Page 53 of Deadly Force
And I don't know which thought scares me more.
Caleb
Tactical failure.
The words cling to me as the hospital doors hiss open. I tighten my grip on Brooke’s gear and follow Samantha through the glass, every step of my boots on the linoleum dragging my pulse tighter.
Every person could be a threat. A potential hostile. I stay alert, mind torn in two by what just happened while I was staked out at Brooke’s place.
Mateo took a bullet. And it should’ve been me.
Silas took the news better than I delivered it. I was too jangled from needing to get here—check on him, check on her. He didn’t call me out on it. Didn’t need to. He knows I’m beating myself up harder than he ever would.
As we weave through a maze of antiseptic corridors, I whisper a prayer for clarity. For strength. For my heart rate to stop jabbering against my ribs.
Samantha tosses a look over her shoulder. “Maybe you should tell her how you feel.”
I stop short of the nurse’s station, forcing what Ihope is my poker face back into place. “Don’t know what you mean.”
She lifts an eyebrow, presses her lips together. “Yes, you do. But don’t worry. No one else will notice.”
Great. Now Hightower’s newest recruit is reading my body language like a threat matrix.
I ignore her and gesture ahead. “Find Mateo. I’ll catch up.”
She peels off with that too-smooth charm that makes her dangerous, leaving me to search for Brooke alone.
I find her in seconds, sitting, drinking coffee, talking to a uniform. Blood on her clothes. Mateo’s. And it makes bile crawl up the back of my throat.
The cop clocks me and backs off, leaving me to face my failure without an audience.
I set her bag gently at her feet. “I’m sorry.”
She looks up, startled. “For what?”
“Not being there.”
“It’s not your fault. The pastor came early. We had to leave.”
“Still should’ve been there.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stares into the coffee like it might offer divine insight.
She’s trying not to fall apart. She shouldn’t have to do it under hospital lights and cop scrutiny.
“Come with me,” I say, voice low.
She blinks. “Why?”
“You need a minute. Somewhere quiet.”
She hesitates, then nods.
I guide her toward a consultation room. The door’s unlocked and the room is empty.
“You can change in here,” I say, setting the bag down. “I’ll turn around.”
The soft rustle of clothes behind me makes my jaw lock hard. Not the time, not the place. Not with Mateo down the hall and a shooter still on the loose.
