Page 41 of Deadly Force
A guy steps out from behind a stripped Charger, wiping his hands on a rag. Tall and lean, late fifties with prison tattoos.
Brooke moves toward him with confidence, unshaken in a way that puts everyone a little onedge, probably because most people who walk in don't look like they have a choice in the matter.
"Weston. You looking for something?" he says.
She lifts her chin. "Rev, I need a car…"
His gaze shifts to me, but he doesn't ask questions, just jerks his head toward the back room. Smart man. In his line of work, curiosity probably isn't a survival trait.
I stay close enough to intercept anything oranyoneunexpected.
The office is cramped with stale smoke, a metal desk, beat-up chair, and a dented filing cabinet in the corner. Rev pulls out a ring of keys from his top drawer without questions or hesitation. Either he trusts Brooke completely, or he's got enough practice in the no-questions-asked business to make it look easy.
"Back lot. Silver Camry," he says, voice like gravel. "Tag's clean. Gas tank's half full. Try not to bring it back wrecked."
I take the keys as Brooke gives him a nod, calm like this is just another errand. "Thanks. I'll get it back to you as soon as I can."
He squints slightly. "You on the lam?"
"Just trying to stay incognito."
The flicker in his eye shifts to suspicion as his gaze slides back to me, his shoulders squaring as he settles his weight into his feet like he's bracing for impact.
"And you are?" he asks, tone flat.
Holding his stare, I answer simply. "Keeping her safe."
He doesn't respond, just shifts slightly—nothing big, just enough to place his body between Brooke and me, like instinct made the call for him. Protective. I can respect that, even if it's aimed at me.
Brooke clears her throat, effectively gaining his attention, "Have you seen your daughter?"
He flinches slightly. "Not since Christmas." His fists clench at his sides. "She's still using, far as I know. Living out of her car."
Brooke's expression softens. "I'd hoped the overdose would have been enough… are you still helping out?"
"Yeah," he says, quieter now. "Every Thursday night beneath the 22nd Street overpass we set up—outreach meals, Narcan kits, whatever we can scrape together. Fridays I drive to the sober houses. Mostly drop-offs. Sometimes they let me pray with 'em. It's not much, but I figure if I can stand where they are, maybe they'll know they're not alone."
So that’s where he earned the nickname “Rev”. It’s not just a reference to his affinity for stolen cars.
"I’m praying for you," Brooke says. “For both of you,” she adds.
He doesn’t get a chance to respond. The phone rings, and I take that as our cue to exit.
Before we can leave, Rev catches my attention. “You watch over this one. My girl is alive because of her.”
I offer him my hand and he pumps it before showing us where to find the car.
As we exit, my hand brushes the grip of my weapon, but my head's not on threats anymore.
It's on how Brooke Weston moves left when I expect right, and about how I can't protect what I can't predict.
Brooke
The gravel crunches under our tires as Caleb parks around back, near the gated side entrance of the Sunday school building. As I expected, no one is here.
I dig through my bag and pull out a key. It's bent slightly at the end but still works. I used to help with the Wednesday night kids’ program, and Pastor Joe never took me off the access list.
“No one comes back here unless they're supposed to.”
