Caleb continued gathering details, voice steady, careful not to overwhelm them, guiding rather than interrogating. I watched the way he worked—the way he created safety not bypromising it but by structuring it, turning chaos into data. He didn’t push when the boys faltered; he adjusted pace, waited, then circled back with a softer tone. Caleb wielded gentle care better than a blade.
I was sure the boys trusted Caleb, but when Ezra’s gaze drifted back to me, I couldn’t figure out if I saw trust or expectation that he could demand I go kill everyone.
Seth fell asleep leaning on Ezra, and even Ezra, with his need for murder and rescue, was eventually too tired to talk now the adrenaline had burned off.
I waited in the corridor, and Caleb came out and shut the door, stopping in front of me, shoulders tight, jaw working.
Then he hurried down the corridor, and I followed, where we came upon Mickey pacing the reception. He and Caleb had a hurried conversation, and I held back, even when Mickey bowed his head and scrubbed at his face.
“We’ll get them,” I heard Caleb say, his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. That was fine, until Mickey placed his hand over Caleb’s, and somehow thatwasn’tfine at all. The contact was brief, but I reacted with immediate, irrational hostility. Mickey’s fingers covered Caleb’s knuckles, thumb pressing lightly, and my focus narrowed to that point of contact as if it were a threat vector. It wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t even logical.
No one else should be touching Caleb.
Mickey had stood less than a foot from him, shoulder nearly aligned, hand covering his without resistance. Six inches of space between their bodies. I stood close enough to control exit angles and intercept. Proximity was leverage. I preferred to be the closest variable.
Mickey had done nothing wrong, but seeing another man touch Caleb made me want to hurt Mickey. I analyzed Mickey’s wrist angle, grip force, and their closeness, fleetingly consideringremoving his hand to restore balance. Not because Caleb needed protection, but because I disliked the situation changing without my consent. I’ve never felt territorial jealousy like this, but I knew next time I’d stay closer to Caleb so no one could touch him. When we were outside and halfway to the cars, the rain was coming down harder, and the gravel was slick underfoot. Caleb rounded on me without warning.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demanded, and this wasn’t controlled anger, but heat. “How could you say that about killing their brother? For fuck’s sake, Novak, they’re children. Their siblings are only fourteen, for fuck’s sake! Their sister is pregnant!”
He shoved me hard in the chest, and the impact rocked me back a step on the wet ground.
“They needed the parameters,” I said.
“They needed hope,” he shot back. “They needed someone to tell them their pregnant sister can be saved, and their brother isn’t a lost cause.”
“If their brother raises a gun, he becomes a threat.”
“They don’t need to hear that from you.”
“They need to understand risk.”
He shoved me again, harder this time. “They need to feel like someone is on their side, not that we’re planning which one of them to shoot!”
“They want someone who can kill.”
“They really hit the jackpot with you then!”
“If it keeps you alive.”
His face tightened, and for a second I thought he might swing. Instead, he dragged a hand through his hair and stepped back, breathing hard.
“You don’t get to carve up their family in hypotheticals,” he said, voice rough now. “Not in front of them.” Then he stormed over to the cars, and I was right on his heels.
“When do we leave?” I asked, already considering the stash of weapons I’d need.
“The Cave has got this,” he said quietly, without looking at me. “Nothing to do with you.”
“I’m the solution,” I said, confused as to why he was telling me I wasn’t part of this.
“We don’t needyourkind of solution,” he corrected, finally meeting my gaze. “We go in shooting, and this could get out of hand, Waco-style. We need recon and a freaking plan that doesn’t include instant mass murder.”
I didn’t immediately understand what he meant, but I watched the faint tremor in his hand before he stilled it, and the way his pupils darkened. I knew the rhythm of Caleb’s pulse better than my own, and his temper was stunning.
“I’d only kill the people who need to die,” I said.
“And what if their fourteen-year-old brotherreallycomes at you?” he asked.
I didn’t get the question. Age didn’t change trajectory, velocity, or damage potential. A fourteen-year-old with a rifle could end Caleb as efficiently as a grown man. Indoctrination didn’t alter ballistics. If Noah raised a gun and committed to firing, the outcome would be determined by speed and angle, not sentiment. Caleb wasn’t asking about tactics; he was asking whether I would hesitate. I wouldn’t.
