Page 22 of Collateral Damage
I look past him at the small window. The driveway is visible, a gray strip cutting through the pines. “But surely?—”
He holds up a hand. Not impolite, but firm. “Have you ever used a satellite phone?”
When I shake my head, he leaves the room, returning ten seconds later with a squat black device. Its casing is scuffed, the edges sealed against the elements, a stubby antenna tucked tight, and a single green light pulsing like a heartbeat.
He glances at his watch. “We’re due a check-in.”
Silas keys the device without looking at the buttons. “Hightower Actual to Watchtower. Radio check.”
He pauses, listening.
“Copy. We’re on site. Two souls present. Weather’s deteriorating but contained. Generator online. No movement on the road.”
Silas’s eyes meet mine, and he holds the device out. “Delilah. She’d like to speak with you.”
Surprised, I accept the phone. It feels heavy and cold in my palm. I press it to my ear while Silas looks on, his expression hovering somewhere near bemused.
"Uh, hello?"
"Oooh, they never let me do this… Are you holding up okay?"
"I'm fine, Delilah." I turn slightly away from Silas, lowering my voice as if that could provide any privacy in this cabin. "Are you keeping up with your physio?"
"Haven't missed a day. And don't you worry—we'll find him." Her voice softens, turning certain. "And you're with the best person right now. Silas won't let anything happen to you. And your mom is safe."
I exhale slowly, bracing one hand against the wooden windowsill. "Thank you. I appreciate everyone going to so much trouble for us."
"Of course! But Verity and I agree—" she drops into a conspiratorial whisper, "—that you should totally go full Sarah Connor. Just in case."
I blink at the glass. "I beg your pardon."
Delilah giggles. "You know, in Terminator 2, when the sweet school teacher from the first movie?—"
Low murmuring interrupts her from the background. There's a brief shuffle, a muffled protest from Delilah, and then a different voice entirely fills the line.
"Caleb Evans here. What Dee means is arm yourself. Silas will have plenty of options for you."
Options. Like we're at a travel agency.
"I'd go with the spare Glock 19 he carries. Packs a punch, but it's lightweight if you need to holster it." A beat of silence follows, as though he's consulting a log. "We'll check in again at fourteen-hundred."
The line goes dead.
I lower my hand slowly, staring at the falling snow for a moment before turning to hold the phone back out to Silas. I’m completely bewildered by how normal this all is for them. He takes the device without a word, already moving toward the duffel bags stacked by the door, presumably to locate the "options" Caleb mentioned.
I drift back to the kitchen and carry on making tea, needing the small, domestic ritual more to prove I can still function than because I actually want a cup.
I might be capable in my own world. But out here, in the wilderness, in a rustic cabin with a soldier who lives and breathes danger, I’m completely out of my depth.
Silas
I unlatch the Pelican case, the heavy plastic tabs snapping open with a sharp, mechanical crack that seems to ring out in the kitchen's silence.
Methodically, I begin laying out the kit: pistol, spare mags, suppressor, fixed blade, trauma kit. I check the slide and the threading, my hands moving with a practiced, mindless rhythm. Across from me, Ava is sitting as if she’s watching a delicate craniotomy, her hands white-knuckling a mug that reads Eat. Pray. Hunt. in a flowery script that doesn’t match the deer skull on the wall.
Axel’s cousin has a sense of humor about his mugs, but his taste in hardware is more serious. There’s a recessed safe behind the board games in my bedroom closet. Once Ava is asleep, I’ll clear it. She’s already vibrating with enough tension; she doesn’t need to see me inventorying a small armory.
"You need to eat," I say.
