Page 77 of Deadly Force
Brooke
Caleb doesn't speak as he frog-marches me pastthe receptionist, out the door, and into the car. His grip on my arm is firm but not painful, professional in that way that somehow makes it worse than if he were actually angry.
Reese eyes me from his vehicle, and I catch the subtle shake of his head before he just prepares to follow us out, leaving me feeling even more foolish.
Because that's what I am. A fool.
I never should have started arguing with Clara. But when she assumed I was with a pro-life organization, it seemed like the perfect cover. A way to get her talking, to lower her guard. Until I got a little carried away and forgot I was supposed to be gathering information, not winning debates.
I buckle in, my hands shaking slightly as I fumble with the seatbelt, and prepare for Caleb to chastise me. He doesn't. He's so annoyed, he doesn't say a word the entire, painful drive back to my house.
My house comes into view, and I notice the patrol car immediately.
The officer inside gives me a friendly wave as we pull into the driveway, and I lift my hand in response, but Caleb flat-out blanks the officer sitting inside, and I can feel the chill radiating from him in waves.
The engine dies, and we sit in the sudden quiet for a moment. I can hear the tick of the cooling engine, the distant hum of traffic, the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. Caleb's jaw is working sofuriously, he's liable to wear all the enamel off his teeth.
We go through the usual routine, him opening my door with mechanical precision, then acting as a shield between me and the street, much to the amusement of the officers watching on. I can almost feel their eyes on us, probably wondering what domestic drama they're witnessing. If only they knew the real story.
Caleb enters first, his movements sharp and efficient as he clears the house with practiced ease. I follow wearily, my feet dragging against the hardwood floors, before heading straight to where I hastily tucked the file this morning. Behind my refrigerator.
I pull it out, the file slightly bent from its hiding place, and swipe my hand over the cover to get rid of the dust.
With a look bordering on lethal, Caleb finally picks now to speak. "We had a plan. What happened?"
He's exasperated. That much is evident in the way he's standing, the set of his shoulders, the careful control in his voice. "I just…"
He doesn't give me a chance to finish my thought, if I even had one worth anything. "You have no consideration… no idea." He runs a hand over his face, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks truly tired. "You don't get to pull stunts like that. Not when you’re a part of a team."
The words hit like a slap, and I feel my reporter's instincts flare up in defense. "We're so close, Caleb. I can feel it. The story's right there, and if I don't?—"
"Is that all that matters to you? Getting the story?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I realize I'm supposed to say no. I'm supposed to reassure him that my safety matters, that the people protecting me matter, thathematters.
When I don’t answer quickly enough, he shakes his head. “Right. Got it.” He snatches up the keys. “I’m going to go check on Mateo.”
Balancing against the wall, he reaches down to his ankle holster and pulls out a compact pistol, holding it out between us. “Nine mil. No safety. Short trigger. Won’t kick much.”
I blink at it, then shake my head. “No thanks. I have mace. The cops are outside. I’ll be fine.”
His expression hardens, just for a second. Not anger. Not even frustration. Just that quiet, tight disappointment that sayshe expected more.
He nods once, reholsters the weapon. “I’ll be back in an hour. Lock the door and don’t go anywhere.”
The door slams behind him, leaving me standing in my kitchen, clutching the file and trying to ignore the way his words echo in the sudden silence.
The story is the most important thing, isn't it? Ithas to be. Because if it's not, then what am I risking everything for?
Caleb
The steering wheel is slick against my palms, too warm from the sun, too tight in my grip. I force my eyes to stay on the road, even though everything in me wants to turn around. Turn around and tell her what it does to me, leaving her even for an hour.
I’ve led missions through kill zones and cartel territory with less anxiety than I feel leaving her behind with a patrol car and a locked door. She says she’s fine. Butfinedoesn’t stop bullets.
The scent of dust and heat clings to the vents, metallic and dry. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the tension riding up my spine, but it’s locked in tight. Just like everything else I can’t say.
My phone buzzes in the console tray like it knows I was about to call Silas and tell him I should be getting combat pay for this.
