Page 73 of Arrogant Bastard

Chapter Twenty

Killian

Before I can probe further, the chopper banks to the right. I look out the window and see our destination. The building is a single-story, shingle-roofed structure with a simple sign that announces its purpose. There is a single pickup truck parked at the front, and as we descend, a figure emerges from the front.

I turn back to Faith. Her attention is fixed on the property too. But I know that she is aware of my scrutiny and is avoiding me.

For now, I swallow the questions crowding my brain as we fly over the T-shaped property and land in a clearing about a hundred yards behind the building.

We disembark in silence. Mitch and Linc head off in opposite directions while Rob, the pilot, remains close by. His loose-limbed stance belies the fact that he’s on high alert, and I scrutinize the tree line too.

Linc returns first. “All clear,” he says.

We duck under the slowly rotating rotors and head for the side of the building. The truck is heading down the driveway, its taillights blinking once in the trailing dust before it disappears. Mitch pulls the keys out of the front door and holds it open. “We have the place to ourselves until six p.m.”

The smell of gunpowder and cleaning oil hangs in the air when we enter. On the towering wall behind the long counter, a vast array of firepower is displayed, from hunting rifles to submachine guns. Mitch locks the door and pockets the keys while Linc moves behind the counter to pull out a large tray holding boxes of ammunition. On the counter itself, ten different types of pistols are laid out on black velvet cloth.

Faith pulls off her shades and baseball cap and looks around, noting the near-complete silence. “You arranged for the place to be empty?”

“It wasn’t that difficult. Today was turning out to be a slow day, apparently. And the owner was properly incentivized.” I hold up two weapons. “Glock or Smith and Wesson?” She used both during her time at the training facility, although after that she switched to the more compact Ruger.

Her gaze drops to the weapons. I spot a tiny wave of uncertainty fluttering over her face. Our conversation in the chopper flares up between us. “Whatever happened before, Faith, we are in this now. You said you wanted to be prepared. So pick a weapon.”

She points to the Smith & Wesson. I hand it to her butt-first before I grab the two boxes of bullets. Mitch walks us down a hallway and uses the set of keys in his possession to open another door. He throws a switch on the wall, and the large space where the actual range is located lights up. The worn Astroturf muffles our footsteps as we move along the row of cubicles that make up the shooting gallery. Faith picks the one dead center, and I take the one next to her.

“Need anything else, boss?” Mitch asks.

“No. We’re good, thanks.”

He nods and hands over two pairs of protective earmuffs and goggles before he leaves.

Faith calmly feeds the bullets into the chamber and slams it with a confident kick. But as her finger moves over to flick off the safety, I see her tremble.

I put my own gun down and step up behind her. My intention was to keep up the pressure of my interrogation when we were alone, get her to give up the last piece of whatever the fuck she’s holding so close to her chest. But the timing sucks right now. I’m willing to bet that, before she held the gun on me in the park last week, the last time she held a gun was back in Cairo.

I had the dubious benefit of a deep debrief to help me deal with that nightmare. She hasn’t. Unless she’s holding back about that too.

I stash my angst, and I cup her shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Another shudder runs through her body. “No. It’s not.” The answer is definitive enough to make my pulse trip in apprehension.

“Tell me what’s going on. What are you feeling?”

The gun wavers in her hand, and she lays it down on the wooden slab in front of her. “That I can’t bear the thought I’ll have to point a gun at someone again in the near future. That I’ll have even more blood on my hands.”

My fingers tighten. “I’m going to fight like hell for that never to happen. But if it has to, do you want to be prepared or not?”

She turns and locks her green eyes on mine. A mixture of defiance and irritation swirls in their depths. It’s not the look I crave to see on her face, but at least the bleakness has receded. After a moment, her jaw flexes.

“I hate it when you make a good point,” she says.

I lean and whisper in her ear, “I know. I tell you what, the person who gets the most dead-center shots gets to dictate how the rest of the evening goes. Deal?”

The barest hint of a smile turns up her lips. “Are you sure you’re prepared for that level of ass-kicking?”

My gaze drops down to her legs, and even though my senses are still raked raw with everything she said in the chopper, my basest instinct is still very much alive and kicking. “I’ll happily take whatever punishment you dish out if it involves using those legs on me.”

Her eyes turn a darker shade of green, and her nostrils flare delicately as she inhales. I swear I catch a hint of gratitude in her eyes before she turns and she reaches for the gun again.

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