Page 37 of Collateral Damage
"Then how do you do it?"
I pick up the cleaning cloth, focusing on the cold, indifferent steel of the slide. "Someone has to be the wall between the wolf and the lamb."
"And you think that's you."
"I know it is." I reassemble the slide with the sharp, rhythmic clicks of a man who lives by the manual. "It doesn’t mean I’m a saint. It just means I’m willing to be the shield. No matter what."
She shifts on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. The fabric of her leggings pulls taut. I snap my gaze back to the table—a tactical pivot. Set a guard, O Lord, over my eyes. I’ve spent a decade training my body to endure cold, hunger, and sleep deprivation. I thought I’d mastered the flesh.
"Is that why you're alone?" she asks softly.
I focus on the scent of CLP oil and not on why she’s asking. "Part of it. Special Forces doesn't exactly make for a stable home life. You see things that make 'normalcy' feel like a lie."
"But you still have faith."
"Faith is the only thing that keeps the mission from turning into something else," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "It’s the discipline. The boundaries."
"My father used to say faith was about trusting through the questions."
"He was a wise man." I look at her. "He’d be proud of you. The strength it takes to keep going."
"I don’t feel strong," she whispers. "I feel foolish."
I set the cleaning rod down on the table—the metal clack echoing like a hammer falling on an empty chamber. "You did nothing wrong, Ava. You were being kind, and a coward tried to exploit that. That’s on him. Never you."
She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t look away. She’s watching me with the same quiet intensity she had across the Scrabble board.
My pulse jumps. All my training is telling me to identify the threat and neutralize it, but the "threat" is my own weak flesh.
I force my attention back to the Glock, sliding the magazine home with a sharp, mechanical click.
"I promise you," I say, my voice low and leveled. "I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. You have my word."
Ava lets out a slow, painful breath. "I know you will," she says softly. "I've never doubted that."
I don’t look at her. I can’t right now. I just pick up the next round, keep loading, forcing my focus back where it belongs.
Ten
Ava
Guilt is a constant, sharp reminder I have responsibilities I feel I’m shirking. David’s patient still needs a consult, my mother is alone, and Carla has no idea where I am.
I’m stuck. Powerless. I can only hope they understand my absence isn't a choice—that I'm here because I don't have the freedom to leave.
Outside, the snow has turned vicious. The steady fall from earlier is now a white-out—thick, wind-driven sheets slamming against the windows hard enough to make the glass tremble. The world beyond the porch is gone. Even if Silas were willing to risk the drive, the storm has locked us in. Leaving now would be a death sentence.
The cabin seems to shrink. The wind howls through the eaves, testing the walls of our sanctuary.
Silas is back to working on a battered laptop that appears to have seen as much combat as he has.
“I’m starting to regret not packing my MacBook.”
He spares me a glance. “You can borrow mine if you like. I’m just drafting emails. I’ll send them as soon as we have a stronger connection.”
“Internet connection,” he hastily adds.
I nod, wishing I could ask him what the subject matter is. His address book must be filled with interesting characters.
