Chapter 9 #2
Brooke opens her door halfway. “What do I do?”
“Stay low,” I say, my voice low but steady. “Don’t move unless I say.”
Her face goes pale, but she nods and crouches in the back. Legs tucked under her, spine pressed to the seat, eyes wide and alert.
Mateo disappears into the brush beside the pullout. He moves like a shadow—silent, deliberate, vanishing between the paloverde and mesquite without so much as a rustle. He’s running a flanking route, keeping cover, keeping us in sight.
I crouch near the tire well, just visible from behind the hood. My sidearm’s already drawn, angled down, out of sight. My back is tight, knees coiled, watching the bend.
The Tacoma rounds the corner. Slows. Pauses. Tension curls inside me. Blood starting to rise. I’m blind, but I can see the tires and dust as the Tacoma slows. Its idle is too long. Too calculated.
Seconds tick by. He doesn’t exit.
Every instinct I have wants to confront him. But I stay where I am. Strategy is everything.
Without warning, the driver slams the car into reverse and floors the accelerator.
Smothering a curse, I slam the hood down and yell, “Mateo—exfil and pursue! Keep visual, maintain distance.” He’s already sprinting.
I round the vehicle, yank Brooke’s door open, and gesture for her to get out. “Get behind me.”
She scrambles from the back seat, eyes wide, and slips in behind me. We both watch as the dust hangs in the air, the curve of the road swallowing the Pathfinder as Mateo gives chase.
I lower my weapon, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere.
“We’re splitting up?” Brooke asks .
I nod, scanning the tree line. Too open. Too quiet. “Vehicle’s blown. Motel might be, too.”
She’s quiet for half a beat. “I might know somewhere we can lay low for a few hours. I can even get us a car.”
I raise a brow. “We can’t just go rent one.”
That earns me a frown. “I know that. I know a guy. He won’t ask questions.”
“What guy?”
She doesn’t look away. Just lifts her chin a notch. “Someone who owes me. He’s not exactly legal, but he’s solid. And discreet.”
Why am I not surprised.
This woman moves through gray like she was born to it.
I’m starting to see why someone wants her out of the picture.
Brooke
My mind is already jumping into action before Caleb can disagree. "I'll call for an Uber. I have a couple regulars I use."
Caleb doesn't protest. He's too busy scanning the area, positioning himself between me and any line of sight from the road—a human shield that somehow makes my pulse quicken instead of slow. "Pick the one you trust most and call that person. "
Strangely, Larry's name is the first I think of.
He shows up twenty minutes later, one hand draped over the wheel, looking exactly like he did when I first met him six months ago: rumpled shirt, day-old stubble, eyes that have seen too many late nights at the tables.
"You finally going to Vegas?" he asks as I slide in.
"Not yet," I say, settling into vinyl seats worn smooth by countless rides like this. "But you'll be the first to know if I do."
Caleb gets in beside me, his presence filling the small space with something electric. Larry checks him out in the mirror. "You were at Brooke's last night."
Since it's a statement, Caleb just nods.
Larry pulls out without another word, weaving through the side streets like he's memorized all the potholes.
Half a block later, he mutters, "They're watching me. I swear, the casino changed the payout screen. Hit three sevens and the numbers glitched. Cut my total. They're rigging it. Clocking the regulars. It's a scam."
The words spill out like they've been building pressure for days.
Caleb doesn't respond right away. Just watches the blur of stucco and chain-link through the glass, calm and still as deep water. "Knew someone who thought that way too, man. Didn’t end well. "
Larry says nothing, but his breathing changes and his eyes narrow slightly.
Caleb's voice stays even, but there's something sharp underneath. "His marriage disintegrated. He lost his job, his house. And his kids. One of his buddies found him dead in a sleazy motel. Shot by a loan shark who got tired of waiting."
The car goes quiet and it stays that way for the rest of the drive.
By the time we pull up outside the shop, Larry seems to be lost in his thoughts. He’s not the only one.
"You want me to wait around?" he asks me.
I shake my head, already reaching for the door. "We're good."
Caleb meets his gaze once in the mirror. "Thanks, man."
Larry barely meets his eye before he nods, then drives off without another word.
I stand there for a second, watching his taillights disappear down the block. "Was that all true? Or were you just trying to scare him straight?"
He stays quiet, head angled, eyes moving over me as if I were a manual he intends to read cover to cover.
"You think I’d lie about something like that?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "I didn’t mean to offend you."
He glances over, one brow raised. “You didn’t.” He pauses. “His name was Trent. He ran comms. Cool under fire. Lost in the noise when we came home. Died in Atlantic City three years ago. Didn’t even make thirty.”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, but he looks away, back to the shop as though it makes it easier to shift gears.
Back to the job. Not the ghosts.
He exhales once, then turns his full attention back to me, the vulnerability closing off like a door slamming shut.
“Stay close," he says quietly, "If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I won’t hesitate to shoot them," he says.