Page 29 of Deadly Force
His voice is steady, but there's weight behind it—the kind born from shared battlefields. "Best soldiersaren't the ones who like pulling the trigger. They're the ones who'll do it because they have to, not because they want to. Caleb's one of those. No thrill in the bloodshed. No satisfaction in the fight. Just the mission and getting his people home."
"Sounds like you respect him," I say softly.
"Yes, ma'am. God put Caleb here for a reason. And backing up a man like him? That's an honor."
I swallow hard, a tangle of nerves rising in my throat. I can handle the unknown. It's the quiet certainty Mateo has that God sent Caleb to me that shakes me to my core.
Caleb
I kill the engine a block away, parking behind a cluster of paloverde trees. Brooke’s neighborhood sits quiet except for the crackle of police radios and the low murmur of voices. Manicured lawns and gravel yards stretch between houses, most of them dark now, Brooke’s neighbors either asleep or watching from behind drawn curtains.
Two uniforms spot me immediately—young, tense, palms riding the butts of their pistols like they're itching to make a mistake. I stop short and let them look, let them decide I'm not a threat.
"Who's in charge?" I ask, voice low.
One jerks his chin toward Brooke’s mailboxwhere a plainclothes detective stands—late forties, broad-shouldered, built like he never got the memo that desk duty means soft edges. Sleeves rolled, notepad in one hand, the other hanging casual near his holster. Definitely not the guy you want to irritate after dark. I walk up slow and stop a few feet back.
"You need something?" he asks, cool and steady.
"Caleb Evans. I was here when this happened."
His eyes narrow, not liking the sound of that. "You left the scene of a shooting?"
"I had a principal to protect. Staying would've compromised her safety."
I shift my stance while he studies me like he’s running a threat assessment he doesn’t plan to share. Don’t blame him. Even I know I look like trouble. Cops don’t like private security—too much gear, not enough rules.
"Detective Crowley," he says, extending his hand. Firm grip, brief. "You ex-military?"
"Yes, sir. Army Special Forces. Seventh Group."
He grunts and scribbles something in his notepad. "Carrying?"
I nod, keeping my hands visible.
"Principal," he says without looking up from his notes. "That what we're calling Brooke Weston now?"
The way he says her name makes my jaw tighten. "That's what we're calling professional protection."
"Professional." He glances up, pen still moving. "Neighbor saw a man fitting your description here early this morning. That you?"
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
A radio crackles from a uniform. Crowley tilts his head toward the sound, then back to me. "So where is she?"
"Secure location. Under guard."
With a frown, he closes the notepad with a snap. "Just how many people does it take to protect one journalist?”
I open my hands. “Depends on how many people are shooting at her.”
He shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “You'll need to declare your weapon and give a statement to Officer Morales." He gestures down the block with his pen. "She's the one who doesn't look like she wants to arrest you."
I turn to go, but he calls after me. "Wait."
I stop and look back.
"This secure location—Ms. Weston go willingly?"
