Page 51 of Deadly Force

I key it again. “Sam? You reading me?”

No answer.

Either she forgot her training on comms protocol or something’s not right. My sensors weren’t showing any activity, no sign anyone was inside, but my pulse is speeding and I'm already running entry points in my head. Front door's too obvious, back window by the kitchen, maybe the side door. Thirty seconds more of silence and I'm moving.

I shift the case to the passenger side, one hand on the door when the comms crackle. “Solid copy,” Samantha says.

Three seconds later, the door opens and she’s out. I keep my eyes glued to her as she throws Brooke’s gear into the passenger seat, then climbs behind the wheel.

I start the ignition, breathing easier, but not relaxing fully.

It’s not over yet.

Not by a long shot.

TWELVE

Brooke

I pace the length of the church basement, arms folded tight across my chest like a shield against the helplessness clawing at my insides.

I need to be there.

The thought beats through my head, relentless and desperate. I don't like being sidelined. I'm not wired for sitting still while other people handle the danger, while someone else steps into my life and puts themselves at risk.

On the upside, at least I know for sure where Sam disappeared to and that she works for Hightower now.

I glance at Mateo, who's become a master of strategic silence. He's leaning against the far wall, arms relaxed but posture alert, eyes locked on his phone where comms are feeding him updates I'm notgetting. The blue glow of the screen casts shadows across his face, making his expression even more unreadable than usual.

"You're sure she's okay?" I ask for the third time in the past hour.

He doesn't look up from whatever intelligence he's receiving. "Nothing is showing up on the sensors set up in your house."

The non-answer makes me want to scream. "That's not an answer."

His only response is a blink. Casual. Maddeningly calm. Infuriating in its complete dismissal of my anxiety.

I pace again, feet wearing a path in the threadbare carpet, fingers tapping against my forearm like they're trying to vent the pressure building in my chest.

I'm grouchy. Tense. Crawling out of my skin with the need to do something, anything, other than wait in this basement like some helpless damsel. And I want answers—real ones, not Mateo's cryptic non-responses.

None of which he's giving me.

Rather than indulge the insane impulse that's building to demand Mateo take me back to my house immediately, I close my eyes and pray.

But it's hard. Harder than I expected.

I miss my house with an ache that surprises me. I miss my things—the coffee maker that knows exactlyhow I like my morning brew, the throw blanket that's perfectly broken in, the view from my kitchen window.

My own bed with its familiar dip in the mattress. My coffee mugs, each one chosen for a different mood. The familiar rhythm of my space, the way the light falls through the windows at different times of day, the comfort of routines that belong entirely to me.

It’s selfish, but I'm tired of waiting for other people to decide when my life can go back to normal. Of being a footnote in my own life while someone else risks theirs in my place.

Eliza has already died, how many more lives will be lost while I stay hidden like a coward?

"Anything?" I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

Mateo shakes his head without looking up, his attention still focused on whatever updates are coming through his earpiece.