Page 40 of Collateral Damage
My eyes sweep the cramped cabin interior, and suddenly the cedar walls feel like paper. This isn't a sanctuary anymore; it’s a kill box with too many windows and not enough exits.
"Current location?"
Caleb hesitates. "Dark. Completely dark since two days ago."
I don’t dwell on what his words might mean. They don’t tell a story. Not yet.
Instead, I start running the math of a siege—calculating the narrow line of sight from the porch and the blind spots created by the tree line pressing against the glass.
If Mitchell doesn't leave traces, it means the first time I see him will be the split second I have to put him down.
I’m no longer Ava’s bodyguard; I’m a countermeasure against a ghost who knows every trick I do.
Ava
You left your Bible on the nightstand. Reagan’s voice is ringing in my ears, playing on a loop.
Whatever his phone call was about, Silas is even more tense now, his eyes tracking the windows with a ferocity that makes my breath hitch. He’s angry for me, I know it, but anger isn’t going to help either of us.
I move to the kitchen and start grabbing boxes and cans with a frantic, uncoordinated energy, stacking them like a barricade.
While I risk poisoning us again, he ducks outside to bring in more firewood. Through the window, I watch him make efficient trips, stacking logs by the fireplace like he’s done it a hundred times before.
The door opens, and he comes back in with the final armful, shoulders dusted with snow. He drops the logs beside the hearth—one catches, and he jerks his hand back slightly before setting the rest down.
“Last of it,” he says, a little too sharply.
He grits his teeth and lifts his palm. Blood wells from a deep splinter embedded in the flesh below his thumb.
“Let me see that,” I say, already moving toward him.
"It's fine," he says, but doesn't pull his hand away when I take it.
"It's not fine. That's deep." I guide him toward the kitchen, where the light is better. "Sit."
He obeys without argument, which tells me it hurts more than he's letting on.
I retrieve my medical bag from the bedroom—force of habit, I never travel without it—and return to find him examining the splinter with the same detached focus he brings to cleaning weapons.
"Don't touch it," I say, setting the bag on the table and pulling out a chair beside him. "You'll just push it deeper."
I angle his hand toward the light, studying the entry point. The splinter is thick, embedded at an angle beneath the skin. It'll need to come out cleanly or risk leaving fragments behind.
"When's the last time you had a tetanus shot?" I ask, opening the bag.
"Two years ago. We keep current."
"Good." I pull out antiseptic wipes, tweezers, a small magnifying glass, and sterile gauze. His hand settles on the table. Broad. Scarred. The kind of calluses that come from tools and hard use.
Dark hair runs along his strong forearm, the muscle cording as he holds still for me.
I clean the area around the splinter first, with gentle swipes of the antiseptic. He doesn’t flinch, but I feel the tension in his hand.
"You can tell me if it hurts," I say quietly.
"I won’t."
Hiding a smile, I hold up the magnifying glass, examining the angle. The splinter goes deeper than I initially thought—maybe half an inch into the flesh. I'll need to be careful.
