8. Novak
EIGHT
Novak
Ezra didn’t look at Caleb when he said it.
He stared at me as thunder rolled overhead, rattling the windows. Seth flinched and pressed closer to his brother; fingers twisted into the back of Ezra’s shirt.
Caleb rose slowly from where he’d been crouched, putting himself between the boys and me without making it obvious. His shoulder brushed mine, and my breathing quickened. I moved away before it could register as anything other than random touch.
Or ask him to touch me again.
“Ezra—”
“They’re bad people just like the ones who bought us an’ you killed them!”
“Yes,” I said.
Ezra’s eyes locked onto mine again, and this time I saw the calculation clearly.
He was choosing. Not Caleb with his calm voice and promises, but me.
The part of the equation that ended things.
That preference registered as an advantage—clarity over comfort, outcome over reassurance—and I found that I preferred it too.
He wasn’t afraid in the way adults are afraid of me.
He was evaluating what I could do if I wanted to.
Caleb exhaled slowly, then crouched back down to be level with them, tablet already in his hand. He didn’t debate morality or correct Ezra’s language. He shifted the conversation.
“Tell me everything you know about where you’re from,” he said quietly.
The change in Ezra was immediate. His shoulders squared, but his attention snapped to Caleb. The anger was redirected into purpose.
“Uncle Michael is… he’s… It’s a big place, with fences, and a place underground, and a church, and they hurt kids.” Ezra began.
Caleb’s fingers moved quickly across the screen, not random notes but structured input, categorizing, building a map in real time. His focus narrowed, tension transforming into precision.
“Michael?”
“He’s in charge.”
“And he’s your uncle?”
“I think so,” Ezra murmured. “When dad sold us, he said Michael was our uncle, and we’d be safe, but?—”
“Don’t tell!” Seth yelled.
Ezra tugged him close. “It’s okay, Seth, they gotta know.”
Caleb was pale. A father selling his children to a supposed uncle? How much was a child’s life worth?
“How old are your brother and sister?” Caleb asked after a moment.
“Noah’s the biggest, an’ he’s fourteen, same as our sister, they’re twins,” Ezra said. “Noah’s got a gun now. But he wouldn’t shoot anyone, so you can’t kill him.” He was checking in with me at this point.
In whatever place this was—a cult or maybe a survivalist compound?
—fourteen was clearly old enough to become a guard in their eyes.
If Noah was carrying for them, patrolling for them, standing watch for them, then the line between victim and enforcer was already blurring.
If he raised that weapon, Caleb would hesitate.
I wouldn’t. Hesitation near Caleb is a liability, and I don’t allow liabilities to stand between Caleb and a live threat.
“You might have to accept your brother dies too,” I said.
“Jesus, Novak!” Caleb glared at me.
“What?” I asked. “The kid has to know this.” I’m sure Caleb was sending me a million warnings with his dark gaze, but it messes everything up if we’re not real about this. “Kill him or leave him behind if he’s too far gone.”
“Don’t hurt him!” Seth said his voice was thick with sobs. “Noah doesn’t want the gun.” He tugged at his brother’s shirt. “Ezra, tell ‘em.”
“Okay, it’s okay. No one is being left behind.” Caleb lied. How could he know that until I assessed the dangers?
If I agreed to go anywhere near whatever the hell Caleb was planning, of course, although he was already talking as if we were even gonna help. Without tactical forethought. Just because some kids asked us.
“Can you tell me about your sister?” Caleb asked gently.
“Eden,” Ezra said. “They lock the girls away.”
“She’s got a baby inside her,” Seth said.
“Then the girls get taken away,” Ezra added.
I waited for more, but he didn’t seem to have anything else to add.
“Okay, do you know how many grown-ups there are?” Caleb asked.
“I don’t know, lots,” Ezra said.
Caleb continued gathering details, voice steady, careful not to overwhelm them, guiding rather than interrogating.
I watched the way he worked—the way he created safety not by promising it but by structuring it, turning chaos into data.
He didn’t push when the boys faltered; he adjusted pace, waited, then circled back with a softer tone.
Caleb wielded gentle care better than a blade.
I was sure the boys trusted Caleb, but when Ezra’s gaze drifted back to me, I couldn’t figure out if I saw trust or expectation that he could demand I go kill everyone.
Seth fell asleep leaning on Ezra, and even Ezra, with his need for murder and rescue, was eventually too tired to talk now the adrenaline had burned off.
