Page 21 of Collateral Damage
I watch the needles on the gauges until they reach a full count of ten. Voltage holds steady. No sputter. No surge.
“I want your full focus on this,” I tell her.
“Roger that,” she says. “I’ll find him. You just look after Dr. Barbie.”
“Delilah.” My voice is a warning.
“Sorry,” she exhales. “Dr. Morrison. Is she... how is she holding up?”
I don't soften it. “She’s terrified.”
The silence on the other end tells me everything. Delilah knows that terror is a variable I can’t always control. “Tell her I won’t rest until I track him down,” she pauses, her voice softening. “Tell her we won't rest. She’s basically an honorary member of the team now.”
“I’ll tell her.”
I kill the connection. The generator idles behind me, a steady, vibrating presence throwing a pathetic amount of heat into the biting air.
Honorary team member.
It’s a nice sentiment.
I pray it isn’t tested under field conditions.
Ava
I’ve located the tea and have the water boiling when Silas returns, carrying more than just the groceries. Slung over his shoulder is a heavy canvas duffel that clinks with a distinct, rhythmic metallic sound as he sets it down—steel on steel.
He kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot, sealing out the wind. "It’s getting heavier out there. If the road closes, that limits who can get in."
I cross my arms, watching the snow begin to coat the glass. "Yes, but it also means we can’t get out."
He walks into the kitchen, tossing his reply over his shoulder without breaking stride. "We’ll be fine for a few days. Caleb knows our location. If I don’t check in, he’ll come looking."
My voice pitches at his effortless certainty. "But they’re in North Dakota. There’s no way they can reach us."
Silas places the grocery bags on the counter and finally eyes me. The look is steady, unblinking. "I trust my team, Ava."
I swallow hard, feeling a rush of heat in my cheeks. "It’s not about that. How can they possibly fly if the conditions get worse?"
“They’re not flying commercial minimums,” he says, his tone making it clear the subject is closed. “Different aircraft. Different rules.”
The casualness of it stings. Is he really suggesting he’d put his team in danger for this? “Just because they can,” I say, “doesn’t mean they should.”
His head tilts slightly. “I agree. Which is why we don’t miss radio check-ins.”
Before I can voice another protest, he gestures toward the rest of the cabin. “Why don’t we take a look around? Get our bearings.”
I release a weary sigh and abandon the argument. I want reassurance that lives won't be at risk because of me, but Silas isn’t going to engage. I’d be fighting a losing battle to even try.
We start with the bedrooms. The main room is dominated by a heavy log-frame king bed, a patchwork quilt folded tight at the foot. A mounted deer skull watches from above the headboard, flanked by faded camo jackets on pegs and a pair of mud-caked boots shoved beneath a bench.
Next to it is a smaller room cramped with bunk beds and plastic storage bins stacked to the ceiling. Fishing tackle, spare fuel cans, and a folded camp table are wedged into the corner—it’s clearly more of a storage closet than a bedroom.
“I’ll take this room,” he says.
I glance at the narrow bunks, then back at his broad frame. I shake my head. “You won’t sleep a wink. I’ll take it.”
He shifts his weight, blocking the doorway. “I can sleep anywhere. And this room has a better view of the road.”
