Page 26 of Collateral Damage
"I'm sorry."
The words are simple, but there's genuine compassion in them. No platitudes or awkward fumbling for what to say.
"He would have been pleased I asked you for help," I say quietly.
“So would my father. This is the closest thing to a break I’ve had in years.”
“Tell me about him,” I say. “About how Hightower came to be.”
He pauses, his face unreadable for a moment. “I don’t usually… we have strict rules around sharing information.”
I shift in my chair, feeling the heat of the mug against my palms. “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
His hand twitches around the book, then he places it to one side. “No. It’s fine. It isn't as if you're asking me for operational details or client information."
I suppress a laugh. “Well, no. I was just curious about your father and how he fits into what you do.”
I don’t say aloud what I’m actually thinking—that I’m mostly curious about the man who raised a son who would lay down his life for others.
He clears his throat and smiles. “Who Justus Hightower is isn’t a state secret. How we came about isn’t really either. Some things are a matter of public record.”
“I must confess I couldn’t find much information online. I’m assuming that’s intentional?”
Silas chuckles. "My father spent his career at the seams where the military, intelligence agencies, and private contractors overlap. He doesn’t like the spotlight, and Delilah works pretty hard to keep him hidden.”
I let the corner of my mouth quirk upward. “I was beginning to think he wasn’t a real person.”
He laughs again. “He’s real. Just not interested in being the face of the company. He started in Army logistics and learned how operations actually function, then moved into senior civilian work for the Department of Defense. His job wasn't to run missions—it was to make sure missions could happen.”
I settle deeper into the chair, surprised he’s sharing this much. He pauses, looking toward the fire. “We started with a few small government contracts, but when the need grew, and we realized there was a place for more, I started calling on favors. It grew into something much bigger than they ever expected.”
“Sounds like you’ve built an incredible legacy.”
He shakes his head. “God built Hightower; we just gave it a name. He did the rest.”
The humility in his voice catches me off guard. There's no way Hightower would be what it is without his vision and his willingness to fight for men others had given up on, yet he refuses to take the credit.
“My father would have liked you,” I say.
Silas meets my eyes, and for a moment neither of us speaks. The fire crackles, and outside, the wind moves through the pines.
"I wish I could have met him," he says finally.
The words are simple, but they land with unexpected weight. I can almost see it—my father and Silas, talking over coffee and finding common ground in faith and quiet strength.
Another thought comes with its familiar pain.
My mother would have loved him, too.
Silas
By ten, steady, thickening snowfall is already blanketing the driveway, erasing our tire tracks—a trade-off that provides cover but blinds me to the tree line. At this rate, an intruder could be within twenty yards before I’d catch a flicker of movement through the whiteout.
I pick up the sat phone and key in Axel's direct line. He answers immediately.
"You good up there?"
I’m in a remote valley with a woman I'm barely keeping at professional arm's length. The weather is closing in, and my visibility is dropping to nothing.
