Page 35 of Collateral Damage
With a nod, he disappears into the spare room and returns with a battered box, and sets it on the coffee table between us.
"Fair warning," I say, settling into the chair across from him. "I take this seriously."
He opens the box and starts setting up the board, smiling. "So do I. Games got competitive in my home. Even worse at Jericho."
The tiles click into neat rows under his palms, and when he glances up, his gaze holds mine for half a second longer than necessary before dropping to the bag beside him.
"Ladies first."
I draw my tiles, grateful for something to focus on besides the awareness humming between us. The first few turns are quiet. Focused. He plays STORM for fourteen points. I counter with QUIET for fifteen.
“One thing I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say, shifting my tiles. “Why the name Jericho for your headquarters?”
Silas doesn’t look up immediately. He studies his rack with the lethal stillness that parallels Reagan.
“People remember the walls,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. “They like the idea of a miracle doing the heavy lifting.”
“And you don't?”
He finally meets my eyes, and there’s a weary sharpness there. “I like the man who had to lead the march. Joshua didn't just wait for a handout. He sent the spies in first. He did the recon. He knew that even if the walls fell, you still had to be ready to clear the rubble.”
“That’s one of my favorite Bible stories,” I venture. “He was a great leader.”
He leans back, the lamplight. “He was. But most people forget the Gibeonites. They showed up in rags with moldy bread, acting like refugees, and Joshua fell for the ruse. He gave his word to a lie and put all of Israel at risk.”
He exhales, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. “Jericho isn't about the victory for me. It’s about the vigilance. It’s a reminder that even the best commander can be fooled by a beautiful story if he isn't watching the perimeter.”
I look down at my tiles, but the letters have blurred into a different kind of code. He doesn't want to be a king behind high walls. He wants to be the scout who never sleeps, the one who knows that the greatest threat doesn't always come with a sword—sometimes it comes with a handshake and a desperate face.
While I consider that, he studies the board again.
"Your turn," he says finally, voice lighter than before.
I play NEURAL across a double word score. Twenty-four points.
"Showing off now?" he says, then promptly lays down ADZE.
I stare at it. "That's not a word."
Silas leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "It is."
"A-D-Z-E?"
"Triple letter score on the Z." He grins. "That's forty-two points."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You're making that up."
"Want me to prove it?"
"Of course I do."
With a smile, he gets up, goes into his bedroom, and brings out an open dictionary, then turns the book toward me. Adze: a tool similar to an ax, with an arched blade at right angles to the handle.
"That's..." I scramble for an appropriate word. "Infuriating."
"I told you I was competitive." He marks down his score with obvious satisfaction.
"Where did you even learn that word?" I ask, rearranging my letters.
