Page 21 of Close Protection

‘Left leg comes out,’ he instructs. Distracted, I put the wrong leg in front, meaning Milosh then has to place the right one into the correct place, moving it in front of me. I lean into him, trying to regain my balance, feeling his firm front against my back. ‘Better,’ is all he says, righting me before he stalks off back to his chair, as if the heat of his hands and body hadn’t just seared invisible scars into mine.

‘Mr Petrov, we have been out here for three hours. I’m hot, I’m hungry and I want a shower. What more could you possibly have to show me?’ Before I get to finish my sentence the man pulls out a gun that has apparently just casually been sitting in his back pocket this whole time.

‘Mr Petrov,’ I breathe as calmly as possible, plastering on a polite smile, ‘why is there a gun in your pocket?’

‘There’s not a gun in my pocket,’ he counters. ‘There’s a gun in my hand.’

‘And what exactly are you planning to do with this gun?’

‘Hand it to you.’

‘And what do you expect me to do with it?’

‘Shoot it,’ is his oh-so-simple answer.

‘Absolutely not,’ I reply. ‘I’m not a big fan of firearms.’

I know I said I wanted self-defence training but right now I’d give up my Rose Sakura Birkin 25 just for a chance to go and eat some breakfast.

‘Wait here,’ Milosh commands as he stalks off towards the house. He returns three minutes later holding the shotgun I use for my clay shooting competitions. ‘You mean to tell me you’re okay using this,’ he asks, holding it out, ‘but notmygun?’ He looks down at the shotgun in his hands. ‘This is double the size, Daphne.’

He’s only said my first name a handful of times, butevery time my name leaves his mouth I have a visceral reaction. His deep voice, with his American accent and its distinctive Slavic tinge, just sounds so good. Don’t get me wrong, the whole ‘Miss Green’ thing is nice, sexy even, but when he says my actual name? It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

‘I’m okay with shooting at clay disks. That,’ I point to his gun, now lying on the table, ‘is used to kill people. Whereas that,’ I point to my gun, still in his hands, ‘is used in competitions. How did you know I shoot, anyway?’

‘Miss Green, this house is filled with pictures of you and your hobbies. They’re everywhere. It would be very hard to miss the dozen or so pictures that line the shelves in your father’s study. Let alone the ones that hang on practically every wall in this house.’

He places the gun into my hand and jogs off to the end of the garden, where he lines up different targets. Catching his drift I go over to the outdoor storage cupboard, take out some shotgun shells and load the barrel. ‘Okay, let’s make a deal,’ I say, once he’s back on the patio. ‘I hit all the targets and we’re done for the day. For each one I miss, that’s another ten minutes you’ve got me outside.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

He plucks the shooting gun from my hands. ‘I knowyou can shoot with this or you wouldn’t have all those trophies. What I don’t know is if you can transfer those skills to a different gun. You’re not always going to have a weapon that’s tailored to you. That’s why it’s important to train with multiple weapons so it’s easier for you to transfer your skills if need be.’

‘And when exactly do you suppose I’m going to need to use a gun, Mr Petrov?’

‘The man who broke into your house had a gun. If you’d been able to disarm him, and turn the gun back on him, then it would’ve given you the upper hand. I don’t know how deep this all goes, or what your father’s got himself into. Unlike the majority of my other assignments, I honestly don’t know what you’re up against, so you need to be prepared for anything.’

What my father’s got himself into?What does he mean by that?

Before I can question him, he raises my shotgun, which is way too short for him, and fires at the empty cans he’s set up in the distance. He hits every target effortlessly, reloading with ease, as if this is something he’s done since he was a child.

‘The only reason I was able to do that is because I trained in a myriad of different environments, using a variety of weapons. The best and the worst. So my skillsare not dependent on my equipment.’ He turns to look at me, placing the gun down. ‘Now, if you’re able to hit every one of those cans with my gun, we’ll stop for the day. If you can’t, then we’ll keep on going.’

‘Fine.’ He hands me his gun and it’s a lot heavier than I expected. I run my fingers across the length of it, memorizing its grooves and texture, appreciating how innatelyhimit is. It’s matt black, with sharp edges and a strong centre. The weight is evenly distributed as I pass it from one hand to the other.

I wonder what this gun has seen – or rather, who has seen the barrel of this gun.

Holding it up with both hands, preparing to shoot, I call back the image of Milosh cocking it yesterday. I copy his movements until I hear a satisfying click and aim it at the new target Milosh has prepared. Focusing, I let my breath ground me as I do with clay shooting, my sight locked solely onto the target. I usually aim towards moving objects, so I struggle to fix my eyes on the right spot when I fire off the first shot. I nick the side of the target, slightly off centre. ‘That still counts,’ I say, turning to Milosh with a satisfied grin. He simply nods and looks back over to the next target.

Now that I’ve got an understanding of the reverb the gun gives off I hold my body slightly differently, movingmy arm down and squaring my shoulders. I fire off the next round, hitting the can target dead on this time. Without pausing, I turn to shoot the next three, not even stopping to watch them as they fall, until there’s only one left.

‘Mr Petrov, one thing you’ll come to learn about me is that I excel at everything I put my mind to,’ I say, just as I shoot off the last bullet, hitting the can dead in the centre. I turn around to look at him, pulling back on the safety and placing it in his hands.

‘I don’t doubt that you excel at most things,’ he says as he starts to re-cock his gun. ‘But you missed two.’ We both turn to look at the targets, and he’s right. I went too fast and missed, blowing the targets down as the bullet passed by.

‘What you’ve done is impressive,’ he admits, holding one arm out and shooting straight into the un-shot sideways can. ‘There’s a lot of men I know who can’t shoot like you, even after years of practice.’ He looks into my eyes as he shoots off the next bullet; another clean shot. ‘You did good, Miss Green, but not good enough. Now, let’s start with how to reload.’

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