Page 50 of Deadly Force
I cross my arms, the motion feeling defensiveeven to me. "There must be a way. Can we get it tonight?"
He looks at the door, then back at me. "How well do you know your neighbors' routines?”
My brow scrunches. “Fairly well. Why?”
He pauses, the slightest curl to his lips. “Because I’ve got a plan, and it includes you going home again.”
Caleb
I sit low in the driver's seat, engine off, shades on, one hand on my sidearm, the other resting on my phone in my lap. Brooke's house looks so normal in the early afternoon light. The kind of place where the biggest worry should be whether the mail arrived on time or if the neighbor's cat got into the garbage again.
Thanks to Brooke, I know most of her neighbors work nine-to-fives, a few do school pickup later, and the two retirees on the block have their routines down to the minute. One plays bridge every Thursday. The other never misses her specialist appointments.
It’s the perfect window to get in and get out before anyone sees. If they do, they won’t want to stick around to ask about the crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze.
Right on cue, the rental car appears. Sunglasses on, white mask covering half her face.
My pulse spikes. It pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the engine. She pulls to a stop, takes a moment to adjust her mask and blow her nose, then she climbs out of the car, slamming the door.
Boots scuff the sidewalk in that half-distracted rhythm I've memorized. Every step sends ice through me. She pauses by the mailbox, coughs loudly—subtle, perfect.
It's eerie. Unnaturally, gut-wrenchingly perfect. From the slope of her shoulders to the glance over her shoulder, it's like watching Brooke walk straight into danger.
I force my breathing to slow. Four counts in, hold, four counts out. Tactical rhythm. Focus on the mission. Not the fear.
This is what she’s been training for. This is why Silas didn’t hesitate when I called and asked if Samantha was ready to act as a decoy.
I’m praying she is.
She climbs the steps, coughing again, faking the illness that will keep neighbors at bay. She fumbles with the key, just enough to look real, then the door creaks and she disappears.
I murmur into the comm, "Samantha's inside." My voice comes out rougher than I'd like, betraying the strain.
Mateo's voice crackles back. "Copy. No movement here."
My eyes sweep the street. Threats, exits, blind spots. The mailbox that could hide a shooter. So far, so good. No parked cars out of place. No neighbors watching. No visible threats.
Which is exactly what worries me.
Because I can't shake it—that visceral wrongness. Watching her walk up those steps. My brain knows it's Samantha. But my body is reacting like I just sent Brooke into a kill zone.
If Samantha gets hurt in there—if someone's watching, waiting, locked in on her silhouette—then I've sent her into a trap wearing Brooke's name.
Sam’s voice comes through the comm. "I'm in."
I flex my hand. "Good," I say. "Get the bag, the laptop, and get out. Two minutes, tops. You’re still clear out here."
Every second increases the risk. And my blood pressure.
Silence.
Could mean anything. Glitch or maybe she's just admiring Brooke's interior decorating skills.
I key the mike. “Sam, confirm comms,” I say.
I scan the neighborhood again. Every shadow could hide a sniper. Every parked car, a kill team. Every pedestrian, recon. Side mirrors. Windshields. Side streets. My training kicks in, systematic, methodical.
But a single thought cuts through the routine, making me pray instead of rely on instinct alone: if they were waiting for Brooke to come home, I just handed her to them.