I waited in the corridor, and Caleb came out and shut the door, stopping in front of me, shoulders tight, jaw working.
Then he hurried down the corridor, and I followed, where we came upon Mickey pacing the reception. He and Caleb had a hurried conversation, and I held back, even when Mickey bowed his head and scrubbed at his face.
“We’ll get them,” I heard Caleb say, his hand on Mickey’s shoulder.
That was fine, until Mickey placed his hand over Caleb’s, and somehow that wasn’t fine at all.
The contact was brief, but I reacted with immediate, irrational hostility.
Mickey’s fingers covered Caleb’s knuckles, thumb pressing lightly, and my focus narrowed to that point of contact as if it were a threat vector.
It wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t even logical.
No one else should be touching Caleb.
Mickey had stood less than a foot from him, shoulder nearly aligned, hand covering his without resistance. Six inches of space between their bodies. I stood close enough to control exit angles and intercept. Proximity was leverage. I preferred to be the closest variable.
Mickey had done nothing wrong, but seeing another man touch Caleb made me want to hurt Mickey.
I analyzed Mickey’s wrist angle, grip force, and their closeness, fleetingly considering removing his hand to restore balance.
Not because Caleb needed protection, but because I disliked the situation changing without my consent.
I’ve never felt territorial jealousy like this, but I knew next time I’d stay closer to Caleb so no one could touch him.
When we were outside and halfway to the cars, the rain was coming down harder, and the gravel was slick underfoot. Caleb rounded on me without warning.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demanded, and this wasn’t controlled anger, but heat. “How could you say that about killing their brother? For fuck’s sake, Novak, they’re children. Their siblings are only fourteen, for fuck’s sake! Their sister is pregnant!”
He shoved me hard in the chest, and the impact rocked me back a step on the wet ground.
“They needed the parameters,” I said.
“They needed hope,” he shot back. “They needed someone to tell them their pregnant sister can be saved, and their brother isn’t a lost cause.”
“If their brother raises a gun, he becomes a threat.”
“They don’t need to hear that from you.”
“They need to understand risk.”
He shoved me again, harder this time. “They need to feel like someone is on their side, not that we’re planning which one of them to shoot!”
“They want someone who can kill.”
“They really hit the jackpot with you then!”
“If it keeps you alive.”
His face tightened, and for a second I thought he might swing. Instead, he dragged a hand through his hair and stepped back, breathing hard.
“You don’t get to carve up their family in hypotheticals,” he said, voice rough now. “Not in front of them.” Then he stormed over to the cars, and I was right on his heels.
“When do we leave?” I asked, already considering the stash of weapons I’d need.
“The Cave has got this,” he said quietly, without looking at me. “Nothing to do with you.”
“I’m the solution,” I said, confused as to why he was telling me I wasn’t part of this.
“We don’t need your kind of solution,” he corrected, finally meeting my gaze. “We go in shooting, and this could get out of hand, Waco-style. We need recon and a freaking plan that doesn’t include instant mass murder.”
I didn’t immediately understand what he meant, but I watched the faint tremor in his hand before he stilled it, and the way his pupils darkened. I knew the rhythm of Caleb’s pulse better than my own, and his temper was stunning.
“I’d only kill the people who need to die,” I said.
“And what if their fourteen-year-old brother really comes at you?” he asked.
I didn’t get the question. Age didn’t change trajectory, velocity, or damage potential.
A fourteen-year-old with a rifle could end Caleb as efficiently as a grown man.
Indoctrination didn’t alter ballistics. If Noah raised a gun and committed to firing, the outcome would be determined by speed and angle, not sentiment.
Caleb wasn’t asking about tactics; he was asking whether I would hesitate. I wouldn’t.
But the way he said it—not accusation, not condemnation—disrupted something in me.
“I thought so,” he said, and his voice was flat.
When he left, I followed him out to the parking lot, my truck parked next to his SUV.
“I can’t stop watching you,” I said as he reached his car, and he turned to face me.
“That’s not normal.”
“I’m not your version of ordinary,” I said.
“You don’t say.”
I ignored him. “I watch your pulse settle before you speak. I watch how you map exits in every room. I watch how you put yourself between threats and people smaller than you. I’ve been watching you for months,” I added.
“If someone tries to hurt you, then I’ll take them out, and I won’t be sorry about it. ”
“Novak—”
“Mickey put his hand on you. I didn’t like it.”