Chapter 7
SEVEN
Caleb
The motel room is as lousy as I thought it would be.
Worn, stained carpet. Rattling A/C. A table bolted to the floor.
A sofa with stuffing visible on one arm.
Double bed with a limp floral bedspread that hasn’t been washed since the Bush administration.
It’s a dump, but at least it’s a dump with a functional lock.
I bolt the door, flip the flimsy security latch, and wedge a chair under the handle for good measure. First priority: sweep the room.
As I move, Brooke hovers near the wall, trying to pretend she’s not shaken up. Praying under my breath, I cross the room in two strides and gently steer her to the safest corner—back to the wall, sight line to the door.
“If anyone tries to come through the door, get down,” I say, voice low, steady. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
She nods. Wide-eyed, hanging on to her composure by a thread. After a glance around the room, she goes right back to scribbling in her notepad. Same thing she did after the Glades, back when I thought she was tough enough to take on Adena and Verity without blinking. Now, I’m not so sure.
I’ve seen this before. People wear masks, laughing, fighting, pretending, until they think no one’s watching. That’s when they break.
I lean against the wall, watching her closely. Noting every detail—the slight shake in her shoulders, the quiver in her lip, the quiet panic in her eyes.
She lets out a sigh, short and sharp. “I can’t write with you staring at me. It’s unnerving.”
“Just checking you’re doin’ okay.”
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing with something close to contempt. “I’m fine. Why do you keep asking me that?”
I soften my tone. No sense making a bad situation worse. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re scared.”
Her eyes flare, her body tense. “I’m not scared. I’m…” She throws up her hands. “Forget it.”
I wish I could. I really do. But Brooke’s hurting, and every instinct in me wants to stop it.
“Do you want to recite some Psalms? Always helps me,” I offer .
Her expression softens slightly. A wry smile follows. “You think they even have a Bible in a dump like this?”
I chuckle, glad the tension’s starting to ease. “Check. Though I think some motel chains outlawed them.”
She sighs softly. “Of course they did. People don’t want to hear the truth.”
“That why you became a journalist? To tell the truth?”
She leans back, smile warming. “Pretty much. Why did you join the Army?”
“I wanted a challenge. To be the best of the best.”
“Chasing perfection is dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as chasing the truth,” I say.
A wry smile tugs at her lips. “How long have you worked for Hightower?”
“Nice try.”
Her lower lip pushes out in a pout that’s more tempting than it should be. “Is everything about you classified?”
A laugh catches in my chest. “Nope. Plenty of things we can talk about.”
“Just not your work?”
“It depends.”
“On what?” she presses.
I start to answer, but the sound of a car door slamming outside cuts me off.
Brooke’s back goes ramrod straight. I thumb the safety off, blood already pounding harder.
With a sharp jerk of my head, I herd her to the wall, keeping myself between her and the door.
I fix my gaze on the shadow slipping past the window, praying it’s backup. Preparing for it not to be.
A knock splits the silence. Three quick raps.
“?Quién es ?” I call.
“Soy Santa Claus. Traigo regalos.”
Of course Silas found me a wise guy. I lower my weapon but stay wary as I open the door a crack.
“What kind of gifts?” I ask.
A smile curls at his lips as Mateo Cruz steps inside with two bags. “The best kind. Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap them.”
I chuckle as I shake his hand, assessing him and his grip strength. He’s a few inches shorter than me, built like a bull—broad shoulders, thick muscle packed under a worn tactical jacket. And he wasn’t joking about the gifts.
With a glance at Brooke, who’s giving me a questioning look, I pop the duffels and scan the contents: extra mags, rifle rounds, comms gear, soft vests, clean burners, backup weapon, fixed blade, trauma kit—tourniquets, gauze, seals.
Roll of cash. Stack of fake IDs. No fluff.
No waste. Just what we need to stay alive if we move fast enough.
I zip the duffel and nod toward Brooke. “This is Brooke. Brooke, meet Mateo. ”
Mateo’s eyes cut to her. “Heard you had a rough night?”
Her smile is weak, but she sets her notepad aside and stands. “You could say that. So, you work for Silas Hightower too?”
He nods once. “I’m one of his contractors.”
Interest sparks in her eyes. Still chasing the story. I almost feel bad about leaving Mateo with her.
“Two hours. If it goes loud, extract her first,” I tell him.
