Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Caleb
I move to the kitchenette and flip on the ancient coffee maker, more to put distance between us than out of any real need for caffeine.
The tension is getting to me. She’s getting to me. That sweet little kiss didn’t help, not when I’m already struggling to keep my head in the game.
“Coffee?”
She glances over, a small smile tugging at her lips. "If you're looking for a distraction, you could always tell me about yourself."
I lean back against the counter, watching her. "That your strategy? Wear me down with flattery?"
She arches a brow. "It's how I get all my best sources talking."
The corner of my mouth lifts. She's good at that. Getting past defenses. It's probably why Eliza trusted her. Why I trust her now. That, and the fact that she called me charming.
"Where were you stationed?" she asks.
I cross my arms loosely. "Most of my ops were in Central and South America."
Her brows lift. "Like cartel stuff?"
"Sometimes. Counter-narcotics. Counter-insurgency. Hostage extractions. Mostly jungle terrain." I pause, considering how much to share. "We trained local forces, tracked high-value targets, gathered intel. Think of it as summer camp, but with more guns and fewer s'mores."
She's quiet for a beat. "That sounds... intense."
I smile without humor. "It was. Spend enough time in that heat with men carrying grudges and AKs, you learn what you're made of." And what breaks you. And what doesn't grow back the same. "Also learned that jungle rot is a real thing, and it's exactly as pleasant as it sounds."
"Were you always with a team?"
I shake my head. "Only when we were lucky. Sometimes backup was hours out. Sometimes it never came." I shrug. "Amazing how creative you get when it's just you and whatever's in your pack."
"Is that where you found your faith?" she asks softly.
"My folks are believers. Raised me right.” I add. "I believed in God. I just didn't talk about it. The VA hospital changed that. "
The VA hospital stripped me down to nothing. No mission. No uniform. Just pain, and a Book I finally started reading for more than guilt.
She tilts her head. "Wounded in the field?"
"Car crash. Two-lane road in Georgia. Hydroplaned.
" I grimace at the memory. "Spent three months busted up.
All I had was a Bible and a roommate who snored like a freight train.
I walked out barely able to lift a gallon of milk.
" That helplessness did more to humble me than the battlefield ever could.
"Nothing like being laid up to make you reconsider your priorities. "
She watches me for a long moment. "And now?"
"Now it's weights and Scripture. One rebuilt my body. The other saved everything else." I tap my temple. "Turns out both require showing up every day, even when you don't feel like it."
"What about Silas? Did you meet him in the Army?"
I nod. "Silas pulled me out of a burning Humvee when I was too out of it to move. I would've died sitting there." The memory still makes my chest tight. "That kind of debt doesn't get repaid. It just gets passed forward."
"And now you work for him."
"He's a great leader. He’s even better people." I study her face. "Plus, the benefits package at Hightower is surprisingly comprehensive. "
The corner of her mouth crinkles. “What about a social life?”
I don’t answer right away. The question lingers, heavy with things I’m not ready to say out loud.
“If you’re asking if I’m seeing anyone…” I glance at her, just long enough to let it land. “I’m not.”
Color climbs into her cheeks fast, but she recovers just as quick. “That’s surprising. Considering… the muscle and the charm.”
I chuckle and give her a little more background. “I was engaged. Long time ago.”
Brooke tilts her head. “What happened?”
“Asked her to marry me the week before I left for selection.” I lean back slightly.
“Didn’t realize what I was asking her to wait for.
SFAS, the Q Course—it’s not a couple months and a few push-ups.
It’s a year and a half of grinding it out.
No phone. No weekends. Half the time I couldn’t even tell her where I was or when I’d be back. ”
I glance at Brooke. “She waited a while. Then she didn’t.” I pause. “I don’t blame her. I was selfish to ask her to put her life on hold. The job always came first.”
Brooke nods, slow and deliberate. “I’ve watched too many important stories die because the reporter was distracted, or comfortable, or had other priorities.
” She shakes her head slightly. “Maybe it sounds grandiose, but I think getting the truth to people matters. Really matters. And if that means I eat dinner alone most nights…”
She shrugs. “So be it.”
