Deadly Force (Hightower Security #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Brooke

I blow out an agitated breath, the crisp desert night air doing little to calm my racing thoughts. The Himmel Park library closed hours ago, and in fourteen minutes, security will turn off all the lights.

I might be carrying mace, but I’m not brave enough to be wandering around alone out here in total darkness. Especially not after... well, the Everglades incident .

Time to face facts. My whistleblower is a no-show.

Bypassing the paved path, I take the more direct route past the pickleball courts—and immediately regret it.

It might get me to the parking lot faster, but the dense stands of paloverde and cacti here could be concealing anyone .

The shadows along the path don’t just gather; they stretch, distort, and twist into menacing, looming shapes.

To keep my mind busy, to quiet the rising tide of unease, I try to figure out how to get Mick to talk.

He’s back at work, which is great, but he’s been tight-lipped about where Samantha is and why Adena and Verity from Hightower are stonewalling me.

It’s almost like she vanished exactly the way they wanted her to.

I still don’t know who or what Hightower is—only that it’s a private security company and the reason my brother, Sam, and I are alive after a failed terrorist plot in Miami.

And I’m a little hazy on how Samantha Duke fits in, or why they thought she’d care if I was used as bait. That’s filed under “things to get out of her” once she officially becomes my sister-in-law.

I pause under a lone, flickering lamp, its light barely piercing the encroaching gloom, and wince when I check the time. Five minutes. Five minutes. I must be crazy to agree to meet this late. Unless I run, I won’t make it to the lot before the lights cut out completely.

With a hard exhale that fogs in the cool air, I start to jog, arms and legs pumping as fast as I dare. The last thing I need is to face-plant or twist an ankle. The dark shapes of desert flora blur past, their forms like watchful sentinels.

Breathing hard, I round the final corner when the lamps ahead flicker, then die, one by one, plunging the entire area into absolute darkness.

Rats.

My pace slows, panting, heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I squint into the inky blackness, trying to gauge the distance to the lot's entrance.

Frustrated, I pull out my phone and double-check for messages. Nothing from her. Just several texts from Mom asking if I’ve heard from Samantha, and one from Mick asking me to call him.

“You can count on it,” I mumble. Thanks to the mess in the Glades, I’ve probably lost my first legitimate whistleblower. It’s a wonder she even took my call after I missed our first meeting. Now she’s either gotten spooked, or she wasn’t exaggerating when she said she was afraid.

To stave off my own fear, I begin to recite Psalms, the familiar words a steady anchor in the swirling dark.

The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?

and silently thank my parents for making me memorize so many as a kid.

Grumpy, sweaty, and now thirsty, I walk fast, flashlight on, its beam slicing a narrow, jumpy path through the oppressive dark. Leaves rustle on either side of me, closer now, a dry, whispering sound that snaps every hair on my neck to attention.

Get a grip, Brooke .

Still, I slide my hand back into my pocket, fingers tightening around the mace. When I’m sure I know which way to spray it, I glance behind me. Nothing. Absolutely nothing and nobody.

But a new thought lodges hard in my head and refuses to leave. Maybe stop meeting strangers in isolated places?

I wince inwardly. I only agreed because I was desperate for the story, desperate to prove myself, but I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I didn’t even question why she wanted to meet here.

With no thought to possible injury, I break into a run again.

The flashlight beam jumps and jerks with each frantic stride.

Gasping, pushing hard, phone clutched in one hand, mace in the other, my palms turn slick with sweat.

I tighten my grip, but it’s no use. Rather than risk losing it, I shove the mace back into my pocket and pray the whole way instead.

Just as a stitch forms in my side, the parking lot sign appears in my beam. Praising God, I slow to a walk and approach my car, sweeping the light over the back seat the way Dad taught me. All clear.

Except…

I angle the light downward—squarely onto the front driver's wheel.

The tire’s been shredded, rubber curling away in jagged strips like some monstrous, clawed hand tore through it. Puzzled, I grip the phone tighter and force myself to move, circling the car on numb legs .

“What on earth?” I rasp.

One tire after another has deep gouges in it. There’s no way I can drive out of here. With an irritated puff of air, I lean my back against my car, furious as I call for a tow truck.

This is unbelievable.

While I waited around for my whistleblower to show, somebody was destroying my car!

