Chapter 22 #2
I sweep the newsroom like clearing a hostile building—every door, every shadow, every hallway.
Lawrence’s office is dark. Copy room—empty.
Conference room—silent. Lights off everywhere, except one.
A thin crack of brightness spills from the break room door.
I move in, weapon drawn, finger on the trigger guard.
The door creaks as I push it open. Empty. The white ceramic mug with her initial 'B' sits on the counter, the tea bag string draped over the rim. I press my palm to the electric kettle. Still hot. Steam rising in a thin curl. She was here. Minutes ago. Maybe less.
The earpiece crackles. Delilah’s voice cuts in, fast and tight. “I spliced the security camera across the street. She hasn’t left.”
My jaw locks. “Who’s inside?”
“The security guard. Her editor, Lawrence. And someone who came in the side entrance ten minutes ago. Everyone else left over an hour ago.”
“Pull up the blueprints,” I say. “Full layout. Vents, stairwells, crawl spaces—everything.”
While Delilah works, I keep moving. No time to be wrong. Every second matters.
I pass the end of the hallway, then stop.
Something faint. Muffled.
I crouch beside an old floor vent near the base of the wall, half-covered in dust and tilt my head.
There it is again.
I lean in, breath held, straining to catch it.
Brooke’s voice. Sharp, clear, rising from below. “You’ve betrayed your own. You’re a disgrace to the badge.”
Badge. It’s got to be Guthrie .
She’s down there. With him. He’s finally crawled out of whatever hole he's been hiding in.
I don’t wait. I move to the far end of the newsroom and tear open the door marked Maintenance Access – Staff Only. I take the stairs fast and quiet, the air turning colder, the light thinning to concrete and shadow. The pressure in my chest sharpens. With each step, the voices grow louder.
Static buzzes through my earpiece, muddying the sound. I kill the feed with a quick tap and press in closer to the wall. Another voice sharpens the closer I get. Male. Cold. “I told you she wouldn’t drop this unless she was dead."
Lawrence. That cretin.
Every instinct I have is screaming push now, but don’t rush the breach.
Brooke’s reply is laced with indignation. "You killed Eliza. You shot Mateo."
Another voice. Not Lawrence. Lower.
"That's all on you. You should have taken the warning."
Every muscle in my body locks. The casual way he says it, like discussing the weather, like her life means nothing.
"Did you offer to investigate before or after you got involved with her?" Brooke says.
"She knew the rules. She said she’d taken care of it. "
Old ductwork vibrates with every syllable. They don’t even know I’m this close.
"So you took money to cover it up instead."
My pulse slows as I move. No panic. No hesitation. Just purpose. This is what I was built for.
"You know how much that clinic pulls in every year? Three point eight million dollars. And that's without the sideline gig they have going."
Sideline? Has to be something illegal. And something big Guthrie is covering up.
"That's your motivation? Money? I'm so disappointed."
What is she doing? Playing for time? Trying to get a confession? Or buying me precious seconds to find her?
"You think ninety-five grand a year covers a mortgage, two kids in braces, and divorce lawyers?"
I angle toward the voices, moving low and slow. I’ll get one shot at this.
"So when Eliza said she'd tell me everything—about you, about the clinic, about what she'd discovered—you had to stop her."
"I made sure no one heard her."
The casualness of murder. My blood turns to ice. He’s calm. Too calm. Like he thinks this ends on his terms.
"And thanks to Lawrence, no one will hear you either. "
The closer I get, the tighter the pattern of his voice becomes. He's not pacing. He's hunting.
"You can kill me," she says. "But the truth has a way of surfacing. It always does."
"Not this time it won't," he says. "I have a dead student, you placed at a crime scene, charges of trespassing, interfering with an ongoing investigation, and enough evidence to pin your untimely death on your bodyguard."
I’m right on top of them now. Close enough to feel the betrayal when I finally recognize the second voice.
Crowley .
The man who stood in uniform and made oaths, now speaking like none of it ever mattered.
This isn’t just betrayal, it’s treason with a friendly face.
I have no time to process. There's only time to act.
I breach fast, hard, weapon high, eyes cutting the room into quadrants.
Brooke's tied to a chair. Face bruised. Dried blood on her lip. Eyes locked on mine, wide with terror and relief.
And between us—Crowley.
His head jerks when he sees me. Gun half-raised but not ready.
That pause—that split-second hitch in his reaction—is all I need to know .
He didn't expect me to get this far. Didn't think anyone would.
His surprise costs him.
White-hot rage floods my system. This piece of garbage put his hands on her. Terrorized her. The fury burns through my veins like acid.
I calculate in milliseconds. Distance: twelve feet. Her position: exposed. His stance: too square, too static. He's holding posture like it's a standoff, not realizing it's already a takedown.
Lawrence's in the corner, cowering behind a filing cabinet. Unarmed. Secondary threat.
I don't give Crowley time to adjust.
I crash into him low and brutal, shoulder to gut, full weight behind the drive. The impact lifts him off balance and slams him into the edge of a table. His weapon skitters across the floor with a sharp clatter.
But he's not down. And I'm not done.
The rage is a living thing now, consuming everything rational. He hurt her. He was going to kill her.
He's winded. Disoriented. Flailing like the coward he is.
I catch his wrist mid-swing and torque it hard. The joint locks. He grunts. Something gives with a wet pop. I shove him back with a knee, but he rolls, goes low—textbook academy sweep.
Wrong move against someone who's actually been to war.
