Page 65 of Rugger: The Huntress

I pressed a thumb against the handle and was able to push it open. My heels sounded in the nearly empty dwelling. Fresh pine from the surrounding trees was potent in the dark, chilly home.

I was halted in my tracks upon entry. Two steps were all I could muster before being rendered motionless.Still. Immobile. Handicap. My limbs locked and my heart danced in my chest.

Before me, with one hand over the other stood the man of the hour. The prettiestGlock41resting against his right palm. Under hooded eyes, he summoned a soul I’d laid to rest and piled twelve feet of soil on top of at the tender age of twelve.

“Good evening, Rugger.”

I cleared my throat, figuring it was best if I cut to the chase.

“I’ve come to kill you.”

He nodded with a half smile pulling his lips to the right. “I’m aware.”

My arms were stiff as bricks as they swept from my sides. The pressure required to unload my weapon began being applied a millisecond before my gun reached its resting position. The extended magazine and custom matte black switch transformed myRugerinto a machine.

This is personal.

It was kills like these that sent me into the sacred arsenal that held my father’s favorite brand of pistol. According to him, I’d be named after the firearm, but my mother decided against the spelling and pronunciation during birth.

They compromised, naming me Rugger instead. However, to my father, I was Ruger. Until the day he died, it was the name he preferred and used more often than not. Contrary to my mother’s wishes, his preference was justified.

Takka.

Takka.

Takakakakakaka.

Takka.

Tatatakaaaa.

Burst after burst, I fired at my target, moving forward each time I pressured the trigger.

Takka.

Takka.

The drywall left a smokey residue in the air, clouding my vision. Still, I pushed forward, ready to end my night in a bath full of bubbles with the fireplace crackling beside me.

Four bullets. I reminded myself, prepared to reload or ditch the Ruger altogether and let my Beretta finish the job.

Four fucking bullets and I hadn’t heard as much as a yelp. Pride carried me further into the home as I wrestled with the holster inches shy of the hem of my skirt. I gripped the Baretta with my left hand, aiming the barrel as I continued through the kitchen. Its beauty was astounding, but I had no time to marvel over its immaculate design.

“Four bullets, Rugger,” Psalms voice rang out.

There are a hundred where those came from. Before the night ends, one will be in your head.

He’d revealed his location with the fair warning. I backtracked, realizing he was near the entrance, now. I pressed my back against the door with both hands extended, ready to fire at the mere inkling of his presence. He gave me nothing.

My chest rose and fell as the dust began to settle. From one side to the other, I shifted my eyes, searching for signs of Psalms.

Bam!

The sound of a vase crashing to the ground startled me. I shifted my focus, prepared to head in the other direction. I pushed through the beautiful home in search of the broken ceramic. At the sight of it, I carefully stepped over it.

I was led into a dark hallway that suddenly opened into a massive living room with floor to ceiling glass windows. The ceiling was not the exception. It, too, was made of glass. The massive trees surrounding the structure were sheeted with ice.

I rounded the corner just as my wrists were restrained and forced behind me. The smell of salty woods, cashmere, cocoa, vanilla, and citrus was debilitating. I fought the urge of submission and pressured the triggers of both guns. The Rugerbullets pierced the long bench to the left of me. The Beretta bullet caused Psalms to groan.

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