Page 9 of Deadly Force

“Cook pancakes?”

“Insist on protecting women who aren’t actually in danger.”

He shoots me a scowl. “You don’t know that.”

I’m not going to get into an argument this early in the morning, so I deflect. “Why did Silas send you? I’d have thought you were overqualified for this position.”

He pats his chest. “I have an injury. Think this is Silas’s way of making sure I stay out of the Hightower gym for a few days.”

Of course. There had to be more to it than Mick just wanting someone intimidating around.

“How’d you get hurt?”

“Ripped a pec benching two-forty.”

My mouth drops open. “You bench two-forty? Is that… normal?”

He nods and takes a bite of pancake.

“Maybe try less weight next time.”

He shrugs his massive shoulders. “New technique threw me off.”

Since he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, I focus on my pancakes and coffee, trying to map out the day.

Once I’ve cleared my plate, I wait for him to finish before diving in.

“How did you get the surveillance footage?”

He pushes his plate aside and picks up his coffee. “I have friends in high places.”

I scowl. “Such as?”

He waggles his eyebrows and stands. “You finished?”

I nod. He grabs my plate and carries both to the sink.

He rinses the dishes. “Could you grab my laptop off the bed? I’ll load the footage.”

With a sigh, I fetch it from the spare room. The laptop is bulkier than most and enclosed in some kind of protective shell, grit and dust caked around the edges. I set it on the table and wait.

He returns, taps in a password, and motions me to look over his shoulder. The grainy feed of the parking lot appears. He speeds it up, and we watch cars come and go, families leaving the pickleball courts, dog walkers, the usual shuffle.

“Here’s where you arrive,” he says, tapping the screen.

Sure enough, my Honda pulls in under the lamp. A few minutes later, I get out and walk toward the park.

He pauses the footage. “This is where it gets interesting. Watch the van.”

On-screen, a van appears. Headlights bright against the darkened lot. I hold my breath as the driver pulls in beside my car and idles the van.

Seconds tick by until a few minutes have passed, then the door opens. I hold my breath as a man climbs out, dressed in black, a ski mask covering his face, and a knife visible in his hand.

With a quick glance around the parking lot, he bends down, casually slashes my driver’s side tire, then systematically cuts through the remaining rubber before climbing back into his van.

The whole thing takes less than a minute.

Caleb freezes the footage and glances at me. “He was right behind you. No doubt in my mind he was following you.”