Page 41 of Breaker

With my nerves frayed, that day flickering in the back of my mind, I take the weapon and inspect it, shoving down my unease.

This is for Cora. I will get her back.

I mimic what Striker showed me, and once he seems satisfied that I can hold it properly, he takes it back, and loads it, placing earmuffs over his ears. Reaper hands me a pair as Striker lifts the firearm, aiming at the target. Adjusting the earmuffs, I watch Striker’s muscles tense and all that unease I felt, melts. Heart racing for a different reason, I focus on his body, how he widens his stance slightly, the rifle tucked neatly and tightly against his shoulder, almost like it’s an extension of him. There’s something so primal about the sight of Striker holding the rifle, so innately sexual that I forget I’m nervous as I devour the sight of his muscular arms, tight ass, his strong back and large hands.

Next to me, Reaper clears his throat. I blink, glancing his way. He crosses his arms and lifts his chin—a silent reminder to pay attention to the lesson and not Striker’s ass.

Striker looks over at me briefly, and winks before repositioning himself, aiming at the target.

I take a deep breath, shifting my focus.

“Ready?” Reaper asks.

Avoiding looking his way, I give a subtle nod.

I know the sound’s coming. I’m familiar with the explosive crack of a bullet leaving the chamber. I heard it the day they took me. How it reverberates in the air. Creates a hollowness in the ears. I remember watching Manuel fall after a bullet hit the center of his forehead and still, that’s not what sends fear snaking through my limbs, numbing my fingers.

What people don’t know is that you don’t hear the sound of a bullet when it’s shot from a distance by a professional killer. All you hear is the slight whisper of it piercing flesh, the slick sound of metal imbedding itself into muscle and hitting bone.

Then, absolute silence. Like time freezes, everything but where the bullet lands ceasing to exist except for that pinprick of red. And how it grows.

A single image slaps me.

Her face frozen in a smile.

The sparking life in her eyes one second there. Vibrant.

The next, gone.

Then blood was spraying out of the side of her head onto my lavender dress.

“Ready to try?”

I blink. Sucking in a breath to find Striker holding out the gun to me. I feel Reaper’s penetrating gaze moving over my face and I glance his way.

He doesn’t move.

I reach for the gun. He stalks forward, arm outstretched as if to grab the rifle. “You don’t have to.”

My hand drops as our eyes collide. “If I want Cora, I have to.”

His shoulders bunch but he nods, glancing at Striker as he motions for me to continue. Striker places the gun in my hands, holding me and the weapon until I’m aiming, and he’s positioned my hands where he wants them.

“Don’t press,” Striker says backing away some to give me space, and I’m too acutely aware of his proximity. Of how fast my heart is racing, knowing I’m holding a deadly weapon in my hands. Knowing I have another one at my back and one more beside me.

My hands shake, my fingers slick with sweat as I aim for the target.

“Pull back gently,” Striker says. “Don’t smash it down. You pull, like you’re coaxing it to fire rather than smashing the bullet out of the barrel.”

A cold blast of wind skates across my face, blowing tendrils of hair over my eyes. Reaper steps to me, and leans forward, tucking the flyaway behind my ear and my entire body shoots through with heat, fireworks exploding over the skin where he touched. It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing his gloves. My body remembers his heat and wants it again.

“Ready?” Striker asks quietly from my other side. “It doesn’t have much of a kick, but there’s a small one so don’t be surprised.”

I nod again, trying to put all my focus on not accidentally firing before I’m ready and not the two men flanking me. The last part feels harder than the first and I shove back the thought that I should feel such desire for them even now.

I shake my head, feeling their eyes on me. Tilting my ankle to feel the little knife in my boot. I lick my lips.

I can fight.

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