Page 28 of Deadly Force

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 notexplaining. "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?"