Chapter 7 #2
I kill the engine a block away, parking behind a cluster of paloverde trees.
Brooke’s neighborhood sits quiet except for the crackle of police radios and the low murmur of voices.
Manicured lawns and gravel yards stretch between houses, most of them dark now, Brooke’s neighbors either asleep or watching from behind drawn curtains.
Two uniforms spot me immediately—young, tense, palms riding the butts of their pistols like they're itching to make a mistake. I stop short and let them look, let them decide I'm not a threat.
"Who's in charge?" I ask, voice low.
One jerks his chin toward Brooke’s mailbox where a plainclothes detective stands—late forties, broad-shouldered, built like he never got the memo that desk duty means soft edges.
Sleeves rolled, notepad in one hand, the other hanging casual near his holster.
Definitely not the guy you want to irritate after dark.
I walk up slow and stop a few feet back.
"You need something?" he asks, cool and steady.
"Caleb Evans. I was here when this happened."
His eyes narrow, not liking the sound of that. "You left the scene of a shooting?"
"I had a principal to protect. Staying would've compromised her safety."
I shift my stance while he studies me like he’s running a threat assessment he doesn’t plan to share. Don’t blame him. Even I know I look like trouble. Cops don’t like private security—too much gear, not enough rules.
"Detective Crowley," he says, extending his hand. Firm grip, brief. "You ex-military?"
"Yes, sir. Army Special Forces. Seventh Group."
He grunts and scribbles something in his notepad. "Carrying?"
I nod, keeping my hands visible.
"Principal," he says without looking up from his notes. "That what we're calling Brooke Weston now?"
The way he says her name makes my jaw tighten. "That's what we're calling professional protection."
"Professional." He glances up, pen still moving. " Neighbor saw a man fitting your description here early this morning. That you?"
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
A radio crackles from a uniform. Crowley tilts his head toward the sound, then back to me. "So where is she?"
"Secure location. Under guard."
With a frown, he closes the notepad with a snap. "Just how many people does it take to protect one journalist?”
I open my hands. “Depends on how many people are shooting at her.”
He shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “You'll need to declare your weapon and give a statement to Officer Morales." He gestures down the block with his pen. "She's the one who doesn't look like she wants to arrest you."
I turn to go, but he calls after me. "Wait."
I stop and look back.
"This secure location—Ms. Weston go willingly?"
"She's safe."
"That's not what I asked." His smile spreads thin. "You strike me as a man who's very good at making decisions for other people."
Something in his tone hooks deeper than it should. "Just the ones I’m protecting."
Crowley doesn’t answer right away. He studies me, eyes narrowed just a fraction, like he’s reading past the surface, trying to decide if I’m a problem or a resource.
Then he huffs out a breath. Almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Statement’s waiting. Try not to rack up another incident report on your way there, Mr. Seventh Group. ”
Brooke
Beside me on the sofa, Mateo’s story lies grouped, but in the last ninety minutes, it has veered off unintentionally to the man sent to protect me.
Not good. And certainly not professional.
Caleb doesn’t want to be featured. Even if I can write him into the story, it feels too unbelievable—who would buy it as truth?
With a sigh, I stack the hastily scribbled notes into a pile and push myself up.
“Where are you going?”
I pause, a crease forming between my brows. “I need the bathroom.”
Mateo nods. With the familiar efficiency I’ve come to expect, he crosses the room and rechecks the bathroom. “Clear.”
Smothering a nervous giggle at his intensity, I hurry past him, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, the bathroom matches the room’s dreariness: a silvering mirror, thin, scratchy towels, cracked floor tiles, and a questionable level of cleanliness.
Sighing, I use the facilities, praying as I wash my hands. For what, I’m not even sure. I should be home right now, not hiding like a fugitive. How long can Caleb expect me to stay here? One night? Two? I have commitments. A job. A life.
I dry my hands on the rough fabric, grimacing as I think. There has to be an alternative to this dump. Why choose it in the first place?
