Page 4 of Deadly Force
Should have guessed the Lord would force me toaddress this sooner rather than later. He has a way of making sure we face the things we'd rather forget.
Brooke
Stifling yawns, I try to listen as my Uber driver fills me in on his latest trip to Vegas. This isn't my first ride with Lucky Larry, and sure enough, he's still convinced something shady is going on at the casino.
"…I was winning, you know? Then poof! Gone," he says.
"That's why it's called gambling," I reply, my voice dry.
He shakes his head while I send another pleading text to my whistleblower.
"Nah, nah. There was this other guy, see? Then it was like—they gave my cards to him. You gotta get down there, Brooke. I'm telling ya, they're rigging the tables."
The conviction in his voice makes it hard not to get irritated. It's not the first time he's picked me up from the police station in the middle of the night, but as far as he knows, it's the first time I've been the victim of a crime.
Instead of replying, I sigh and count the streetlights until my 1929 Pueblo Revival comes into view. Nestled in the Sam Hughes neighborhood, I fell hardfor its original hardwood floors, coved ceilings, and double-hung windows.
Usually, coming home brings comfort. Not tonight. I'm exhausted, my car's been towed, and I might've just lost the biggest story of my career. The lecture from Mick didn't help either. I only called him because I was bored.
Just as another yawn creeps up, Larry mutters a low curse. "Whoa. That your brother?"
I blink, rub my eyes, and follow his gaze. "What in the world…"
There's a man standing in my front yard near the mesquite trees—six-foot-three, two-fifty, and definitely not my brother. My pulse kicks up before I even recognize him fully in the dim light. When I do, my stomach backflips.
"Oh, just terrific," I mutter. Caleb is the last person I expected to see—and the last person I want to deal with.
Larry pulls up to the curb and puffs up. "You want me to get rid of him?"
I bite back a laugh. "He's a friend of my brother's."
Larry doesn't press. I tip him and climb out of the lime green Camry, passing the Pathfinder I assume Caleb arrived in.
Dressed in black pants and a fitted shirt, he looks almost exactly like he did the night he manhandled me in the Glades. He doesn't approach. Just waitsnear my porch like a sentry, electric blue eyes tracking my every move.
Belatedly, I realize that's exactly what he is.
"Mick called you," I say, grateful my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He shrugs. "He called Silas. Silas sent me."
My eyes drift to the bags at my front door, and something hot flares in my chest. "So you just show up and expect me to let you stay?"
His gaze flicks over me, slow, assessing, then past me. "Can we do this inside? We're a little exposed out here."
The way he says "exposed" sends a shiver down my spine. I pull my keys from my pocket with more force than necessary and head to the front door. He intercepts me and takes the keys without asking.
Caleb steps inside first, gun already in hand. Of course he's armed. Of course he's cautious. The man operates like danger is always one breath away.
I follow him inside, both irritated and slightly amused when he tells me to stay put while he clears the house.
While he invades my privacy, I check voicemail, email—anything. Still nothing. The last message I got from her was almost fourteen hours ago.
His voice breaks the silence as he steps back into the hall. "Let me grab my gear."
He turns sideways to fit through the door with hisbags. I have to bite back a sarcastic comment about his size taking up my entire hallway.
Instead, I head to the kitchen. After five hours at the station and a late-night run through the park, I'm grubby, grouchy, and in no mood for Caleb Evans and his tactical presence.
