Page 3 of Collateral Damage
The buzz jolts through me, but my hand is already reaching. Automatic. Trained.
Unknown number.
It could be the hospital. A patient. An emergency. I can’t not answer—he knows that. He knows I have to pick up every unknown call, every time, because someone might need me.
Another trap. Another way he’s turned my own life against me.
The screen glows against the falling snow.
Not a call.
A text.
Two words that chill me to the bone.
Sleep well.
Philadelphia International Airport, Pennsylvania. Tuesday. 9:14 p.m.
Silas
I hunch into my coat and slog across the tarmac with every other rerouted, miserable passenger the Midwest storm spat out at Philadelphia International, trying to see the best in a bad situation.
I’ve flown into firefights in Helmand, spent time in African deserts we don’t officially step foot in, and battled sandstorms that tore helicopter doors clean off.
Nothing—and I mean nothing—humbles a man like flying commercial.
As icy wind blasts my back and I step through the service doors into the arrivals corridor, I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way to baggage claim to wait for my black Pelican case.
I take the best vantage point—back to a support column with a clear view of the carousel and every exit—and sweep the area before pulling out my phone and pushing my earbud into my ear.
Ten missed calls. Five texts. Twenty emails. Four hours in the air, and everything’s already on fire.
I forward what I can to Caleb, but my gut tightens at the last number I expected to see.
Dr. Morrison.
No message.
Intrigued, I hit redial.
She answers on the second ring, sounding nothing like the unflappable woman I’ve come to respect. She even drops the usual formal, “Dr. Morrison.”
“Hello?”
“Silas Hightower. You called me an hour ago.”
“Oh. Right. Yes. I’m… sorry.”
The overhead PA crackles to life in a sterile airport voice echoing off every hard surface:
“Attention passengers from Flight 482, originally scheduled for North Dakota. Due to ongoing weather conditions, your flight has been canceled. Your checked baggage will be available at Carousel 4. For rebooking, please proceed to the airline service desk beside Carousel 2. Thank you for your patience.”
“I’ve caught you at a bad time… I should have waited until the morning.”
More passengers spill into baggage claim—exhausted, irritated, all shapes and ages. Even half-listening to Ava, my eyes track each one automatically.
A guy in a Flyers cap with a rolling duffel—harmless. A stressed business traveler, already arguing on his phone—no threat. A college kid in a UND hoodie, dragging a parka—exhausted but aware. An older man with a stiff gait and hands buried in his coat pockets—possible concealment, but he keeps his distance.