I bob my head. “That’s why your mom’s trying to set you up? Too many dinners alone?”
She exhales, a tired breath through her nose.
“She doesn’t understand. The truth doesn’t wait for convenient timing,” she says quietly.
“When someone finally trusts you enough to tell you what really happened, when they’re ready to expose corruption, or speak for people who can’t speak for themselves, you don’t say ‘can we do this next week, I have plans.’”
There’s a kind of clarity in her that most people spend their whole lives running from. She’s locked in. Mission-driven. Unapologetic.
She shifts again, the kind of restless that doesn’t come from caffeine or nerves. It’s God given purpose.
"Do you really think Mateo might be able to get into my place?"
"He's watching it now. Entry depends on traffic, patrols, and surveillance cams. If it's too risky, we wait." I cross my arms. "Mateo's good, but he's not invisible. Yet."
But waiting isn't in her nature. I can see it in the way she shifts her weight, restless energy barely contained.
She bites her lip. "I need my laptop. My notes. A change of clothes. "
She trails off. Her fingers twitch like she's physically restraining the urge to act.
"And we’ll get them as soon as we can," I say.
Her eyes spark with fire. The kind that gets people killed or changes the world.
"Eliza gave her life for this. I owe it to her to finish it." Her voice cracks slightly on Eliza's name.
"You also owe it to yourself to stay alive." I keep my tone level. "Dead journalists don’t break stories."
She straightens, jaw tight. "Then I guess we’d better make sure I don’t die."
I let out a slow breath.
Right. No pressure.
Just me, one stunningly stubborn reporter, and a hunt for evidence someone’s willing to kill her for.
Yeah, this is so not the cakewalk Silas promised.
Brooke
I sit cross-legged on the faded linoleum floor, the cold seeping through my jeans as I stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles. Construction paper cutouts of Bible verses hang crooked on the walls, their cheerful colors at odds with the stale air.
"Would you rather," I say, breaking the silence, "have to eat the same meal every day for a year, or never be able to eat your favorite food again?"
He tilts his head, actually considering it. The linoleum creaks under his weight as he shifts. "Same meal."
"Boring but practical," I tease. "Your turn."
"Would you rather be able to read minds or be invisible?" he says.
"Invisible. Reading minds would be too depressing." I pull my knees up to my chest, the floor numbing beneath me. Outside, a car door slams. We both freeze until the sound fades.
"Would you rather have perfect memory or be able to forget anything you want?" I ask.
He pauses at that one. "Easy. I’ve done plenty of things I’d rather forget."
I open my mouth to ask if he’ll tell me any of them, but he cuts me off with a loaded look. “Don’t,” he says.
I smother a frown. “Am I allowed to ask when you learned Spanish?”
He grins. “ Aprendí espanol en la secundaria, carino. I picked it up in high school.”
My phone chirps—just the battery warning. I check it again, knowing it's pointless. His does too, every ten minutes like clockwork.
The youth group's motivational posters seem to mock me from the walls. "Faith Over Fear" hangs directly above a water stain shaped like a mushroom cloud.
"How long do you think—" I start to say.
"Would you rather," he cuts in gently, "always know when someone's telling the truth or have everyone always believe you're telling the truth?"
"Know when they're telling the truth," I say without hesitation. "Real truth is more valuable than appearing truthful."
I can think of a few people that I wish understood the difference. My colleagues and boss being just a few of them.
Time crawling by, I check my phone again. Still nothing. My laptop feels like it's a world away instead of just across town. All my work, my notes, everything that will help me draft this story fast are on it.
His phone buzzes. The change is instant. His shoulders square, jaw sets, and when he stands, it's with the fluid precision of someone switching modes. The easy protector vanishes, replaced by something harder.
"Mateo just checked in."
I'm already on my feet, hope and dread colliding in my chest. The floor protests as I move, my legs stiff from sitting too long. "He got my stuff?"
He shakes his head. "He couldn't get in. One of your neighbors spotted him and called the cops."
The disappointment hits like a physical blow. "I need that laptop."
