Chapter 3
THREE
Caleb
I perch on the chair by the table, whistling as I grab a screwdriver from my bag, and begin repurposing the camera Brooke has given me. Each screw I remove clatters softly onto the table, a metallic percussion marking my progress.
Ten minutes later, fingers cramped from the careful work, I’ve jammed an extra clip into the cavity I created and still managed to close the camera housing.
The modification isn’t pretty—slight gaps where the casing doesn’t align—but it'll do. The downside: I won’t be able to access the ammo without destroying the camera, making it a one-time emergency stash.
On the table, my phone blips. I toss the screwdriver back in my bag and pick it up.
“Morning, sunshine. You’re up early,” I say .
Delilah groans in my ear. “I forgot to put my earplugs in.”
I chuckle as I pull out my weapon and check the ammo count. “You have something for me?”
She yawns so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “Yeah. Mick’s sister has a rep for sticking her nose in where it’s not wanted.”
I glance up and catch a glimpse of Brooke walking around, brushing her teeth while trying to put her shoes on.
Shaking my head, I return my attention to Delilah. “You’ve been talking to the local LEO?”
“If you mean talking, my AI shook hands with their AI, so I was able to take a peep at her records.”
I lower my voice, frowning as I push a bullet back into the clip. “She has a record?”
“More like they keep tabs on her. Kind of a ‘What is she doing now’ file. I think it’s more to protect themselves. She’s kind of... tenacious.”
A little red light starts flashing in my brain.
Another warning that this isn’t going to be as easy as I first thought.
A nosy reporter with no fear is dangerous to law enforcement.
She might think she’s doing the right thing, but civilians have zero experience or understanding of how things actually work in the real world.
“No arrests?” I ask.
“No. Not yet.”
"Not yet" is an accurate assessment. For someone like Brooke, who’s always hungry for the truth, following the law to the letter may not be a priority.
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Hang on…”
I slide the rest of the bullets back into the clip while I wait, listening to her tap away.
“Not sure if this is important, but there’s a note on her file from a… Sgt. Guthrie. Looks like he left it a few years back before he retired. Says she’s always involved in something. He even has a nickname for her. Gonzo.”
“Gonzo?”
Delilah laughs. “Yeah. Had me stumped too. Sam was here with me, and she knew all about it. It’s a style of journalism. Usually the reporter’s right in the middle of the action.”
I search my memory banks and wince when I recall the journalist who liked blurring fiction with fact. And drugs. A whole lot of drugs. “You think Brooke’s emulating a maniac like Hunter S. Thompson?”
“I don’t know. But it would explain how chill she is.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
“Can you do a background check on Guthrie for me?”
She pauses. “I can... but you’ll have to get in line.”
Brooke appears in the doorway, tugging a black blazer over a creamy blouse, wearing a skirt and strappy sandals with a heel.
Her black hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s swiped her lips with shiny gloss, but it’s her eyes that draw me in.
Emphasized by tawny makeup and mascara, they’re a deep well of brown, and they seem to pierce right to the marrow.
This is not a woman I want throwing herself into danger for the sake of a good story.
I swallow hard, pulse thrumming as I try to form a logical reply to Delilah. “I can take a number. Text it through when you have it.”
Still grappling with my reaction to her, I get to my feet, ready to explain the need to dismantle the camera, when Brooke’s lips purse.
“Okay, so... I was thinking... how about you stay in the car?”
I shake my head and push my gun back into place.
Her lip catches her teeth. “Outside the office block?”
I sigh. “Close protection means close.”
She tosses her head and stomps out of the doorway. “I can’t sneak around if you’re with me.”
I follow her out, detouring to check that the windows are closed and locked as I go.
“If we’re going to keep having this conversation, it’s going to get old mighty fast,” I say.
Her brow crinkles into lines. “I agree. So how about you just pack up and go back to... Hightower HQ.”
Rather than answer her, I step around her and open the front door. “Stay here. I’m going to double-check my car.”
Her mouth drops open, but she stays inside, silently fuming as I step out into the hot Arizona morning.
Scanning my surroundings, I slide my hand into my pocket and depress the remote-activated sensor attached to my Nissan.
If anyone tried to open it last night, I’ll know.
Not only won’t it start for them, but a device custom-built into the door will deliver two thousand volts of electricity.
