Page 24 of Deadly Force
I cast a glance at her. Yep. Still mad. Her head is ducked, and she’s on her phone.
Thanks, Silas. Thanks a bunch. Not only do I get a babysitting job—I get one with zero appreciation or respect.
I kill the engine and sit for a second, scanning the street. Nothing moves. No porch lights flick on, no blinds twitch.
I step out of the Pathfinder. Gravel crunches under my boots as I round the hood, checking corners, rooftops, the neighbor’s open garage. One light flickers three houses down. Empty. Probably motion-triggered. Still, I clock it.
I pause, assessing the darkened windows. I should've set a timer so it's not so obvious she wasn't home.Dumb. I'll do it tonight. Just as soon as?—
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I turn and spot a van creeping down the street, headed straight for the Pathfinder. Its headlights cut harsh beams through the darkness, slicing through the shadows like twin blades.
Lord, let this be a delivery driver.
The driver adjusts course. They're coming in fast. Too fast. Not a delivery driver. Not a neighbor. Notsomeone lost. The windows are tinted, and there are no plates on the van.
Move. Move. Move!
I hurl myself over the hood just as the barrel of his gun finds its target. No time to aim. No time to breathe. I fire, praying my shot hits before his finger finishes its pull.
Thunder splits the night. His muzzle flash strobes white-hot. Mine answers a microsecond later.
The van's windshield spider-webs, sending it careening wildly before it clips a parked car, crashes over the curb, and tears off into the night, engine screaming.
I hit the pavement hard, roll, scramble to my feet. My hands shake as I rip her door open, blood roaring in my ears, vision tunneling, expecting to find her bleeding.
She's alive. Trembling, but unharmed and trying to climb out of the truck.
"Stay there. We're leaving," I say.
Her eyes widen as I jump behind the wheel. "We need to call the police."
I infuse steel into my voice, peeling away from the curb and disregarding the speed limit as I leave her neighborhood behind. My eyes sweep every parked car, every shadow, every potential threat in a constant hypervigilant scan. "I will. As soon as I get you somewhere safe."
Heart pounding in my eardrums, I reach into thecenter console and pull out the tactical radio unit, push the earpiece in and press transmit.
"Hightower, this is Evans. Code Red. Confirmed shot fired at the principal—no injuries. Intentional miss. Shooter unknown. Visual compromised. Request backup and recon sweep. This isn't intimidation. Containment just failed."
Brooke
Backup. He’s requested backup. Like he’s in the Secret Service.
Okay. I admit it, Lord: this might be a teeny bit more serious than I first thought.While I didn’t see the gun, my ears are still ringing from the shot fired right outside my window.
A tightness grips my chest, dull but insistent, like a warning. I clamp my hands into fists in my lap, fighting the tremor in my fingers and the nagging thought:He could have easily fired into the car.
Now is not the time to lose it. I’ve been through worse, and I didn’t have a brawny bodyguard watching over me. My shoulders stiffen as I work to steady my breath, telling myself to stay focused.
Calling on every resource I have, I straighten my back and glance at the grim-faced man beside me, channeling every action movie I’ve ever seen. His jawis working overtime. Every muscle in his body is tense. I tear my gaze away, choosing instead to focus on the tree-lined streets with adobe and brick homes.
We tear past the murals and street art in the Barrio Viejo, but instead of heading downtown and past Hotel Congress, Caleb veers onto a decidedly more complicated route. The Miracle Mile’s neon signs glimmer in the distance—he’s even further off the beaten track. It’s not until I see the railroad tracks that I think to question him.
“Where are we going?” Curses. My voice is shaking as much as my hands are. It’s adrenaline, but I need to get a handle on it or he’ll think I’m more of a damsel in distress than he already does.
His reply is clipped, like he’s grinding the words out. “Super Inn. Just off I-10.”
“Then why drive all over town?” It’s a dumb question, but I have to keep talking. If I stop to think too long, I’ll lose all composure.
He doesn’t answer, just gives me a warning look I should know better than to ignore.
