Page 89 of Collateral Damage
Caleb snorts, grinning. “You mean it to sound that way?”
I shoot him a glare. Ignore the heat in my pulse for my slip, and make a gesturing motion with the hand not in the sling. “Continue,” I say.
Caleb leans back again, the leather chair creaking. “Open operations are solid,” he says. “Nothing on fire. Nothing we can’t carry.”
That’s what I needed to hear.
Jericho looks like a ranch. On paper, Hightower is a consulting firm. In practice, it’s a network that spans agencies, continents, and shadows most people never see. And, Lord willing, it’s going to be a company Ava can step inside without anyone outside Jericho ever knowing.
“Jake?”
Caleb answers. “Inbound from Maine. Should be here tomorrow.”
I nod. “Good. I have a task for him. I need him to interview assistants.”
Caleb folds his arms across his massive chest, his eyebrows arching. “Delilah mentioned that. Nearly fell off my chair.”
I smile, the tension in my shoulders easing. “Things are changing. Looks like I can take a few days off here and there.”
Zack and Caleb share a loaded look.
“Ava’s place suffered smoke damage…” Caleb says.
I nod. “She’ll be staying here until it’s taken care of.”
“With restricted access only?” he asks.
I eye a security pass on Zack’s desk and consider the layers. Physical security. Legal exposure. Emotional leverage. I’ve built this company on controlled entry. Nothing in this world stays compartmentalized.
There’s a colossal difference between bringing someone home and bringing them into this.
“I’ll tell you all in a few minutes,” I say.
Ava
Justus closes the laptop the moment I enter. The mechanical snap of the lid is sharp, a definitive period at the end of whatever he was reading. He stands, moving with the fluid grace of a man who knows how to inhabit a room without taking it over.
He doesn't wait for me to struggle. Before I can take the third uneven step, he is there—not hovering, but steady. He catches my elbow with a hand that feels like worn leather, firm and grounding, and guides me toward one of the wingback chairs. He waits until I’m fully settled, the weight of the day finally sinking into the cushions, before he speaks.
"I'm Justus," he says. He doesn't offer a hand to shake; he simply offers his name like a fact. "And you look like you’ve walked further than you were meant to today."
He settles into the opposite chair, though he doesn't lean back. He sits with the practiced patience of a man who has spent a lifetime waiting for the right moment to move.
The office reflects the man who actually belongs here. There are no plaques on the walls, no gilded commendations, and nothing that advertises Silas's importance. It’s merely a massive desk, worn smooth at the edges from years of Silas's concentrated work, filing cabinets, and the window behind the desk. Outside, the wide, unbroken expanse of the North Dakota grounds stretches away—the dark tree line and the frost-covered earth shivering under a vast, pressing sky.
The walls, however, do all the talking.
There are combat photos hung in sparse, intentional groupings—dozens of them. They capture different terrain, different light, and different configurations of men, but Silas is the ghost in all of them. He is tucked into the composition, usually at the edge of the frame, eyes fixed on the horizon or a doorway.
Never at the center.
"He hates having his photo taken," I say, my eyes drifting back to the wall.
Justus’s mouth curves, a soft, reminiscent expression that mirrors the son he raised. "Always has. His mother used to chase him around the yard with a camera." A short pause follows, his eyes twinkling. "She never quite caught him, either."
I look at the wall again. At the decades of faces Silas chose to keep near him. It’s a silent gallery of survivors.
"Who are they all?" I ask.
