Page 25 of Deadly Force

“The fastest route is west on Broadway or Congress, then south on Sixth to Freeway Road,” I blurt.

He flicks another sharp look at me. “You’re overcompensating. Classic sign of shock.”

I jam my lips together as he skirts abandoned buildings, tire shops, and border-town-style taquerias.Weirdly, the sight of taco stands makes my mouth water.What is wrong with me?

My leg starts to jump, followed by my toes. My hands won’t still. How is Caleb so calm and collected? Is getting shot at just... normal for him?

“I am not in shock,” I mumble.

“Getting defensive is another sign,” he says.

As the giant red six of the motel looms into view, I start thinking about Eliza and the man she’s fallen into an affair with. Is this the sort of cheap motel she meets her boss at? A shudder of disgust runs down my spine.

Caleb’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts as he rolls to a stop in front of the office. “Do you own a weapon?”

My nose wrinkles. “I have mace.”

Under the motel’s unearthly glow, I catch the look of dismay on his face. If I thought he’d listen, maybe I’d protest harder that I don’t need to carry a weapon. But when his phone rings, I’m more interested in hearing what Hightower has to say than arguing my point. He presses the phone to his ear and answers.

I lean closer, trying to catch the other end of the call. Caleb’s eyes lock on mine, his lip twitching. “Zack call the TPD?” He grimaces. “I need to secure Brooke. Who do we have in the area?”

Secure me? He makes it sound like I’m baggage.

“He cleared to work with unsupervised assets?”

I pull a face at him. “I don’t need another babysitter! If you need to go, go!”

Rather than respond, his brow knits into a heavy frown. “Any red flags I should know about?”

Good grief. He’s treating this like it’s a military operation. I’m itching to ask about his background. I can practically feel the story writing itself. It’s circling, and I need my laptop to get it down.

“What if they break into my house? I have a lot of confidential information in my office.”

“I’m working on it,” he says.

My gaze drops to the floor mat. My phone, notepad, and pen are wedged underneath. They must have fallen during Caleb’s sharp turns. I reach down and pick them up, automatically writing the date and time at the top of the pad, then work through the who, what, where, when, and how of what just happened. It feels surreal to be writing notes on a story I’m at the center of, but I have to get it out of my brain or it’ll explode.

Caleb ends the call, and I feel his questioning gaze as I write as fast as my trembling fingers allow. “You’re writing? Now?”

I scribble the thought down before I lose it. “Yup.”

“You’ll have to finish it after we get checked in.”

“Mmm.”

His voice fades into the background until hesnatches the pad from my hands. He’s wearing the expression of a man about to lose it. “Move. Now.”

With a giant gulp, I open the door and step into the hair-frizzing heat. As expected, Caleb shadows me to the front office, his eyes never still as he sweeps the parking lot.

“TPD responded to reports of gunfire outside your house. I need to go explain why we left the scene.”

My breath catches. “You’re leaving me?”

Mid-stride, he glances at his watch. “As soon as backup arrives.”

“This is silly. They’re going to want to interview me.”

His eyebrow arches, a muscle twitching in his cheek—his irritation packed away with cold precision.Note to self: don’t use the word “silly” around a man like Caleb Evans.