Chapter 6
SIX
Caleb
Good thing I didn’t shoot first and ask questions later. Everything about the guy was wrong—wrong shoes, wrong outfit, wrong attitude. Except he has a reasonable explanation for being out here. If you can call what he’s doing reasonable.
My pulse starts to settle as I assess him. Threat level: geek. “You’re geocaching.”
“Yup.” The guy beams, clearly in seventh heaven. “Thought I was the only one who did this at night. Respect, man. Most people just use Google Maps and hike in daylight.”
I don’t have time for this. I can’t hear Brooke, and I can’t see her with him blocking my way.
“Are those military-grade goggles? You sure you don’t wanna team up? ”
I step around him, hardening my voice. “Go home, man.”
Hand still on my weapon, I pick up my pace to a light jog, listening and scanning for signs Brooke and Eliza are still close by.
Brooke appears—alone. In my green-tinged vision, it’s impossible to miss the groove in her forehead. Slowing to a walk, I breathe out a thank you to God, take the goggles off, and use her flashlight instead.
“Where is she?”
Brooke’s tone carries a bite. “Gone.”
That’s why she looks so ticked off.
“There was a guy…”
Brooke lets out a puff of air. “I know! I heard you. He probably peed himself. I told you this getup was overkill.”
I’m not in the mood to explain. She has zero respect for what I do. So what if she lost a story? Better that than her life.
As we walk back, my mind runs through worst-case scenarios. Hidden shooters, eyes behind scopes, a second team waiting to flank us. Anything but the possibility I made an error.
I angle my body to keep Brooke half-behind me, forcing myself to breathe slow, steady.
Brooke’s anger pulses beside me like a radio signal, sharp and irritating. I can’t let it distract me. I’ve seen too many good people die because they ignored their gut. I steal glances at her profile, lit by the flashlight—jaw set, eyes flashing.
As expected, when we reach the Pathfinder, she’s frosty from the moment we climb inside to the painfully quiet drive back to her place.
This gig is getting old fast. It’s starting to look less like protective detail and more like I volunteered for a hostage situation. I’d take a recon mission through enemy territory over navigating Brooke’s glare any day. At least with landmines, you know when you’ve stepped on one.
Tapping the brakes, I ease around a corner, eyes flicking between side streets and rearview mirrors. Every parked car could hide a threat. Every porch could hold a watcher. The world outside is full of sharp edges. The woman beside me is full of sharp edges.
She shifts in her seat, and I catch the movement in my peripheral vision. Her voice comes quieter than before, almost reluctant. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m acting like a brat… it’s just… this was really important to me.”
“You think that’s going to be a comfort to your family and friends when you get yourself killed?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
Her ambivalence is disturbing. “You’re walking a fine line. One misstep and you’ll be the story, not just reporting about it. ”
I flick a look in the rearview mirror. Two cars. Neither too close nor too slow. Probably nothing.
I take a right into her neighborhood and make sure neither vehicle follows before slowing to a crawl outside her place.
I cast a glance at her. Yep. Still mad. Her head is ducked, and she’s on her phone.
Thanks, Silas. Thanks a bunch. Not only do I get a babysitting job—I get one with zero appreciation or respect.
I kill the engine and sit for a second, scanning the street. Nothing moves. No porch lights flick on, no blinds twitch.
I step out of the Pathfinder. Gravel crunches under my boots as I round the hood, checking corners, rooftops, the neighbor’s open garage. One light flickers three houses down. Empty. Probably motion-triggered. Still, I clock it.
I pause, assessing the darkened windows. I should've set a timer so it's not so obvious she wasn't home. Dumb. I'll do it tonight. Just as soon as ? —
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I turn and spot a van creeping down the street, headed straight for the Pathfinder. Its headlights cut harsh beams through the darkness, slicing through the shadows like twin blades.
Lord, let this be a delivery driver.
The driver adjusts course. They're coming in fast. Too fast. Not a delivery driver. Not a neighbor. Not someone lost. The windows are tinted, and there are no plates on the van.
Move. Move. Move!
I hurl myself over the hood just as the barrel of his gun finds its target. No time to aim. No time to breathe. I fire, praying my shot hits before his finger finishes its pull.
Thunder splits the night. His muzzle flash strobes white-hot. Mine answers a microsecond later.
The van's windshield spider-webs, sending it careening wildly before it clips a parked car, crashes over the curb, and tears off into the night, engine screaming.
I hit the pavement hard, roll, scramble to my feet. My hands shake as I rip her door open, blood roaring in my ears, vision tunneling, expecting to find her bleeding.
She's alive. Trembling, but unharmed and trying to climb out of the truck.
"Stay there. We're leaving," I say.
Her eyes widen as I jump behind the wheel. "We need to call the police."
I infuse steel into my voice, peeling away from the curb and disregarding the speed limit as I leave her neighborhood behind. My eyes sweep every parked car, every shadow, every potential threat in a constant hypervigilant scan. "I will. As soon as I get you somewhere safe."
Heart pounding in my eardrums, I reach into the center console and pull out the tactical radio unit, push the earpiece in and press transmit.
"Hightower, this is Evans. Code Red. Confirmed shot fired at the principal—no injuries. Intentional miss. Shooter unknown. Visual compromised. Request backup and recon sweep. This isn't intimidation. Containment just failed."
Brooke
Backup. He’s requested backup. Like he’s in the Secret Service.
