Page 30 of Shadows of Justice

Iunload my magazine, the last four shots so spot-on that the target paper gapes open in the middle.

I wish my decision-making skills were as solid as my aim.

I flick an empty shell off of the table, ejecting the magazine in my Glock and setting the weapon down so that I can reload. I do all of this without really seeing what my hands are doing, the motions as familiar as tying my shoes.

My mind has been racing for days. I’ve been trying to think of every possible direction that Jennings could come at me when I present my anonymous tip story about the MG-T12 to him tomorrow. So far, I think that I have all possible routes covered, but it was that kind of false confidence that put my ass in my hand the last time I tried to be slick.

I need this to be perfect.

I chamber another round and roll my shoulder, pushing out a breath.

You’re still the new and . . . well . . . slightly improved Viv.

I take aim at the target and fire. The paper quivers with each contact, the blasts muted beneath my noise-reducing headphones. The empty shells land in the sea among the others at my feet, the pings hardly heard over the sound of my own breath.

Everything that I thought was right has been turned ass over head in the last few weeks.

It’s like I don’t know which way is up anymore. My interactions with Leo have me completely twisted up. My success with bending the truth to manipulate the system and take out hard-to-reach criminals has left me feeling untouchable, like some badass vigilante. It’s getting really hard to weigh the right and the wrong fairly.

On one hand, I could have stuck to the rules and ignored Leo’s offer, bringing him into the station. But, then those six girls would still be captured, their stories coming to an end, chained up and tortured in that basement. How can that be justified?

I really want to do the right thing, and I’m fucking trying. But Leo’s version of “right” is making my moral compass point in new directions.

The slide on my gun locks back, the magazine emptied. I sigh. This was supposed to take my mind off of everything going on, but it’s not working.

I remove my ear protection and hear snickering to my right, and glance over at the only other people in the public range. It’s three officers I vaguely recognize from LAPD, low-rankers, looking at me like I’m wearing a “Free Blow Jobs” sign around my neck. All of them have fresh high-and-tights and are wearing T-shirts so tight on their average builds they look like they shopped for them at Baby Gap.

I avert my gaze to hopefully avoid a confrontation, but their leering and giggling is really obvious. They clearly want to talk.

One of them, tall and lanky with light features, taps his buddy on the arm and saunters over to me. An obvious, “watch this.” He’s cute, I guess, if you’re into that douche-canoe look, but cocky bravado is oozing off of him, like he thinks I’m about to drop to my knees and ask for his dick with a please and thank you.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

I lock up my gun case and sling my bag over my arm, barely meeting his eyes with a tight smile and tiny dip of my chin. I go to walk around him and he slides over, getting directly in my way. His buddies snicker loudly as they watch.

“Hey, hey, I’m just saying hi,” he says, and sticks his hand out. “I’m Chase.”

I look at his hand for a moment and then motion with my gaze to my full hands so I have an excuse not to touch him.

“Viv.”

“Viv, that’s beautiful. Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” Chase muses with a wink.

“I gotta go,” I mutter, and try to go around him. My irritation flares as he again slides into my path, a grin on his face that’s probably won him plenty of pussy.

“Wait a sec. I just wanted to know where I know you from. You look really familiar,” he says. “See, I’m a cop, and I sometimes think I know everyone, but you,” Chase sucks in a breath and looks shamelessly down my form, “I definitely know I’ve seen you before, Vivian.”

A narrow my eyes at him and don’t correct his wrong guess at my name, because I literally don’t fucking care.

“Did I answer a call for you once? No—I’ve got it,” Chase snaps his fingers. “You must have been at the assault call two weeks ago at the TriDelt house on the SoCal campus. That’s definitely it.”

I don’t respond again, but Chase isn’t deterred. I don’t think he needs me for this conversation.

“You’ve got a killer shot, babe. Your daddy teach you to shoot like that?” Chase asks, stepping in close and running his fingers over the bare skin of my arm. “Your form could use a little work, though. Maybe I could give you some pointers?”

I smile sweetly at him as I casually shift my gun case from one hand to the other, and then grab his two fingers as they drag over my arm, flipping his wrist around and applying just enough pressure to elicit pain, but not snap the joint in two.

The idea is extremely attractive, but I resist.

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