"I know." His voice drops, takes on an edge that makes the youth room feel even smaller.
I cross my arms, the motion feeling defensive even to me. "There must be a way. Can we get it tonight?"
He looks at the door, then back at me. "How well do you know your neighbors' routines?”
My brow scrunches. “Fairly well. Why?”
He pauses, the slightest curl to his lips. “Because I’ve got a plan, and it includes you going home again.”
Caleb
I sit low in the driver's seat, engine off, shades on, one hand on my sidearm, the other resting on my phone in my lap.
Brooke's house looks so normal in the early afternoon light.
The kind of place where the biggest worry should be whether the mail arrived on time or if the neighbor's cat got into the garbage again.
Thanks to Brooke, I know most of her neighbors work nine-to-fives, a few do school pickup later, and the two retirees on the block have their routines down to the minute. One plays bridge every Thursday. The other never misses her specialist appointments.
It’s the perfect window to get in and get out before anyone sees. If they do, they won’t want to stick around to ask about the crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze .
Right on cue, the rental car appears. Sunglasses on, white mask covering half her face.
My pulse spikes. It pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the engine. She pulls to a stop, takes a moment to adjust her mask and blow her nose, then she climbs out of the car, slamming the door.
Boots scuff the sidewalk in that half-distracted rhythm I've memorized. Every step sends ice through me. She pauses by the mailbox, coughs loudly—subtle, perfect.
It's eerie. Unnaturally, gut-wrenchingly perfect. From the slope of her shoulders to the glance over her shoulder, it's like watching Brooke walk straight into danger.
I force my breathing to slow. Four counts in, hold, four counts out. Tactical rhythm. Focus on the mission. Not the fear.
This is what she’s been training for. This is why Silas didn’t hesitate when I called and asked if Samantha was ready to act as a decoy.
I’m praying she is.
She climbs the steps, coughing again, faking the illness that will keep neighbors at bay. She fumbles with the key, just enough to look real, then the door creaks and she disappears.
I murmur into the comm, "Samantha's inside." My voice comes out rougher than I'd like, betraying the strain .
Mateo's voice crackles back. "Copy. No movement here."
My eyes sweep the street. Threats, exits, blind spots. The mailbox that could hide a shooter. So far, so good. No parked cars out of place. No neighbors watching. No visible threats.
Which is exactly what worries me.
Because I can't shake it—that visceral wrongness. Watching her walk up those steps. My brain knows it's Samantha. But my body is reacting like I just sent Brooke into a kill zone.
If Samantha gets hurt in there—if someone's watching, waiting, locked in on her silhouette—then I've sent her into a trap wearing Brooke's name.
Sam’s voice comes through the comm. "I'm in."
I flex my hand. "Good," I say. "Get the bag, the laptop, and get out. Two minutes, tops. You’re still clear out here."
Every second increases the risk. And my blood pressure.
Silence.
Could mean anything. Glitch or maybe she's just admiring Brooke's interior decorating skills.
I key the mike. “Sam, confirm comms,” I say.
I scan the neighborhood again. Every shadow could hide a sniper. Every parked car, a kill team. Every pedestrian, recon. Side mirrors. Windshields. Side streets. My training kicks in, systematic, methodical .
But a single thought cuts through the routine, making me pray instead of rely on instinct alone: if they were waiting for Brooke to come home, I just handed her to them.
I key it again. “Sam? You reading me?”
No answer.
Either she forgot her training on comms protocol or something’s not right.
My sensors weren’t showing any activity, no sign anyone was inside, but my pulse is speeding and I'm already running entry points in my head.
Front door's too obvious, back window by the kitchen, maybe the side door.
Thirty seconds more of silence and I'm moving.
I shift the case to the passenger side, one hand on the door when the comms crackle. “Solid copy,” Samantha says.
Three seconds later, the door opens and she’s out. I keep my eyes glued to her as she throws Brooke’s gear into the passenger seat, then climbs behind the wheel.
I start the ignition, breathing easier, but not relaxing fully.
It’s not over yet.
Not by a long shot.