Page 80 of Deadly Force
With no small amount of regret for my actions, I do.
“Got it. Keep your eyes open and move somewhere public. I’m on my way.”
My eyes drift as I search my memory. “The library’s just a few buildings over. I’ll head there.”
“Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I end the call and tuck the phone into my pocket as questions circle endlessly in my mind.
The foremost being, if a friend of Eliza’s really is being watched? Then why call me and not the cops?
Caleb
I check the time again. Thirteen minutes since I spoke to Brooke.
The courtyard she mentioned is secluded enough to meet someone quietly, tucked between academic buildings where students don’t usually wander. But she still has to get from there to the library on her own.
Three blocks through open campus. Three blocks of vulnerability.
And I’m across town. Trapped in traffic that moves like molasses.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white against black leather, doing the math in my head.
Best-case scenario, ten minutes if the lights break my way. Worst case? Fifteen. Twenty if something goes sideways.
More than enough time for something to go wrong. More than enough time for them to find her.
I make a hard right onto Speedway, tires chirping against asphalt. The engine growls, hungry for more speed. I’m not technically speeding. Not yet. Just fast enough to attract the wrong kind of attention from anyone watching too closely.
The speedometer climbs. Forty-five in a thirty-five zone. Pushing the envelope without tearing it.
Red and blue lights flash behind me. “Perfect,” I spit.
The word tastes like copper in my mouth. Of all the times, all the places, all the moments when I could afford a delay, this isn’t one of them.
I ease to the shoulder. Gravel crunches under the tires. The engine idles, steady and mocking. Hands on the wheel at ten and two. Calm. Controlled. Every movement deliberate.
Don’t give them a reason.
The officer walks up slow, like he’s got all day.Hand on his belt, fingers tapping. Young face, older eyes. A cop who’s seen just enough to suspect everything.
“License and registration, sir.”
I pass both over. No argument. No commentary. Hands visible. Voice steady.
He studies them longer than necessary. Flips the license. Checks the registration. Compares the photo to my face with dramatic precision.
Pretty sure my picture isn’t changing. Not unless he’s got a Sharpie and ambition.
“You know you rolled through that last stop sign?”
The question hangs like smoke. Each second he wastes is another step Brooke takes across open ground.
“I slowed. I looked.” My tone is professional. “I’m trying to reach someone before she gets hurt.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. Doesn’t soften. “You still didn’t stop.”
He’s not here for context. Not for urgency. Just for the rulebook.
