Page 1 of Deadly Force
ONE
Brooke
Himmel Park, Tucson, Arizona, 10:16 p.m.
I blow out an agitated breath, the crisp desert night air doing little to calm my racing thoughts. The Himmel Park library closed hours ago, and in fourteen minutes, security will turn off all the lights.
I might be carrying mace, but I’m not brave enough to be wandering around alone out here in total darkness. Especially not after... well,the Everglades incident.
Time to face facts. My whistleblower is a no-show.
Bypassing the paved path, I take the more direct route past the pickleball courts—and immediately regret it. It might get me to the parking lot faster, but the dense stands of paloverde and cacti here could be concealinganyone. The shadows along the path don’tjust gather; they stretch, distort, and twist into menacing, looming shapes.
To keep my mind busy, to quiet the rising tide of unease, I try to figure out how to get Mick to talk. He’s back at work, which is great, but he’s been tight-lipped about where Samantha is and why Adena and Verity from Hightower are stonewalling me. It’s almost like she vanished exactly the waytheywanted her to.
I still don’t know who or what Hightower is—only that it’s a private security company and the reason my brother, Sam, and I are alive after a failed terrorist plot in Miami.
And I’m a little hazy on how Samantha Duke fits in, or why they thought she’d care if I was used as bait. That’s filed under “things to get out of her” once she officially becomes my sister-in-law.
I pause under a lone, flickering lamp, its light barely piercing the encroaching gloom, and wince when I check the time. Five minutes.Five minutes.I must be crazy to agree to meet this late. Unless I run, I won’t make it to the lot before the lights cut out completely.
With a hard exhale that fogs in the cool air, I start to jog, arms and legs pumping as fast as I dare. The last thing I need is to face-plant or twist an ankle. The dark shapes of desert flora blur past, their forms like watchful sentinels.
Breathing hard, I round the final corner when thelamps ahead flicker, then die, one by one, plunging the entire area into absolute darkness.
Rats.
My pace slows, panting, heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I squint into the inky blackness, trying to gauge the distance to the lot's entrance.
Frustrated, I pull out my phone and double-check for messages. Nothing from her. Just several texts from Mom asking if I’ve heard from Samantha, and one from Mick asking me to call him.
“You can count on it,” I mumble. Thanks to the mess in the Glades, I’ve probably lost my first legitimate whistleblower. It’s a wonder she even took my call after I missed our first meeting. Now she’s either gotten spooked, or she wasn’t exaggerating when she said she was afraid.
To stave off my own fear, I begin to recite Psalms, the familiar words a steady anchor in the swirling dark.The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?and silently thank my parents for making me memorize so many as a kid.
Grumpy, sweaty, and now thirsty, I walk fast, flashlight on, its beam slicing a narrow, jumpy path through the oppressive dark. Leaves rustle on either side of me, closer now, a dry, whispering sound that snaps every hair on my neck to attention.
Get a grip, Brooke.
Still, I slide my hand back into my pocket, fingers tightening around the mace. When I’m sure I know which way to spray it, I glance behind me. Nothing. Absolutely nothing and nobody.
But a new thought lodges hard in my head and refuses to leave.Maybe stop meeting strangers in isolated places?
I wince inwardly. I only agreed because I was desperate for the story, desperate to prove myself, but I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I didn’t even question why she wanted to meet here.
With no thought to possible injury, I break into a run again. The flashlight beam jumps and jerks with each frantic stride. Gasping, pushing hard, phone clutched in one hand, mace in the other, my palms turn slick with sweat. I tighten my grip, but it’s no use. Rather than risk losing it, I shove the mace back into my pocket and pray the whole way instead.
Just as a stitch forms in my side, the parking lot sign appears in my beam. Praising God, I slow to a walk and approach my car, sweeping the light over the back seat the way Dad taught me. All clear.
Except…
I angle the light downward—squarely onto the front driver's wheel.
The tire’s been shredded, rubber curling away in jagged strips like some monstrous, clawed hand tore through it. Puzzled, I grip the phone tighter and force myself to move, circling the car on numb legs.
“What on earth?” I rasp.
One tire after another has deep gouges in it. There’s no way I can drive out of here. With an irritated puff of air, I lean my back against my car, furious as I call for a tow truck.
