Page 30 of Deadly Force
"She's safe."
"That's not what I asked." His smile spreads thin. "You strike me as a man who's very good at making decisions for other people."
Something in his tone hooks deeper than it should. "Just the ones I’m protecting."
Crowley doesn’t answer right away. He studies me, eyes narrowed just a fraction, like he’s reading past the surface, trying to decide if I’m a problem or aresource. Then he huffs out a breath. Almost a laugh, but not quite. “Statement’s waiting. Try not to rack up another incident report on your way there, Mr. Seventh Group.”
Brooke
Beside me on the sofa, Mateo’s story lies grouped, but in the last ninety minutes, it has veered off unintentionally to the man sent to protect me.
Not good. And certainly not professional.
Caleb doesn’t want to be featured. Even if Icanwrite him into the story, it feels too unbelievable—who would buy it as truth?
With a sigh, I stack the hastily scribbled notes into a pile and push myself up.
“Where are you going?”
I pause, a crease forming between my brows. “I need the bathroom.”
Mateo nods. With the familiar efficiency I’ve come to expect, he crosses the room and rechecks the bathroom. “Clear.”
Smothering a nervous giggle at his intensity, I hurry past him, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, the bathroom matches the room’s dreariness: a silvering mirror, thin, scratchy towels, cracked floor tiles, and a questionable level of cleanliness.
Sighing, I use the facilities, praying as I wash myhands. For what, I’m not even sure. I should be home right now, not hiding like a fugitive. How long can Caleb expect me to stay here? One night? Two? I have commitments. A job. A life.
I dry my hands on the rough fabric, grimacing as I think. There has to be an alternative to this dump. Why choose it in the first place?
Since Caleb isn’t here, I exit the bathroom and aim the question at the next best person. “Why did Caleb pick this motel? I get that it’s cheap…”
Mateo’s eyes flick around the room, measuring his response before he speaks. “He didn’t pick this place by accident,” he says, meeting my gaze. “Guys like Caleb don’t do anything by accident.”
I fold my arms, skeptical, but something in Mateo’s tone gives me pause.
He nods toward the parking lot. “He can park right outside. Keep a visual on the exit at all times.”
I follow his glance. Suddenly, the view shifts—less boring motel lot, more tactical perch.
“Bed’s positioned with line of sight to the door and the window. One entry point means one direction to defend.”
I glance at the bed. The cheap metal frame groans at the slightest shift, and the mattress sags, threatening to swallow you whole. I’d chalked it up to neglect, but now? Now I wonder if Caleb noticed every flaw before I even walked through the door.
His words are simple, unemotional, yet they hitlike puzzle pieces falling into place. I hadn’t seen it before; now I can’t unsee it.
“Low traffic means fewer moving parts,” he continues. “Fewer people to watch. Less chance of someone recognizing you. Or following.”
I shift, discomfort curling inside me. Not at the room, but at how thoroughly I’d misjudged it. Misjudged him.
“No paper trail,” Mateo adds. “Cash, no questions. Probably checked in under an alias.”
He taps the wall. Painted cinder block, dinged and patched, as if someone has tried to cover old damage with minimal effort. “Thick enough for privacy. Thin enough he can hear what’s happening next door.”
I blink, suddenly aware of every creak and thud around us, as if the walls are alive with sound.
“Just another nameless, forgettable place.” Mateo gives a small shrug. “That’s exactly what makes it safe.”
The air feels different now—charged. This isn’t just a run-down motel. It’s deliberate. Purposeful. Mateo’s voice softens, but there’s no question in it. “He chose this place to protect you.”