Jericho, Hightower Headquarters, North Dakota, 11:13 p.m.

Caleb

My boots echo on concrete as I push through the heavy gym door, the wind slamming it shut behind me.

This is the first real workout I've had in a few days, and I don't want any witnesses to what might be a pathetic display of weakness.

I switch the stereo on so it pumps out Jake's random selection of drum and bass through the speakers, the heavy beat thudding off the timbered ceiling.

I start easy, warm up on the treadmill, then tentatively approach the bench. It’s still loaded with the same amount of weight I was pressing before everything went sideways, so I ease off half and stack them. Slowly. Methodically.

I’m procrastinating. Every fiber in me wants to turn and walk out the door, but this is a do-or-die moment.

Muttering to myself under my breath, I swing a leg over the worn leather bench and sit, lying down and adjusting so I'm staring up at the metal bar.

I breathe. In. Out. The rhythm steady, controlled. I grab the bar, flex my fingers, and grip it, feeling the familiar cold steel against my palms.

It lifts off easily.

Slowly, I draw it down to my chest and push it up, making sure I don’t lock my elbows. The movement feels rusty, like a machine that’s been sitting idle too long. My muscles tremble slightly with the effort, a subtle betrayal.

For a while, I’m tense, every muscle coiled and waiting for the pain, waiting for the sharp warning my body will send me if I’ve pushed too far, too fast. But it doesn’t come. Not yet.

I ease into the movement, finding my rhythm again. Down, up. The burn starts to spread across my chest, familiar and welcome, a sign that I’m still capable. More confident now, a sliver of defiance pushing through the apprehension, I sit up and add a little extra weight.

I have to. If I don't—if I let fear dictate my limits—I won’t be able to lift as heavy ever again. And worse, I’ll have proven them right.

I squeeze out one more rep, arms beginning to shake with the effort as I drop the bar back into the rest. The metal clangs against the supports, louder than intended, the sound sharp in the quiet gym.

Movement in the mirror makes me sit up. Silas. Watching from the doorway, arms crossed. The man’s a ghost when he wants to be. He doesn't look pleased to see me in here, his expression tight.

Yeah. Well. He can get in line behind Axel and everyone else who thinks they know what's best for me.

With a subtle look that speaks volumes, he turns the music down and walks over. The drum and bass fade, emphasizing the hum of the ventilation system.

"Thought Axel said not to press anything for a while?"

I shrug, reaching for my towel. "He suggested I lay off. I suggested he doesn't know what he's talking about."

Silas just shakes his head, the gesture carrying years of experience dealing with stubborn operatives, his gaze unwavering. "Mick just called."

I swipe the towel over my face, buying a moment, trying to keep my expression neutral. "Oh yeah? How's the puddle duck doing?"

Silas chuckles at the nickname. "Our alligator wrestler is fine. But his sister might not be. She just called him from the Tucson PD. Someone slashed her tires."

My stomach tightens involuntarily, a cold knot forming deep inside me.

For months now, I’ve been trying not to think about Brooke Weston or about how she managed to put a serious dent in my pride.

Trying and failing. The thought of her in trouble slices through my carefully constructed indifference.

"But she's okay?" I force out, my voice a little rougher than I intended.

Silas nods, but his expression remains serious, his eyes narrowed. "Physically she's fine, but Mick thinks she’s not being straight with him."

I frown, confusion mixing with something that might be concern. "Why not have it out with her himself?" Why did Silas interrupt my workout to tell me?

Silas looks at the eighty-pound plates stacked on the bench, as if calculating whether I'm pushing too hard, whether this is about more than just a workout.

"He's still on shaky ground with the CG, and there's Samantha."

I snort. "Right. So, he wants you to make a few calls?"

Silas tilts his head, raising a solitary eyebrow in that way that usually means he’s about to drop something I won’t like. "I told him I had a better idea, and he agreed. You can go check it out."

To hide my shock, I pick up my water bottle and take a long swig. The cool liquid does nothing to ease the sudden dryness in my throat. "Yeah… that’s a big fat nope. "

A single eyebrow raises, and then he squints at me with the intensity of a man who's made a career of reading people. "Because?"

I slap my palm to my chest, more dramatic than necessary, trying to mask the real reason. "You benched me."