Page 144 of Without a Trace
Alden walked up with another mag. “We’re not playing catch-up anymore, Scar. That bracelet? That bond? It lit up everything we were trying to keep buried.”
“Meaning what?” I asked, already loading the next mag.
“Meaning they know now. And they won’t wait.”
My blood ran hotter. Not scared. Not yet. But close.
I raised the gun again, but this time, something cracked open in my chest. Not panic. Not dread.
Rage.
I emptied the clip without pausing.
Target shredded.
Trace gave a low exhale. “Welcome back.”
Trace caught my elbow before I could reload.
“Try it moving,” he said, nodding to the far line of targets. “You need to be faster than them.”
“Faster than who?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Kane tossed a weighted vest my way. “Put this on. Real fun starts now.”
I caught it midair. “That was your idea of warm-up?”
“Someone’s gotta humble you,” he said, smirking as he stepped behind the makeshift barricades. “Might as well be me.”
I squared my stance and raised the gun.
Movement across the field—Kane sprinted behind the barriers, triggering the targets. A blur of sound and wood. Pop—pop—pop.
I moved. Not graceful. Not smooth. Just fast.
My boots scraped hard against gravel as I dodged left, then right, squeezing off shots. Two missed. One hit the edge. Fourth one nailed dead center. The recoil burned through my shoulders, but I didn’t stop.
They thought I needed training.
But the deeper I went, the more familiar it felt.
The weight of the gun. The drag of the vest. The instinct to shoot first, aim second.
Someone had taught me to fight. I just didn’t remember who.
Trace watched from the shadows beneath the palm, arms folded, tension rolling off him in waves—not with judgment, but with restraint. As if he wanted to step in. As if it killed him not to.
Kane reappeared, slowing his jog. “You move better than half the recruits we’ve seen.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need compliments. I needed answers.
“Switch,” Rhett called out. “Hand-to-hand.”
I turned and froze. Trace stepped forward, already shrugging out of his jacket, sleeves rolled, eyes dark.
Of course it had to be him.