Not enough to kill, but more than enough to incapacitate long enough for me to ask a few questions.
The sensor shows just what I expected. No one came near it. More’s the pity.
I open the door, climb inside, and grimace at the stuffy heat filling the cabin. My Kevlar vest is on the passenger seat. I tug it on and secure it, grateful for the Pathfinder’s roominess.
Once set, I start the engine, adjust the temperature, and jog back to retrieve Brooke.
“Let’s go. Stay two paces back.”
Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
I explain quickly. “If someone takes a shot at you from in front, it’ll go through me. Sit in the back but on the opposite side. Same reason. If someone takes me out, you’ll have the best chance of surviving.”
She sucks in a breath through her teeth, but it has the desired effect. She stops fighting and follows me outside, locking the door behind her and trailing in my wake.
Every second we’re in the open is another second she’s exposed. Even the Pathfinder won’t offer as much protection as I’d like. But it’s not like we can just order up custom-fitted vehicles. As it is, I had to hustle and pull a favor to get this one.
Brooke climbs in the back and sighs as I close the door and buckle my seatbelt.
“This is insane. You’re wearing a tactical vest. I only had my tires slashed.”
I’m not about to argue. No sense wasting my breath. She thinks she’s right. And I know I am. The camera footage is proof. And my instincts—refined by years of training, not emotion—have never steered me wrong.
With that in mind, I keep my eyes on the road—and off Brooke—as I punch in the coordinates on the SATNAV.
As the robotic voice feeds me directions, Brooke groans from the back seat. “That’s the long way. Take a left here, and cut down?—”
I stop her with a raised hand. “This route has the least stoplights.”
“But— ”
“No buts. Stoplights are hazards. The fewer hazards, the better.”
Silence. Good. Easier to think if she’s not questioning my every move.
She doesn’t say another word as I drive the pre-programmed route, sticking to the speed limit and checking routinely to see if we’re being followed.
I take a right and drive up the curving path to the retirement village.
Trees line the road. Patchy dry lawns dot the front of small units, with a few outdoor games for mobile residents.
A dozen cars are parked in the lot, so I choose a spot closest to the exit and away from the others.
We’ll have to walk further, but I don’t want someone accidentally flinging a door open into us.
I’ve got enough on my conscience. I don’t need to add injuring a senior citizen to the list.
As Brooke gathers herself, I adjust my weapon at the small of my back, shift the vest so it’s not resting on an old scar, and turn off the engine. Twisting in my seat to face her, I brace for her reaction.
“Same as before. I take the lead. You follow.”
Her face contorts with annoyance. “A cameraman never leads. He follows.”
I open the door, knowing exactly how this’ll go.
“Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything.”
Brook e
Thanks to Caleb, the weasel-faced manager proves less than accommodating.
After dodging questioning looks from his overprotective secretary, Walter Riley is none too pleased that the little interview with me now comes with a giant bag of muscles dressed like Action Man and armed with more than a camera.
This was supposed to be a soft interview, no hard-hitting questions, and one-on-one.
Just like my whistleblower, I can feel another story slipping through my fingers.
“I thought I made it clear that I can’t allow cameras today?”
From where he’s standing, taking up a large portion of the tiny office, Caleb adjusts the camera. “It’s just for a few external shots of the grounds. Brooke wants to film the intro in front of the logo.”
I’m so surprised he came prepared it takes me a few seconds to back up his story. The fib comes a little too swiftly. “You’ll have to forgive him. He used to run with war correspondents. Spent years filming in conflict zones. He forgets this isn’t one.”
Walter’s lily-white pallor pales even further. “Oh, well… I see. I… we have rules. Privacy.”
Caleb grunts. “I’m going to take a few shots of the mountains. Figure it out while I’m gone.”
Walter starts to rise from his chair, puffy cheeks flapping as his mouth opens and closes rapidly, like he’s sucking in courage to protest.
I have no idea what Caleb’s up to—we didn’t agree on him leaving me alone—but when he catches my eye and I see a hint of annoyance, I get the distinct impression he dislikes the man behind the desk as much as I do.
Drawing the manager’s attention again, I smile as warmly as I can. “Shall we get started?”
He swallows thickly. A bead of sweat sits on his upper lip. Considering the frigid temperature of his office, something is definitely suspect.
“Well, I don’t know. I really can’t allow him to wander about filming,” he says.