Page 143 of Without a Trace
Kane was already rolling his shoulders, walking in lazy circles around the perimeter of the space like we weren’t here for a reason none of us could name.
The second crate hit the ground with a dull thud. This one heavier. Locked.
Rhett crouched to crack it open, using some tiny tool he pulled from his back pocket like he’d done it a thousand times.
Lid up. Metal glinting in the sun.
My stomach dipped.
Not knives this time.
Guns.
Rows of matte pistols, neatly holstered beside full magazines and boxes of ammo. Everything clean. Labeled. Ready.
“This some kind of joke?” I asked, not even bothering to mask the bite in my voice.
“Nope,” Rhett said, pulling one free. “This is your upgrade.”
Trace stepped forward and dropped a loaded pistol into my hand without warning.
The weight landed like truth. Cold. Dense. Too familiar.
“You’re not here for cardio, Sunshine,” he said quietly.
I stared at the thing. My palm curled around the grip like it remembered.
I didn’t want it to remember.
“You’ve used one before,” Alden said, setting up targets in the distance—smeared outlines of human torsos painted on wood. “You just don’t know it.”
I hated how steady my grip was. How natural my stance fell into place when I raised the gun. Like my body had its own script.
Kane muttered something under his breath—something about muscle memory and bad decisions—but I was already sighting the target.
Breathe in.
Squeeze.
The shot rang out, ripping through the air like a punch.
Missed wide.
“Try again,” Trace said, no correction, no softness.
I didn’t wait. Repositioned. Fired again.
Closer.
Another.
Hit.
The sharp sting of recoil buzzed through my arms, but I didn’t lower the weapon. Not yet.
“Better,” Rhett said, moving behind me to reset the rounds. “Still slow.”
“Then don’t blink,” I muttered.
