Chapter 8 Caleb
CALEB
Basia laughs at Teddy’s stories as we walk from the car to her apartment building, and I want to snatch every note from the air before it reaches the fucker’s ears. It’s been a long day.
“And then Aegis grabbed the grenade from his hand and threw it at the insurgents across the road like he was trying out for the Yankees.”
“Oh my god,” Basia gasps, peering up at me with clasped hands. “You could’ve been killed!”
“Hah,” Teddy exclaims before I can speak. “We could’ve been killed ten times a day on a good day.”
She blinks at him, clearly not seeing how that’s meant to help. Maybe I can shoot him and blame it on the stalker?
As we round the corner, I note the courier pulling out, but see no visible threats.
“How long have you been with the Secret Service?” Basia asks Teddy as she punches in the front door code.
“Not very long, just a couple of years. I stayed in the military longer than Ward, seeing as he’s the old geezer.”
“You, me, the mat,” I mumble. “Anytime, anywhere. I’ll wipe the floor with whatever’s left of you.”
“Touchy,” he drawls. “But admittedly right. Always bet on him, Miss… Basia.”
“Nice save,” she beams at him. My trigger finger twitches. “And I’d always bet on Caleb, sorry. He’s not my rock, but a whole darned mountain.” She starts walking backward so she can grin at me while speaking. “Get it? It’s funny because he looks like one.”
My eyes are glued to her smile, and Coleman’s the one to spot the package first.
“Stop. Stay back, Miss Langford,” he warns, reverting to her legal name in the moment.
I move Basia against the wall and approach Teddy and the package addressed to her.
“Could be an explosive,” he says quietly. “Know any bomb technicians?”
“Kane gave me a portable scanner,” I reply. “Let’s check for metal parts before we outsource it.”
Coleman whistles long and low. “Fancy.”
Ignoring him, I unlock and duck inside, my hand on my weapon just in case. I find the portable scanner among the rest of the equipment Ethan gave me and turn it on as I walk back. I place it over the box and check the display.
“No metal. No heat signature.”
“How about chemicals?” Teddy asks skeptically.
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter, handing the scanner to him and picking up the box.
“What are you doing?” Coleman asks sharply at the same time as Basia gasps, “Where are you going?”
“Elevator,” I reply, not stopping until I reach it.
“Caleb, don’t!” Basia pleads. “Let’s just call Detective Mann, please!”
Ignoring her, I step inside, then hit the close door button.
I don’t know what’s making me act this recklessly. Is it Teddy and his all-American boyish charm and good looks? Is it Basia hanging on to his every word? Whatever the motivation, I rip open the box without letting myself think it through.
There’s no explosion of powder, no hiss of chemicals. Only bloody packing paper and a severed finger. I debate just going outside and throwing it in a trash can. But in the end, it’s evidence, and something that could lead to finding this asshole.
Basia stands rigidly, facing the elevators, and I see her sag with relief as soon as she spots me.
“I could slap you!” she hisses, her lower lip trembling.
“Didn’t know you were a sadist, darling,” I reply, then shove the box into Coleman’s hands. “Fingertip looks intact, might be able to find out who she is.”
He nods and checks his smartwatch. “Alright. Matty’s almost here, I’ll take this in personally.”
“I’ll bring her some food,” Basia says, wringing her hands.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Teddy starts, but she’s already inside. “Guess she needs a distraction.”
I scoff. “With that incredible insight into the female mind, I’m surprised you’re still single.”
He raises his eyebrows with a smirk. “Who says I’m single?”
I blink at him, then look at the open apartment door where we can only just hear Basia puttering around in the kitchen.
“I thought…”
Coleman laughs under his breath. “You’re a tool, Ward.”
With that, he pushes past me, leaving me alone in the hallway. I find Basia in the kitchen, staring at the contents of the fridge with a blank look on her face.
“How about I order us some takeout?”
Even though I speak as gently as I can, she still flinches.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” she sighs.
“Great. I’ll go check with the nightshift agent if she has any preferences.”
“Wait, don’t go,” Basia blurts out, wide-eyed and pale. “Don’t leave me alone right now.”
I place my hands on her shoulders and squeeze.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll just call Teddy and ask what—”
I don’t get to finish because Basia wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head into my chest. By the time I unfreeze to hug her back, her shoulders are shaking with shuddering breaths.
I’m not letting her go through this again, even if I have to spend every moment from now on poring through DOB-unknown birth certificates, looking for the adults these children became. Because one of them is terrorizing my…
Terrorizing my woman.
∞∞∞
I spent the night in Basia’s room again, but this time just sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, watching her dream.
