Page 87 of Collateral Damage
"How many people live here full time?" I ask as we glide down the hallway.
"It varies," Axel says, his voice low and steady behind my head. "We rotate. Only Delilah and Sam are permanent fixtures. Adena was too, but that arrangement has changed."
He doesn't elaborate, and the name Adena hangs in the air like a cold draft. I don't push. Instead, I watch the walls. We pass a photograph hanging slightly crooked—the only thing out of place in this entire wing. It’s a combat photo, grainy and sun-bleached. A younger Silas is squinting into a sun I can’t see, surrounded by men whose faces are etched with a weary, shared history.
Outside, the cold North Dakota wind hits me like a physical blow. Axel navigates the curves toward the sprawling grounds without breaking stride, the wheels of the chair crunching over stray bits of gravel.
"I’ll show you the pit first," Axel says.
It’s a massive sunken stone circle, capable of seating twenty. A grill the size of a small car sits huddled under a heavy tarpaulin, the fabric snapping violently in the fierce prairie wind.
"Caleb's domain," Axel adds. "He takes it very seriously."
"I can tell." Even dormant in February, buried under a dusting of frost, the area has the structured order of a sanctuary.
"He'd be out here in a blizzard if Silas let him."
I look at the empty stone benches. In the height of summer, with a fire roaring and the whole team gathered, this place would be an inferno of life. Now, it just feels lonely.
"Silas built all of this," I say, more to myself than him.
"He did. Took him three years." Axel steers us toward the vegetable garden. The raised beds are wrapped in burlap, looking like rows of small, silent graves in the frozen earth. "He's deliberate about everything he builds."
He says it plainly, without editorializing. Like gravity or the weather—just a fact of the world.
"Including this team," I say.
Axel is quiet for a moment. The only sound is the rhythmic crunch-crunch of the tires on the frozen path. "Especially the team," he says.
The wind moans across the open ground, carrying the scent of pine and coming snow. It’s a biting, honest kind of cold.
"And once he trusts you..." I prompt.
"You're family," Axel says. Simply. Finally.
I look out across the frost-covered land. The tree line is a black ink stroke against a sky so vast it feels like it’s pressing down on us. This is the life Silas built—a fortress of loyalty that he convinced himself was incompatible with anything personal.
The prairie stretches out, indifferent. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the rhythmic thud of horses moving in the paddock and the low, mournful whistle of the wind through the trees. Curiosity, sharp and persistent, has been sitting at the back of my throat for the last ten minutes.
"How did Silas recruit you?" I ask.
Axel is quiet for so long, I think he’s actually going to tell me. I wait for the story, for the moment of connection. Then, I see his reflection in a window as we pass—a particular, tight-lipped smile. The smile of a man who has closed a book and tucked it away on a high shelf.
"That's a story for another time," he says. He checks his watch, the movement crisp. "I need to get back and check on my patient. I'll drop you at Silas's office."
The transition back inside is a sensory overload. The sudden wall of heat, the rich, dark aroma of brewing coffee, and the low, steady hum of the HVAC system.
Axel wheels me past multiple closed doors to one with a simple nameplate on the door. Hightower. Jnr. He knocks once, pushes it open, and maneuvers me inside.
"Dr. Morrison," he says to the figure behind the desk. Then, with a nod to me, "I’ll see you at lunch, Ava."
He leaves me at the threshold. Behind the massive mahogany desk, a laptop open and glowing, sits a man whose presence seems to pull all the oxygen out of the room.
He can only be Justus Hightower.
Silas
The office door clicks shut, muffling the house into a low, pressurized hum.
