Page 66 of Deadly Force
His nostrils flare. The mask flickers, just briefly. “We can’t publish a word until we know we’re protected.”
“What about the truth?”
He barks a laugh, sudden and sharp. Then leans back, shaking his head like I’ve just recited poetry from another century.
“You were born in the wrong era, Weston.”
Right. There it is. The quiet contempt beneath the curated allyship.
He waves a hand like he’s clearing the whole mess from the air. “Tell me you’ve at least got something usable on the retirement community.”
I hesitate. “I have an angle. Possible neglect.”
That perks him up. His eyes sharpen, not with concern, but with the scent of something marketable.
“Get it on my desk by end of day.”
“I…”
“If you’re overwhelmed,” he says smoothly, “there are others happy to step in. The story doesn’t have to suffer just because you’re stretched.”
I swallow the fire building in my throat. “I’ve got it.”
He folds his hands, smile tight. “Good. Because this is your final warning. Miss another deadline,and it will be your last.”
I exit quickly, pulse still hammering. Caleb falls into step beside me, ignoring the sideways glances from my coworkers. “Are you fired?” he asks, voice low.
I sigh. “If I don’t finish writing the piece on Betty I will be. I have to give him something.”
He nods and backs up so he can position himself by my desk. “Uh… I’m not sure Lawrence will appreciate you lurking.”
Caleb’s brow creases, and he doesn't answer right away. Just watches me like he's weighing risks.
"You haven't eaten since breakfast," he says finally. "I'll grab something. You finish Betty’s story."
Relieved, I nod. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.”
His jaw tightens. "If anyone gives you a hard time—anyone—call me."
I nod, but he’s already turning, every inch of him still on guard, even as he walks away.
Caleb
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I drop the sandwiches beside me—already damp with grease—and crank the A/C as high as it’ll go.
Never thought I’d miss the windburn out of North Dakota this much.
I pull out into traffic, down half a bottle of water, and sit up straighter when a routine glance in the mirror confirms I’ve got a tail.
White Ford. Three cars back, keeping its distance with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. No rhythm to its pacing. No lane variation. Just there.
Lurking. Hovering.
Not professional.
Just deliberate.
The steering wheel's slick under my palms, Arizona heat bleeding through even with the A/C running full blast. I tap my comms, the earpiece crackling with static.
