Chapter 12
TWELVE
Brooke
I pace the length of the church basement, arms folded tight across my chest like a shield against the helplessness clawing at my insides.
I need to be there.
The thought beats through my head, relentless and desperate. I don't like being sidelined. I'm not wired for sitting still while other people handle the danger, while someone else steps into my life and puts themselves at risk.
On the upside, at least I know for sure where Sam disappeared to and that she works for Hightower now.
I glance at Mateo, who's become a master of strategic silence.
He's leaning against the far wall, arms relaxed but posture alert, eyes locked on his phone where comms are feeding him updates I'm not getting.
The blue glow of the screen casts shadows across his face, making his expression even more unreadable than usual.
"You're sure she's okay?" I ask for the third time in the past hour.
He doesn't look up from whatever intelligence he's receiving. "Nothing is showing up on the sensors set up in your house."
The non-answer makes me want to scream. "That's not an answer."
His only response is a blink. Casual. Maddeningly calm. Infuriating in its complete dismissal of my anxiety.
I pace again, feet wearing a path in the threadbare carpet, fingers tapping against my forearm like they're trying to vent the pressure building in my chest.
I'm grouchy. Tense. Crawling out of my skin with the need to do something, anything, other than wait in this basement like some helpless damsel. And I want answers—real ones, not Mateo's cryptic non-responses.
None of which he's giving me.
Rather than indulge the insane impulse that's building to demand Mateo take me back to my house immediately, I close my eyes and pray.
But it's hard. Harder than I expected.
I miss my house with an ache that surprises me. I miss my things—the coffee maker that knows exactly how I like my morning brew, the throw blanket that's perfectly broken in, the view from my kitchen window.
My own bed with its familiar dip in the mattress. My coffee mugs, each one chosen for a different mood. The familiar rhythm of my space, the way the light falls through the windows at different times of day, the comfort of routines that belong entirely to me.
It’s selfish, but I'm tired of waiting for other people to decide when my life can go back to normal. Of being a footnote in my own life while someone else risks theirs in my place.
Eliza has already died, how many more lives will be lost while I stay hidden like a coward?
"Anything?" I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
Mateo shakes his head without looking up, his attention still focused on whatever updates are coming through his earpiece.
I suppress a sigh, pressing my lips together and trying not to sound like a petulant child when I ask, "You wouldn't tell me even if Sam or Caleb were in danger, would you?"
He snorts a laugh, the first real emotion he's shown all afternoon. "Probably not. I get the feeling you'd try to help."
The accuracy of that assessment stings because it's absolutely true .
The creak of a door upstairs makes me freeze mid-step, every nerve suddenly on high alert.
Mateo's head snaps up from his phone, his entire body shifting into a different mode, alert, ready, dangerous.
Footsteps echo through the ceiling above us. Calm. Unhurried. The sound of someone who belongs here, someone who's not trying to hide their presence.
A voice follows, familiar, warm, carrying the gentle authority I've come to associate with Sunday mornings and community potlucks. "Let's get these lights on…"
Oh no!
“The pastor is here,” I stage whisper. The last thing I want is to pull innocent churchgoers into this mess.
I needn’t have bothered telling him. Mateo's already moving with the swift efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. Packing gear, tucking comms away, checking his weapon with movements so smooth they're almost invisible.
"Stay behind me. We’re leaving."
The urgency in his voice sends adrenaline shooting through my system.
Chairs scrape against the floor overhead.
More voices filter down the stairwell—members of the Bible study, probably, or maybe the church council meeting.
A woman laughs softly at something someone said. Then a door slams shut with finality.
I grab my phone, my notebook, my purse. The essentials of a life that's been reduced to what fits in a bag. We head for the side exit, moving as quietly as possible, trying to slip out unseen like shadows.
The door clicks shut behind us. “Should we find another mot?—”
A loud crack cuts me off. I'm still processing it, wondering if it’s thunder when Mateo's face changes completely. His eyes go wide, scanning upward, and suddenly his hand slams into my chest, driving me behind the concrete column.
"Get down!" He shouts before a second crack sends chips of brick spraying from where we'd been standing.
He staggers back against the door, jaw clenched against what must be excruciating pain, blood blooming fast through his shirt like a crimson flower.
"Mateo!"
I crawl toward him, heart pounding so hard in my throat I can barely breathe, my hands shaking as I try to reach him.
Behind us, the door creaks open. "Brooke?" Pastor Tim's voice, calm and curious, completely unaware of the violence that just erupted in his parking lot. "I thought that was you sneaking out."
"No!" I scream, my voice cracking with panic. "Get back inside. Call 911, someone's been shot! "
His eyes go wide with shock and confusion, and he ducks instinctively as another shot zips past, slamming into the stucco beside him.
Across the lot, a van revs its engine, tires screeching against asphalt as it peels away, disappearing into the maze of suburban streets.