As soon as I dropped her off at Aegis Ironclad for the day and gave Coleman strict instructions to stand in the lobby with eyes peeled, I was at Ethan’s, digging into this supposed cult.
Ethan scrolls, then stops.
The room goes quiet in that way it only ever does when he finds something he wasn’t expecting to find, when his fingers pause mid-motion, shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for something.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “So here’s the thing. The cult was real. No question.”
My jaw tightens. “And?” I prompt.
Ethan leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. The glow from the monitors casts hard shadows across his cheekbones, making him look older. More tired.
“And most of the kids?” he continues. “They didn’t become anything like this.”
He starts clicking again, slower now. Deliberate. Pulling threads instead of tearing fabric.
“Some vanished into sealed adoption records. Some went overseas. A couple joined the military under different names—special forces, actually. A few NGO workers. A lot of nothing. Ghosts on paper.”
I absorb that in silence. My mind fills in the gaps: kids raised on fear and ritual, then dropped into the world with nothing but scars and bad coping mechanisms. Most of them still chose to survive.
“That doesn’t mean they’re fine,” I say.
“No,” Ethan agrees immediately. “Just… functional. Or at least not violent in a way that leaves bodies.”
He stops scrolling again and turns one screen toward me.
“But this one,” he says. “This one didn’t adapt.”
The file isn’t flashy. No red flags screaming danger at first glance. Just a name that’s been redacted, dates that don’t line up cleanly, notes written by different hands across years.
Did not integrate.
Exhibited fixation behaviors.
Persistent grievance orientation.
Non-compliant with treatment protocols.
My stomach turns as I read further.
“He stayed… stuck,” Ethan continues. “Couldn’t let go of the framework. The rules. The punishment structure. He internalized it.”
I swallow hard. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the cult didn’t break him,” Ethan says quietly. “It worked on him. At least enough that when it collapsed, he didn’t know how to exist without it.”
I scroll through the psych notes myself now. Each line is worse than the last. Rage redirected inward. Then outward. Authority fixation. Obsessive moral calculus.
A survivor who never learned how to stop being a victim—or how not to become the abuser.
“He’s alone,” Ethan adds. “No network. No contact with the others. Whatever they became later—” He gestures vaguely, meaning the unnamed, unclaimed survivors “—this guy isn’t part of it.”
“No ideology now?” I ask.
Ethan shakes his head. “None that sticks. He tried attaching himself to causes for a while. Religious groups, activist cells. Burned bridges fast. Too extreme. Too… personal.”
My finger traces the screen unconsciously.
“So what’s left?” I murmur.
Ethan pulls up the scanned image of the note. The handwriting is tight, furious. Controlled in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“A grievance,” he says. “A very focused one.”
“Against Langford,” I say flatly.
“Against the man who didn’t listen,” Ethan agrees. “Who shut down inquiries. Who dismissed reports. Who let it get buried.”
The words settle heavily in my chest. I don’t need Ethan to say the rest.
“And against the things he loves,” he finishes.
Basia’s face flashes in my mind—her smile, her stubbornness, the way she still tries to joke when she’s scared. The way she trusts me to stand between her and the world.
My hands curl into fists.
“We suspected that this isn’t about desire,” I say slowly.
“No,” Ethan replies, voice grim. “Not sexual. Not romantic. This isn’t fixation in that sense.”
“It’s punishment,” I say. “Symbolic. He can’t reach Langford directly, so he targets what will hurt him.”
Silence stretches between us.
The hum of the computers. The faint city noise outside. My own pulse, steady and cold now instead of frantic.
“Good,” I finally say, coming to a decision.
Ethan looks at me sharply. “Good?”
I nod once, already standing. Already thinking through routes and contingencies and endgames.
“Because that means when I find him,” I say, my voice low and even, “I don’t have to wonder if he’s redeemable.”
Ethan doesn’t argue. He just watches me for a long second, then nods slowly.
“I figured you’d say that,” he admits.
“This isn’t a hurt kid lashing out,” I continue. “This is a grown man making choices.”
“Yes,” Ethan says. “And he’s escalating.”
I glance back at the screen. The dates. The pattern.
“How long until he tries something bigger?” I ask, wondering out loud.
Ethan exhales. “Hard to say. But now that he’s crossed into physical proof-of-life threats? Severed body parts?” He grimaces. “Soon.”
My jaw locks.
“Then we don’t wait,” I say.
“No,” Ethan agrees. “We don’t.”
As I head for the door, one thought cuts through everything else—sharp and absolute.
I don’t get to lose her.
Not to a man who thinks pain is justice.
Not to a ghost who refuses to stay buried.
And not to my own hesitation.