Page 92 of Deadly Force
This costs him. Letting me out of his sight. Giving me even this small piece of control.
But he does it.
He nods once. Quiet. Final. Like he's handing over something precious.
And for the first time, I know he's not just guarding me, he's choosing totrustme.
"Stay put," he says finally. "No matter what."
"I won’t leave the newsroom for anyone or anything."
"Swear on it."
The words are sharp, serious. This isn't a request—it's a condition. "I swear."
For a beat, he doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just watches me, like he's trying to see past the words—to the weight behind them.
He nods once, then disappears down the short hallway into the spare bedroom. The soft thud of hisfootsteps fades, followed by the quiet click of a drawer opening.
When he returns, it’s in his hands—cold, black steel catching the low light.
Another gun.
He holds it out like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a tool. But everything in me tightens at the sight.
“Have you ever used one of these?”
“No.” The word slips out smaller than I mean it to. Thin. Unsteady.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods again, businesslike. Calm.
“Safety’s here.” He shows me with a flick of his thumb, his fingers moving with a quiet, practiced confidence. “Point. Squeeze—don’t pull. And only if your life depends on it.”
The grip feels strange in my hand, textured in a way that makes it hard to forget I’m holding something dangerous. My fingers don’t quite know where to rest. It’s not heavy, but it’s not comfortable either. Just…solid.
“.380 Shield EZ. Light recoil, easy slide. Won’t fight you if you have to use it.”
I swallow hard.
He’s not just giving me a weapon. He’s giving me his trust.
And I intend to honor it.
Caleb
We pull up outside the Tucson Times, its glass facade dark except for a few glowing windows on the upper floors.
It’s not ideal. But it’s better than nothing. The building’s badge-protected. Single point of entry. Security posted at the front, and her desk’s tucked deep in the middle of the floor.
If something goes wrong, she has a weapon, a phone, and a locked door. It’s not perfect. But it’s defensible. And tonight, that’s as close to safe as she’s gonna get.
The security guard sits at his desk in the foyer, half-watching the monitors, half-watching us. Older guy, mid-fifties maybe, with the posture of someone who used to care a lot more.
I clock the exits, the cameras, the badge reader on the inner door. Then I size him up.
"You solo on this post, or are you part of a team?" I ask.
He looks up, squints at me, then at Brooke. "Who's this guy?"