Mateo gives a clipped nod, his voice sharp and sure. “Won’t move unless it’s fire or blood.”
Without a word, Mateo unpacks the gear. Fast, efficient. No wasted motion. No chatter. Mags, burners, body armor, all laid out clean across the bed like tools in a workbench. Ready.
Silas knew what he was doing when he picked a former Marine Force Recon for my backup.
“Can you grab my laptop? And I have an emergency bag,” Brooke asks.
I glance at her, then at the duffels. “Not tonight. It’s too hot to risk it. But I’ll get you what you need soon. I promise.”
She folds her arms tight, but her fingers tug at her sleeve until the fabric strains.
“Two hours,” I say, voice low.
Her nod comes too fast. Her voice, too high. “Don’t worry about me.”
But I do. More than she could possibly know.
Brooke
My nerves won't settle. Neither will my brain. Until Caleb walked out that door, I hadn't realized how much his presence steadied me, how much I would miss it.
Mateo, sensing my unease, quietly moves in to fill the gap. After sweeping the room again and double-checking the locks, he makes me a cup of tea. It's too sweet—almost gag-worthy—but I drink it anyway, grateful for the warmth against my palms.
I'm itching to respond to the calls and texts I've received, but Caleb's instructions were clear: unless it's him, don't answer my phone.
"You're a reporter for the Tucson Times, aren't you? You wrote that piece on the VA backlog last year?" Mateo asks.
I give a tight nod. "What ran was a shell. My editor made me cut half the interviews." The words taste bitter. Three months of work, reduced to sanitized sound bites.
He snorts softly. "Yeah. I'll bet the ones that mattered didn't make the cut."
My jaw tightens. He's not wrong. The raw stories, the ones that made Lawrence squirm, the ones that could've forced someone to act, those were the first to go .
Mateo doesn't sit. Just leans against the wall near the door, arms loose, posture easy but alert.
"You want me to interview you?" I ask, trying for a smile. "Maybe I can talk my editor into running a follow-up."
It’s unlikely Lawrence will bend, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.
A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Why not. My girl says I should tell people about it. May as well be you."
I snatch up my pen, thankful for something, anything, to focus on besides the empty space Caleb left behind. Mateo stands with one hand resting on the back of his neck, eyes scanning the distance like he's not fully here.
"My hometown's just south of Laredo," he says. "Tiny border town. Dust, dogs, and family. That's about it." He slips into Spanish— la frontera no perdona —then slides back without missing a beat. I don't think he even realizes he did it.
"Joined the Marines straight out of high school. Did my time. Scout Sniper School. Made it through."
I glance up. That's no small feat. But he doesn't say it like he's proud.
"Where'd you serve?" I ask.
He doesn't meet my eyes. "Iraq. Afghanistan. Places that don't show up on maps." His voice is quiet. Flat. Not dismissive—just... used to not explaining. "After that I went private. Same kind of work, fewer rules. Pays better."
He pauses. "Got back, tried to check in with the VA. Took six months just to get a callback."
My pen stills against the page. Six months. The same number I heard from Martinez. From Thompson. From half a dozen others whose stories never made it past Lawrence’s red pen.
"A year before anyone looked at my paperwork," Mateo continues.
"By then, things had already gone sideways.
" He rolls his shoulder, winces, and doesn't elaborate.
"Ended up handling it myself. That's what they don't tell you.
You come home, but the system doesn't meet you halfway. Doesn't meet you at all."
My free hand tightens around the mug. "Is that when you met Silas Hightower?"
His lips curl into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "That's a story I can't tell."
Drat. He's singing from the same hymnbook Caleb is.
"You signed an NDA too, huh?"
His wry smile gives him away.
"But you've never met Caleb before?"
Mateo shakes his head. "Only know him by reputation."
That stirs more curiosity than it should. "Which is?"
His voice is steady, but there's weight behind it—the kind born from shared battlefields.
"Best soldiers aren't the ones who like pulling the trigger.
They're the ones who'll do it because they have to, not because they want to.
Caleb's one of those. No thrill in the bloodshed.
No satisfaction in the fight. Just the mission and getting his people home. "
"Sounds like you respect him," I say softly.
"Yes, ma'am. God put Caleb here for a reason. And backing up a man like him? That's an honor."
I swallow hard, a tangle of nerves rising in my throat. I can handle the unknown. It's the quiet certainty Mateo has that God sent Caleb to me that shakes me to my core.
Caleb