as she rolled down her window. He was tall, pale, his nameplate reading Kent.
“Have you been drinking tonight?”

“No, officer,” Cassidy answered, her voice tight, forcing sobriety.

“License and ID.”

She handed them over. Kent’s eyes widened at the name. He walked back to his cruiser, checked his system, then returned with a different tone.

“You’re Cassidy Woodcreek… daughter of Michael Woodcreek?”

“Yes.”

Kent exhaled. “Your father and I go way back. Don’t drink and drive again. I’ll let you off with a warning this time, honey.”

Cassidy’s relief was bitter — once again shielded not by her own merits, but by Michael’s reputation.

“I’ll escort you home,” Kent added, flicking on his low siren as he guided her back to safety.

---

Santa Maria Airport

Outskirts of El Paso

Morning broke golden over the dusty airstrip. Michael Woodcreek adjusted his Ray-Ban sunglasses and stepped from his Ford Ranger, cowboy boots crunching on gravel. His world never paused — not for FBI surveillance, not for cartel threats. Money still had to flow.

“Morning, Pedro,” he called to one of his men.

“Morning, Boss,” Pedro replied.

“Shipment in?”

“Yes, sir. Just arrived.”

Together they entered the warehouse, where workers unloaded heavy crates from a private aircraft. Michael cracked one open — and froze. Submachine guns. Rifles. Grenades. Not the usual cargo.

His chest tightened. Someone was playing him. Pulling out his phone, he dialed El Jefe. Straight to voicemail.
“Fuck,” he muttered.

The distant wail of sirens rose, closer by the second. FBI. Or worse.

“Hide them!” he barked. His men scrambled, dragging crates into a hidden compartment below the warehouse floor.

A black SUV skidded into the lot. A woman stepped out, her frame lean and solid, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. She leveled her gun at him.

Michael didn’t flinch. “Do you know who I am?”

“Then you know I don’t miss,” she shot back, lowering the barrel slightly but not away.

Her badge caught the morning light. Wendy.

“We’ve been watching you, Mike,” she said coolly. “We’re searching this place.”

“You got a warrant?” Michael’s voice was flat steel.

“No.” She smirked. “This isn’t official. Consider it a courtesy. Stop whatever the hell you’re doing — or the Mayor won’t be able to save you next time.”

Michael let out a dry laugh. “Maybe I’ll ask him myself… over a game of golf.”

Wendy’s lips curled into a half-smile. She holstered her gun, slid back into her SUV, and roared away, dust spiraling in her wake.

Michael stood there, jaw tight, the echo of sirens still in his ears. Someone was setting him up — and the game had only just begun.

---