Page 104 of Deadly Force
Which happens to be Caleb.
“Hands where we can see them!”
“Drop it—now!”
Caleb doesn’t reach for his weapon. He raises one hand slowly, the other still anchoring me. “Private security. She’s the victim. They’re your suspects.”
He jerks his chin toward where Crowley lies sprawled and groaning, and Lawrence slumped against the wall.
One of the cops recognizes Crowley even with the battered face. “You better have a good story to tell, lady. That guy is one of ours.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. “I know who he is.”
As the cops try to figure out who the bad guysare, Caleb keeps one arm locked around me, the other barely supporting his weight as he half-crouches beside the chair. His chest heaves, pain etched deep into every breath.
“She was brought down here against her will,” he says, voice low, strained. “Assaulted. Two suspects—one civilian, one plainclothes.”
Caleb shifts suddenly. “I’d give you the rest,” he mutters, breath hitching, “but I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out.”
His skin is pale and clammy. Sweat beads along his temple. He’s swaying now, muscles trembling, jaw tight like he’s barely holding on.
I twist toward the nearest cop, voice rising over the chaos. “Caleb saved my life. Those men were trying to kill me. I’ll give my statement, but not until you call an ambulance!”
The officer hesitates, caught off guard.
“Now!” I snap.
Wide-eyed but not willing to argue, one officer moves to haul Crowley to his feet, but another stops him with a shake of the head. “Call it in,” he mutters. “Secure first, question after.”
Relieved they aren’t going to wait, I cling to Caleb, and his grip tightens on me. Still protective. Even as he’s peppered with questions he’s ignoring.
“Told you I wouldn’t leave the building,” I whisper.
His eyes close. A breath leaves him—shaky, ragged, torn straight from the gut. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman,” he murmurs.
TWENTY-THREE
Caleb
The fluorescent lights have been dimmed for the night shift, casting everything in that sterile blue-white glow that makes hospital rooms feel like holding cells.
It’s past midnight—has to be. We've been here for hours. Giving statements. Getting patched up. Waiting on doctors to clear us both.
The antiseptic stings my nostrils. My chest screams with every breath. The sling's so tight it might as well be a straitjacket. But I can’t stop looking at her.
We’ve spent too much time in hospitals the last few days, but I’d take this pain ten times over if it meant she stayed safe.
There’s a bruise blooming across her cheekbone, dark, ugly, personal. Every time I see it, somethingtwists inside me. My chest pounds. I’m sweating. And my vision’s starting to blur. I’ve survived three tours and a dozen black ops, and now I’m getting taken out by feelings in a hospital room.
Man up, Evans. Just drop it and hope for the best.
“I need to tell you something.”
She looks up from her phone. Her eyes widen, just a flicker, then soften. Like maybe she’s been waiting for this. “What?”
The words sit like a live grenade in my throat. My hands are shaking. When did that start? I’ve defused IEDs with steadier hands than this.
“I’m crazy in love with you, Gonzo.”