Since Caleb isn’t here, I exit the bathroom and aim the question at the next best person. “Why did Caleb pick this motel? I get that it’s cheap…”
Mateo’s eyes flick around the room, measuring his response before he speaks. “He didn’t pick this place by accident,” he says, meeting my gaze. “Guys like Caleb don’t do anything by accident.”
I fold my arms, skeptical, but something in Mateo’s tone gives me pause.
He nods toward the parking lot. “He can park right outside. Keep a visual on the exit at all times.”
I follow his glance. Suddenly, the view shifts—less boring motel lot, more tactical perch.
“Bed’s positioned with line of sight to the door and the window. One entry point means one direction to defend.”
I glance at the bed. The cheap metal frame groans at the slightest shift, and the mattress sags, threatening to swallow you whole. I’d chalked it up to neglect, but now? Now I wonder if Caleb noticed every flaw before I even walked through the door.
His words are simple, unemotional, yet they hit like puzzle pieces falling into place. I hadn’t seen it before; now I can’t unsee it.
“Low traffic means fewer moving parts,” he continues. “Fewer people to watch. Less chance of someone recognizing you. Or following.”
I shift, discomfort curling inside me. Not at the room, but at how thoroughly I’d misjudged it. Misjudged him.
“No paper trail,” Mateo adds. “Cash, no questions. Probably checked in under an alias.”
He taps the wall. Painted cinder block, dinged and patched, as if someone has tried to cover old damage with minimal effort. “Thick enough for privacy. Thin enough he can hear what’s happening next door.”
I blink, suddenly aware of every creak and thud around us, as if the walls are alive with sound.
“Just another nameless, forgettable place.” Mateo gives a small shrug. “That’s exactly what makes it safe.”
The air feels different now—charged. This isn’t just a run-down motel. It’s deliberate. Purposeful. Mateo’s voice softens, but there’s no question in it. “He chose this place to protect you.”
And just like that, my doubt crumbles. Not completely, but enough.
Remorse floods in, along with a hefty dose of guilt. I walk across the tiny room to the chipped nightstand and open the drawer. When my eyes settle on the contents, hope sparks in my chest.
Inside, tucked beneath a bent takeout menu, lies a thin, dog-eared Gideon Bible. With eager fingers, I tug it out and carry it like a prize to the sofa. Mateo’s expression softens. “Good idea.”
I return his smile and open to the book of Psalms—my go-to place when everything feels like it’s falling apart. I might be out of control, but God is still sovereign. He’s still on the throne. And while I’m totally clueless, He always knows exactly what’s coming next.
With Mateo standing sentry until Caleb returns, I immerse myself in the Word—something I haven’t done for far too long.
Caught in the richness and depth of Psalm 91, I miss Mateo’s subtle shift in posture. My eyes snap up, my body reacting as his goes rigid and he pulls out his weapon. “Get behind the couch,” he commands.
My body obeys before my brain does. I leap off the couch and fling myself behind the sofa. A knock sounds, soft, specific. Not frantic. Not casual. Just deliberate enough to make my pulse trip.
Mateo freezes, posture shifting as if a switch has flipped. His hand hovers near his weapon, eyes on the door, listening.
Then a voice filters through from the other side, low, calm, razor-sharp. “ Echo-Delta. Confirma estado. ”
I don’t fully understand the words, but I understand the tone. It’s Caleb. Controlled. Dangerous in the quietest way. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
Mateo doesn’t respond right away. He waits, a beat too long for comfort, and I realize it’s on purpose. A test. A check. Something unspoken passes in the silence between them.
Finally, Mateo calls back, his voice just as steady. “ Todo claro. Procede.”
I barely breathe as Mateo crosses to unlock the door. When Caleb appears, cast in the sickly glow of the cheap lighting, he looks like he’s entering a war zone, not a motel.
And the tight line of his mouth tells me he’s going to be the bearer of bad news.