Page 71 of Deadly Force

One phone call,she said.I just need to make one phone call.

Should have guessed it wasn't another check-in with her mom.

To confirm it, Samantha doesn't say a word, buther stance says everything—arms crossed, jaw tight, weight forward.

They both turn to me when they realize I'm watching. Measuring.

"What just happened?" I ask, even though I already know. This isn't a disagreement. It's a move. And knowing Brooke, probably not the safe kind.

Brooke stops mid-step and turns to face me. Spine straight. Shoulders squared. There's color in her cheeks, but her voice is calm when she speaks. Controlled. "Travis Bell is at a medical conference in Dallas. He won't be back for a week. I'm going in under another name. I've already made an appointment."

It's not a suggestion. Not a request. She's already made the call. We're either with her or in her way.

Everything in me wants to shut this down. To tell her absolutely not. To remind her that people are trying to kill her, that she's already been shot at, that walking into Bell's office is like painting a target on her back. But I can see it in her eyes. The same look she had before I kissed her. Determined. Reckless. Completely immovable.

And I know that if I don't help her do this safely, she'll find a way to do it without me.

Samantha doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak. But the warning's still there, written in her expression, coiled in the set of her jaw. Tense. Ready. Her silenceis so loud it's practically deafening. She wants to go in. This is what she's here for. But Brooke is taking the lead, and we're all supposed to keep up.

My pulse kicks up. A cold knot forms in my gut. "Samantha can?—"

Her expression hardens. "I know shecan. That's not the point. You can't keep me locked up in this hospital room forever."

No. I can't. And I'd rather not have to worry about her going rogue, slipping out, ditching backup, chasing leads alone. Which means I've got one shot to keep this contained.

I step forward, plant myself squarely in her line of sight.

"Ten-minute check-ins. No exceptions. Reese stays in the lot as backup. You ask questions. That's it. You don't freelance. You don't chase."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't back down. Just lifts her chin. "What if I get an opportunity to dig deeper?"

The silence stretches. Even Mateo's monitors seem to pause.

I hold her gaze. Let her know exactly how non-negotiable this is. "Then you report it and wait for orders. We do this my way, or you don't go in at all."

Brooke's jaw works. She wants to argue, I can tell. But she doesn't.

She nods. Slow. Deliberate. "Understood."

And just like that, we're committed to another plan with too many variables.

And it only works if Brooke doesn't improvise.

EIGHTEEN

Brooke

Desert Rose Women’s Center sits tucked between a dental clinic and a long-abandoned smoothie bar, trying hard to pass as ordinary. The stucco is a safe shade of beige, the kind meant to blend into strip mall sameness.

But the landscaping gives it away. Too precise. Desert plants arranged like they were measured with a ruler. It looks less like a clinic and more like it's trying not to be noticed—or trying a little too hard not to be questioned.

"Last chance to let Sam take your place," he says.

I shake my head. "No way. Not for this."

He doesn't reply; just stares out the windshield through aviator sunglasses, jaw tight like he's scanning for snipers on the rooftops across the street.

I open the door and step into the dry heat thathits like opening an oven. Caleb falls into step beside me, his body language already shifting. He slouches slightly, moves with less precision, drapes one arm casually across my shoulders.