Page 48 of Deadly Force
"Car crash. Two-lane road in Georgia. Hydroplaned." I grimace at the memory. "Spent three months busted up. All I had was a Bible and a roommate who snored like a freight train. I walked out barely able to lift a gallon of milk." That helplessness did more to humble me than the battlefield ever could. "Nothing like being laid up to make you reconsider your priorities."
She watches me for a long moment. "And now?"
"Now it's weights and Scripture. One rebuilt my body. The other saved everything else." I tap my temple. "Turns out both require showing up every day, even when you don't feel like it."
"What about Silas? Did you meet him in the Army?"
I nod. "Silas pulled me out of a burning Humvee when I was too out of it to move. I would've died sitting there." The memory still makes my chest tight. "That kind of debt doesn't get repaid. It just gets passed forward."
"And now you work for him."
"He's a great leader. He’s even better people." I study her face. "Plus, the benefits package at Hightower is surprisingly comprehensive."
The corner of her mouth crinkles. “What about a social life?”
I don’t answer right away. The question lingers, heavy with things I’m not ready to say out loud.
“If you’re asking if I’m seeing anyone…” I glance at her, just long enough to let it land. “I’m not.”
Color climbs into her cheeks fast, but she recovers just as quick. “That’s surprising. Considering… the muscle and the charm.”
I chuckle and give her a little more background. “I was engaged. Long time ago.”
Brooke tilts her head. “What happened?”
“Asked her to marry me the week before I left for selection.” I lean back slightly. “Didn’t realize what I was asking her to wait for. SFAS, the Q Course—it’s not a couple months and a few push-ups. It’s a year and a half of grinding it out. No phone. No weekends. Half the time I couldn’t even tell her where I was or when I’d be back.”
I glance at Brooke. “She waited a while. Then she didn’t.” I pause. “I don’t blame her. I was selfish to ask her to put her life on hold. The job always came first.”
Brooke nods, slow and deliberate. “I’ve watched too many important stories die because the reporter was distracted, or comfortable, or had other priorities.” She shakes her head slightly. “Maybe it sounds grandiose, but I think getting the truth to peoplematters. Really matters. And if that means I eat dinner alone most nights…”
She shrugs. “So be it.”
I bob my head. “That’s why your mom’s trying to set you up? Too many dinners alone?”
She exhales, a tired breath through her nose. “She doesn’t understand. The truth doesn’t wait for convenient timing,” she says quietly. “When someone finally trusts you enough to tell you what really happened, when they’re ready to expose corruption, or speak for people who can’t speak for themselves, you don’t say ‘can we do this next week, I have plans.’”
There’s a kind of clarity in her that most people spend their whole lives running from. She’s locked in. Mission-driven. Unapologetic.
She shifts again, the kind of restless that doesn’t come from caffeine or nerves. It’s God given purpose.
"Do you really think Mateo might be able to get into my place?"
"He's watching it now. Entry depends on traffic, patrols, and surveillance cams. If it's too risky, we wait." I cross my arms. "Mateo's good, but he's not invisible. Yet."
But waiting isn't in her nature. I can see it in the way she shifts her weight, restless energy barely contained.
She bites her lip. "I need my laptop. My notes. A change of clothes."
She trails off. Her fingers twitch like she's physically restraining the urge to act.
"And we’ll get them as soon as we can," I say.
Her eyes spark with fire. The kind that gets people killed or changes the world.
"Eliza gave her life for this. I owe it to her to finish it." Her voice cracks slightly on Eliza's name.
"You also owe it to yourself to stay alive." I keep my tone level. "Dead journalists don’t break stories."