Okay. I admit it, Lord: this might be a teeny bit more serious than I first thought. While I didn’t see the gun, my ears are still ringing from the shot fired right outside my window.
A tightness grips my chest, dull but insistent, like a warning. I clamp my hands into fists in my lap, fighting the tremor in my fingers and the nagging thought: He could have easily fired into the car.
Now is not the time to lose it. I’ve been through worse, and I didn’t have a brawny bodyguard watching over me. My shoulders stiffen as I work to steady my breath, telling myself to stay focused.
Calling on every resource I have, I straighten my back and glance at the grim-faced man beside me, channeling every action movie I’ve ever seen.
His jaw is working overtime. Every muscle in his body is tense.
I tear my gaze away, choosing instead to focus on the tree-lined streets with adobe and brick homes.
We tear past the murals and street art in the Barrio Viejo, but instead of heading downtown and past Hotel Congress, Caleb veers onto a decidedly more complicated route.
The Miracle Mile’s neon signs glimmer in the distance—he’s even further off the beaten track.
It’s not until I see the railroad tracks that I think to question him.
“Where are we going?” Curses. My voice is shaking as much as my hands are. It’s adrenaline, but I need to get a handle on it or he’ll think I’m more of a damsel in distress than he already does.
His reply is clipped, like he’s grinding the words out. “Super Inn. Just off I-10.”
“Then why drive all over town?” It’s a dumb question, but I have to keep talking. If I stop to think too long, I’ll lose all composure.
He doesn’t answer, just gives me a warning look I should know better than to ignore.
“The fastest route is west on Broadway or Congress, then south on Sixth to Freeway Road,” I blurt.
He flicks another sharp look at me. “You’re overcompensating. Classic sign of shock.”
I jam my lips together as he skirts abandoned buildings, tire shops, and border-town-style taquerias. Weirdly, the sight of taco stands makes my mouth water. What is wrong with me?
My leg starts to jump, followed by my toes. My hands won’t still. How is Caleb so calm and collected? Is getting shot at just... normal for him?
“I am not in shock,” I mumble.
“Getting defensive is another sign,” he says.
As the giant red six of the motel looms into view, I start thinking about Eliza and the man she’s fallen into an affair with. Is this the sort of cheap motel she meets her boss at? A shudder of disgust runs down my spine.
Caleb’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts as he rolls to a stop in front of the office. “Do you own a weapon?”
My nose wrinkles. “I have mace.”
Under the motel’s unearthly glow, I catch the look of dismay on his face.
If I thought he’d listen, maybe I’d protest harder that I don’t need to carry a weapon.
But when his phone rings, I’m more interested in hearing what Hightower has to say than arguing my point.
He presses the phone to his ear and answers.
I lean closer, trying to catch the other end of the call. Caleb’s eyes lock on mine, his lip twitching. “Zack call the TPD?” He grimaces. “I need to secure Brooke. Who do we have in the area?”
Secure me? He makes it sound like I’m baggage.
“He cleared to work with unsupervised assets? ”
I pull a face at him. “I don’t need another babysitter! If you need to go, go!”
Rather than respond, his brow knits into a heavy frown. “Any red flags I should know about?”
Good grief. He’s treating this like it’s a military operation. I’m itching to ask about his background. I can practically feel the story writing itself. It’s circling, and I need my laptop to get it down.
“What if they break into my house? I have a lot of confidential information in my office.”
“I’m working on it,” he says.
My gaze drops to the floor mat. My phone, notepad, and pen are wedged underneath.
They must have fallen during Caleb’s sharp turns.
I reach down and pick them up, automatically writing the date and time at the top of the pad, then work through the who, what, where, when, and how of what just happened.
It feels surreal to be writing notes on a story I’m at the center of, but I have to get it out of my brain or it’ll explode.
Caleb ends the call, and I feel his questioning gaze as I write as fast as my trembling fingers allow. “You’re writing? Now?”
I scribble the thought down before I lose it. “Yup.”
“You’ll have to finish it after we get checked in.”
“Mmm.”
His voice fades into the background until he snatches the pad from my hands. He’s wearing the expression of a man about to lose it. “Move. Now.”
With a giant gulp, I open the door and step into the hair-frizzing heat. As expected, Caleb shadows me to the front office, his eyes never still as he sweeps the parking lot.
“TPD responded to reports of gunfire outside your house. I need to go explain why we left the scene.”
My breath catches. “You’re leaving me?”
Mid-stride, he glances at his watch. “As soon as backup arrives.”
“This is silly. They’re going to want to interview me.”
His eyebrow arches, a muscle twitching in his cheek—his irritation packed away with cold precision. Note to self: don’t use the word “silly” around a man like Caleb Evans.
The office door creaks open as Caleb pushes it. The stale scent of old coffee and industrial-strength air freshener rushes out to meet us.
Behind the counter, the clerk’s eyes flick between Caleb and me. “One bed or two?” he asks, smirking.
Heat prickles over me at the insinuation. “We’re not?—”
Caleb doesn’t blink. Doesn’t posture. Just levels the clerk with a look so flat, so cold, the air in the room seems to thin. “Two rooms,” he says, voice low. A warning. “Cash. And I need a receipt. ”
The clerk’s smirk disappears. “Yes, sir.” He fumbles at the key rack, barely making eye contact as he accepts Caleb’s cash.
All my fight drains away as Caleb hands me a key. I should resent him for stepping in. But all I feel is relief… and the terrifying truth that I might need him more than I want to admit.