Page 25 of Collateral Damage
While the sound of the shower hums behind the bathroom door, I turn the cabin into a fortress. It’s a study in contradictions—the steam of a hot bath in one room, the cold steel of a lockdown in the next. I start with the truck, parking it for a quick getaway and scrubbing the snow to hide our timeline. I don’t just want us inside; I want us invisible.
I circle the perimeter, stepping only where the ground is frozen hard enough to deny a footprint. Inside, the routine is mechanical: window latches checked by touch, curtains angled to kill the silhouette of a woman against the glass.
I keep one ear on the water as I retreat to my room. The hidden gun safe is tucked away, a secret waiting in the wall. As I pull the door open, my stomach tightens. Axel wasn’t kidding about his cousin; the man doesn't just own weapons, he’s ready for war.
The safe has been built on fear and worst-case scenarios. A full-length AR-15 with a mounted optic sits beside a shorter upper stored separately, both oiled and ready. A .308 bolt-action rifle rests on its folded bipod, the scope already zeroed for distance. In the corner, a twelve-gauge pump shotgun leans with a grim, utilitarian purpose—set up for stopping power, not sport. Two Glocks are shelved with their magazines grouped in neat, lethal rows, ammunition boxed and separated by caliber.
I take what the night might require—the .308, the sidearms, and the trauma kit. I slide the rifle and the boxed rounds under the bottom bunk, positioned where a sleeping hand can find them in the dark.
By the time the water shuts off, I’m positioned close to the door, trying to look relaxed when I feel anything but.
Ava exits the bathroom, minus her glasses and wearing a pair of flannel Snoopy pajamas, a pale blue terry cotton robe, and sheepskin slippers. She looks like she’s all set for a slumber party while I’m wearing my holstered sidearm and boots that still hold the grit of the driveway
Neither of us blinks.
The cabin shrinks to the distance between us. No white coat, no professional distance—just Snoopy pajamas and a shy smile that's making it hard to remember this is professional.
I clear my throat and force myself back to the reason we're here. “Before you go to bed,” I say, “I need you to leave your phone with me.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“It is. If he calls,” I say, “I want to be the one who deals with it.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You think he will.”
“I think he’s going to want as much information as possible on your location,” I say. “That means calling. He'll want a handshake from a network tower.”
She winces. “Will you answer?”
I shake my head. “I’d like your permission to ask Delilah to put a passive trace on your phone.”
“Passive how?”
“Nothing that tips him off,” I say. “No pickup. No interaction. Just a listener that logs the call metadata the moment it hits the network—tower, routing path, timing. Enough for her to start pulling thread without him knowing he’s exposed.”
“You have my permission. But please wake me if anyone else calls.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course.”
She turns to go, but faces me instead. “I spied some cocoa in the cupboard when I was destroying dinner. Dare we risk it?”
I chuckle. “Cocoa sounds perfect.”
And it does. Probably a little too perfect given the circumstances.
Ava
When I return to the living room, two steaming mugs of cocoa in my hands, I find Silas in the chair by the fire. He has a book in his hands: The Pilgrim’s Progress.
I stop short, a sudden tightening in my chest as I place a mug on the coffee table. "My father used to read that to us."
He meets my gaze and smiles, a quiet invitation for me to share the memory.
"He'd do all the voices—Christian, Evangelist, even Apollyon. My sister and I would beg him to keep going, just one more page." I smile despite the ache. "He never could say no."
"Sounds like a great father."
"He was." I settle into the chair across from him. "He died five years ago from a myocardial infarction."
