Page 52 of Deadly Force
I suppress a sigh, pressing my lips together and trying not to sound like a petulant child when I ask, "You wouldn't tell me even if Sam or Caleb were in danger, would you?"
He snorts a laugh, the first real emotion he's shown all afternoon. "Probably not. I get the feeling you'd try to help."
The accuracy of that assessment stings because it's absolutely true.
The creak of a door upstairs makes me freeze mid-step, every nerve suddenly on high alert.
Mateo's head snaps up from his phone, his entire body shifting into a different mode, alert, ready, dangerous.
Footsteps echo through the ceiling above us. Calm. Unhurried. The sound of someone who belongs here, someone who's not trying to hide their presence.
A voice follows, familiar, warm, carrying the gentle authority I've come to associate with Sunday mornings and community potlucks. "Let's get these lights on…"
Oh no!
“The pastor is here,” I stage whisper. The last thing I want is to pull innocent churchgoers into this mess.
I needn’t have bothered telling him. Mateo's already moving with the swift efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. Packing gear, tucking comms away, checking his weapon with movements so smooth they're almost invisible.
"Stay behind me. We’re leaving."
The urgency in his voice sends adrenaline shooting through my system. Chairs scrape against the floor overhead. More voices filter down the stairwell—members of the Bible study, probably, or maybe the church council meeting. A woman laughssoftly at something someone said. Then a door slams shut with finality.
I grab my phone, my notebook, my purse. The essentials of a life that's been reduced to what fits in a bag. We head for the side exit, moving as quietly as possible, trying to slip out unseen like shadows.
The door clicks shut behind us. “Should we find another mot?—”
A loud crack cuts me off. I'm still processing it, wondering if it’s thunder when Mateo's face changes completely. His eyes go wide, scanning upward, and suddenly his hand slams into my chest, driving me behind the concrete column.
"Get down!" He shouts before a second crack sends chips of brick spraying from where we'd been standing.
He staggers back against the door, jaw clenched against what must be excruciating pain, blood blooming fast through his shirt like a crimson flower.
"Mateo!"
I crawl toward him, heart pounding so hard in my throat I can barely breathe, my hands shaking as I try to reach him.
Behind us, the door creaks open. "Brooke?" Pastor Tim's voice, calm and curious, completely unaware of the violence that just erupted in his parking lot. "I thought that was you sneaking out."
"No!" I scream, my voice cracking with panic. "Get back inside. Call 911, someone's been shot!"
His eyes go wide with shock and confusion, and he ducks instinctively as another shot zips past, slamming into the stucco beside him.
Across the lot, a van revs its engine, tires screeching against asphalt as it peels away, disappearing into the maze of suburban streets.
I reach Mateo, who's slumped against the wall, breathing hard and shallow. Blood leaks through his fingers where he's trying to apply pressure to the wound. But he's conscious, alert, still fighting.
"He came out of nowhere," he grits out through clenched teeth, then lifts one hand to his comms with tremendous effort. “I’m down. Still breathing. Not mobile,” he grinds out.
I press both hands against the wound hard, the way I've seen in movies, hoping I'm doing it right. He winces, curses again in Spanish, but I don't let up the pressure.
"Help is on the way," I whisper, barely hearing my own voice over the rushing in my ears, over the sound of my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.
Red and blue lights blur through the alley in what feels like hours but is probably only minutes later. EMTs pour out of the ambulance with practiced efficiency. Voices shout orders. Professional hands replace mine on the wound. Someone says St. Mary's Hospital. I nod, but I'm not really here anymore.
My thoughts are spiraling, catching fire withrealizations I don't want to face, because the truth hits like a thunderclap rolling across clear sky.
That bullet was meant for me. It could've been Caleb lying there bleeding.