I reach Mateo, who's slumped against the wall, breathing hard and shallow. Blood leaks through his fingers where he's trying to apply pressure to the wound. But he's conscious, alert, still fighting.
"He came out of nowhere," he grits out through clenched teeth, then lifts one hand to his comms with tremendous effort. “I’m down. Still breathing. Not mobile,” he grinds out.
I press both hands against the wound hard, the way I've seen in movies, hoping I'm doing it right. He winces, curses again in Spanish, but I don't let up the pressure.
"Help is on the way," I whisper, barely hearing my own voice over the rushing in my ears, over the sound of my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.
Red and blue lights blur through the alley in what feels like hours but is probably only minutes later.
EMTs pour out of the ambulance with practiced efficiency.
Voices shout orders. Professional hands replace mine on the wound.
Someone says St. Mary's Hospital. I nod, but I'm not really here anymore.
My thoughts are spiraling, catching fire with realizations I don't want to face, because the truth hits like a thunderclap rolling across clear sky.
That bullet was meant for me. It could've been Caleb lying there bleeding.
And I don't know which thought scares me more.
Caleb
Tactical failure.
The words cling to me as the hospital doors hiss open. I tighten my grip on Brooke’s gear and follow Samantha through the glass, every step of my boots on the linoleum dragging my pulse tighter.
Every person could be a threat. A potential hostile. I stay alert, mind torn in two by what just happened while I was staked out at Brooke’s place.
Mateo took a bullet. And it should’ve been me.
Silas took the news better than I delivered it. I was too jangled from needing to get here—check on him, check on her. He didn’t call me out on it. Didn’t need to. He knows I’m beating myself up harder than he ever would.
As we weave through a maze of antiseptic corridors, I whisper a prayer for clarity. For strength. For my heart rate to stop jabbering against my ribs.
Samantha tosses a look over her shoulder. “Maybe you should tell her how you feel.”
I stop short of the nurse’s station, forcing what I hope is my poker face back into place. “Don’t know what you mean.”
She lifts an eyebrow, presses her lips together. “Yes, you do. But don’t worry. No one else will notice.”
Great. Now Hightower’s newest recruit is reading my body language like a threat matrix.
I ignore her and gesture ahead. “Find Mateo. I’ll catch up.”
She peels off with that too-smooth charm that makes her dangerous, leaving me to search for Brooke alone.
I find her in seconds, sitting, drinking coffee, talking to a uniform. Blood on her clothes. Mateo’s. And it makes bile crawl up the back of my throat.
The cop clocks me and backs off, leaving me to face my failure without an audience.
I set her bag gently at her feet. “I’m sorry.”
She looks up, startled. “For what?”
“Not being there.”
“It’s not your fault. The pastor came early. We had to leave.”
“Still should’ve been there.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stares into the coffee like it might offer divine insight.
She’s trying not to fall apart. She shouldn’t have to do it under hospital lights and cop scrutiny.
“Come with me,” I say, voice low.
She blinks. “Why? ”
“You need a minute. Somewhere quiet.”
She hesitates, then nods.
I guide her toward a consultation room. The door’s unlocked and the room is empty.
“You can change in here,” I say, setting the bag down. “I’ll turn around.”
The soft rustle of clothes behind me makes my jaw lock hard. Not the time, not the place. Not with Mateo down the hall and a shooter still on the loose.
I pray for discipline, for control, but the second I catch a flicker of movement in the mirror above the sink, a shoulder, bare skin, my breath stalls completely.
"You can turn around now," she says. I do. Slowly. Try to focus on the job at hand, on Mateo, on anything but the way she's looking at me. "Brooke, please... drop this. Go stay with Mick or your folks. Let me find him."
She holds my gaze. “I can’t do that.”
Of course she can’t. Quitting isn’t in her DNA.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just watches me. Lips parted, color high in her cheeks, eyes fixed on mine like I didn’t almost fail her. Like I didn’t almost lose her.
And I know if I let this slip past, it’ll haunt me forever—right above not being there when Mateo took the hit.
So I move.
One step, and she’s in my arms. My hand fits against her waist, the other cradles the back of her neck, and I kiss her. Not because it’s safe. Not because I’ve thought it through. Because I have to.
It’s hard, unsteady, all the things I can’t say. Her gasp jolts through me, and she clings back—fists curling in my shirt, pulling me closer until there’s no air left between us.
I lift her without hesitation, muscle and instinct carrying the weight.
The gurney groans as I lower her down, but she doesn’t release me.
Her legs lock tight around my hips. Her arms wrap my shoulders like she’s afraid letting go might break the spell.
Her mouth finds mine again, urgent, trembling, alive.
Her heartbeat kicks against my chest, frantic, syncing with my own until I can’t tell where hers ends and mine begins. Her skin is warm beneath my hands, her breath hot against my lips, every shiver of hers running straight through me.
No space. No pause. No distance left to protect.
She’s alive. And for this fierce, reckless moment, she’s mine.