Page 27 of Captured Onyx

Chapter 13

Malia

I'm scared. And I know I should be, given my situation. I have no idea where I am, and I’m being held hostage by three thugs whose plan could be God knows what with me. He says I'm supposed to play a role, to assume the identity of someone else for a while–with the promise that I'll be freed at the end.

But how do I know that's true? How do I know he's not just toying with me, like a cat does with a mouse before it eventually kills it after it has served its purpose?

And why do I need to learn how to shoot a gun? Am I going to need to protect myself against someone, someone who I will meet once the mission starts? Am I expected to shoot at the police if they happen to discover us out here?

And then a morbid thought dawns on me. Might it be an essential part of the mission? Will I have to commit murder for them?

The gun weighs heavy in my hands, and even though he said that it's not loaded and thus should pose no danger, it frightens the hell out of me.

"You need to relax," he tells me. "A gun is not dangerous. It can only become dangerous when in the hands of someone who does not respect it."

He steps closer to me then, holding a different gun in his hand as an example.

"Hold it like this," he instructs, closing his right hand around the barrel of the gun while he positions his other hand underneath it as support.

I try to copy what he's showing me, cursing the way my hands are shaking and making it nearly impossible for me to hold it correctly. I don't want him to see how scared I am. Not only does it annoy him, but it makes me look weak in front of him, and that’s the last impression I want to make on him.

I can't allow him to think that he has complete authority over me and that I'll do whatever he wants.

"This is a Colt 1911," he explains, continuing to pay close attention to how I‘m attempting to hold a handgun for the very first time in my life. "It's a semi-automatic, good for close range fights and provides ideal protection for precarious situations at close proximity."

"What kind of situations?" I ask, my eyes glued to the weapon in my hands.

"An example would be when you're in a building or room with a group of people," he elaborates. "Or when you're physically attacked on the street."

My eyes are wide and lips are quivering when I look up at him. "Am I going to find myself in those kinds of situations? Where I’m going to need to use a gun? Is that what you're preparing me for?"

He offers a subtle shake of his head. "No. Not really. But you need to be able to defend yourself—and not shake like you’re scared at the first sight of a gun."

"Not really? I need you to give me more details than that!"

"Not right now," he says evenly, holding his gun up before my eyes. "Now focus."

He motions with his eyes at me to watch his hands on the gun, and he pulls the top part of the pistol back and lets it slide forward.

“This,” he says, repeating the motion, “is called racking the slide. It loads the first round from the magazine into the chamber so you’re ready to shoot. If the gun is loaded, that is.”

He removes the magazine from the handle, then he holds it up to my face. He locks eyes with me before he continues.

"The Colt has detachable magazines. I'm sure it will never get to it, but if you ever find yourself in a situation where you have to reload quickly, you can simply exchange the empty magazine with a full one. That is, if you have extras."

He snaps the magazine back into the gun and waits for me to do the same. I take a deep breath, trying to curb the panic that's rising up deep within my chest. If I wasn't such a damn chicken, I could turn this gun on him and take a chance at regaining my freedom.

Instead, I'm trembling like a leaf at the realization that I'm holding a loaded gun in my hands. Even if I was stupid enough to turn the pistol against him, I'm shaking so much that I’m sure I couldn't even aim straight, let alone pull the trigger.

We are standing about five yards away from the base of a large tree trunk that I assume is the target, judging by the row of cans lined up on top of it.

"Watch," he says, lifting the gun and pointing it toward the trunk. He offers no additional warning, so when he fires the shot, I shriek in surprise. The shot rings out louder than I expected, reminding me of the violence these weapons can bring. I've always hated guns, and I hate that I'm forced to use one.

Nate lowers his gun, and—much to my surprise—tucks it into his belt before placing his hands on my shoulders and turning me to face the trunk.

"Aim." His order is brief and brusque as always.

I stare at him, my eyes wide, my entire body now shaking uncontrollably.

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