I counter, step around, and drive my forearm across the base of his skull. Not measured. Not controlled. I want him to feel every ounce of my fury. Hard enough to scramble his brain.
He stumbles. Off balance. Scrambling now like the rat he is.
I've seen this before—men trained for order trying to survive in chaos. He's fighting like he still thinks he's in control. Like he still thinks he's the predator.
He goes for his radio. I intercept, trap the arm, and drag him down hard onto the concrete. Shoulder first. His breath explodes out in a broken gasp.
Still not done. Still breathing.
He fumbles at his belt. A backup weapon, maybe. Knife. Baton. I don't care what it is.
I drive a knee into his kidney and hear him choke. A wet, gurgling sound. Pain short-circuits his brain. But he's still trying to fight back.
He throws a blind punch toward my left side, aimed at my jaw.
Big mistake.
I catch it. Twist. Hard. Violent. Something in his elbow snaps like dry wood under pressure.
He screams. High-pitched. Pathetic. Pain explodes across my chest, sharp, blinding. Something tears. Not subtle. Not a strain.
A sickening rip, like Velcro shredding under skin.
Hot pain flares through my pec, stealing breath and strength. My arm’s half-dead already.
The sound feeds my rage. I hit him again. Temple. Then again. Jaw. His eyes roll back. Pupils blow wide. His limbs go slack beneath me. Still breathing. Barely. I don't wait. Can't afford to.
Lawrence's still cowering in the corner, shaking like a leaf. Eyes wide with terror as he watches what I just did to his partner. "Don't," he whimpers as I turn toward him. "Please, I didn't?—"
Every step jars the injury. I shift my stance, adjusting my balance, moving tight and compact to protect my left side. The pain throbs like a second heartbeat.
I'm on him in three strides. Grab him by the shirt, haul him up, and slam him against the wall. His head bounces off concrete with a satisfying crack.
I use my right arm. The left won't take that kind of strain again.
"You didn't what?" I snarl in his face. "Didn't help tie her up? Didn't help bring her down here? Didn't help plan her murder?”
He's blubbering now. Tears streaming down his face. "I have a family. It would have destroyed them."
"You sold her out."
"Please—"
My body screams for me to stop. To breathe. I don’t. I shift my weight and drive my knee into his solar plexus. Clean, effective, doesn’t rely on upper body strength.
He doubles over, gasping, retching. Then I grab his head and introduce it to the wall one more time. Hard enough to put him out. Hard enough to give him nightmares.
He slides down the wall like a broken doll. Both threats neutralized.
I stagger slightly. My pec’s locking up, shooting pain down my ribs and shoulder.
I turn back to Brooke. She's still tied to the chair, still bleeding, still watching me with those wide, traumatized eyes.
The rage drains out of me in an instant, replaced by something softer. More urgent.
I drop to one knee. Can’t risk putting pressure on the left side. It’s screaming already.
I pull out my knife to cut the old internet cable she’s been bound with.
My hands are shaking now—not from fear, but from the adrenaline crash. "Are you hurt?" I ask, my voice rough from the fury that just burned through me.
She shakes her head, but I can see the lie in her eyes. She's hurt. Maybe not physically broken, but hurt in ways that matter more.
I slice through the last of the fiber and she collapses into me. The impact makes my chest seize. Pain flares so hard my vision tunnels. I fight it. Breathe through my teeth and hold her anyway.
"I've got you," I whisper into her hair. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go."
Brooke
Caleb pulls back just enough to look at me, forehead resting against mine, his hand still locked at the back of my neck. “Who did this?”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
His brow knits and he gestures to the knife on the floor. “Yeah. I want to know whose thumbs to cut off before I call the cops.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t get time to.
Officers pour into the room. Confused, loud, and aiming their guns directly at the biggest threat in the room.
Which happens to be Caleb.
“Hands where we can see them!”
“Drop it—now!”
Caleb doesn’t reach for his weapon. He raises one hand slowly, the other still anchoring me. “Private security. She’s the victim. They’re your suspects.”
He jerks his chin toward where Crowley lies sprawled and groaning, and Lawrence slumped against the wall.
One of the cops recognizes Crowley even with the battered face. “You better have a good story to tell, lady. That guy is one of ours.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. “I know who he is.”
As the cops try to figure out who the bad guys are, Caleb keeps one arm locked around me, the other barely supporting his weight as he half-crouches beside the chair. His chest heaves, pain etched deep into every breath.
“She was brought down here against her will,” he says, voice low, strained. “Assaulted. Two suspects—one civilian, one plainclothes.”
Caleb shifts suddenly. “I’d give you the rest,” he mutters, breath hitching, “but I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out.”
His skin is pale and clammy. Sweat beads along his temple. He’s swaying now, muscles trembling, jaw tight like he’s barely holding on.
I twist toward the nearest cop, voice rising over the chaos. “Caleb saved my life. Those men were trying to kill me. I’ll give my statement, but not until you call an ambulance!”
The officer hesitates, caught off guard.
“Now!” I snap.
Wide-eyed but not willing to argue, one officer moves to haul Crowley to his feet, but another stops him with a shake of the head. “Call it in,” he mutters. “Secure first, question after.”
Relieved they aren’t going to wait, I cling to Caleb, and his grip tightens on me. Still protective. Even as he’s peppered with questions he’s ignoring.
“Told you I wouldn’t leave the building,” I whisper .
His eyes close. A breath leaves him—shaky, ragged, torn straight from the gut. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman,” he murmurs.