Page 85 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She nodded.
“First lesson—never point a gun at someone you don’t fully intend to shoot.”
She followed his gaze and realized she was aiming at his groin.
His eyes lifted, pinning her with a dry, knowing look. “Unless, of course, that is what you intend.”
She swallowed.
Only then did she notice his right hand resting, casual but firm, on the grip of his own weapon.
Heat crept up her neck. She quickly placed the revolver on the table and shook her head.
He exhaled and something told her she’d thrown him off more than he liked.
He pulled out the chair and sat. “Why’d you get a weapon you don’t know how to use?”
She tilted her head. “Because I didn’t feel safe, okay?” She gestured vaguely to their surroundings. “And, clearly, for good reason.”
Inglis said nothing, just studied her, his sharp blue eyes scanning her face like he was reading something written between the lines.
She leaned forward on her elbows. “Look, someone broke into my house and trashed it. Spray-painted that shit on my wall. Someone who you say might’ve followed us across two state lines. No offense to you or the Marshals Service, but if push comes to shove, I need to be able to defend myself.”
She held his gaze, willing him to understand.
Finally, he leaned back, arms folding across his chest.
“Alright,” he said. “After we’re done eating, we’ll find something for you to shoot at.” He paused, then added, deadpan, “Preferably something that ain’t me.”
* * *
With a final heave, they managed to drag the big roller door closed, the metal groaning against its tracks as they sealed the shed against the fierce wind.
Jessica could hear things pinging off the corrugated iron: branches, gravel, and other small projectiles. As the day went on and the storm hit its straps, she knew those missiles would only get bigger.
A back door opened onto the yard beyond. Wind and rain whirled in, rattled the tools and chains that hung from the walls.
Inglis shook the water from his hands, then held out one for her gun. Jessica took it out of her pocket and handed it to him.
He turned her pistol over on his palm. It was burnished silver with a pale pink grip. In his big hands, it looked ridiculous.
He pressed the thumb catch and swung the cylinder open. Then he pushed a pin and dumped all five rounds into his hand. He reloaded it one by one. “Who gave it to you?”
“Just some guy I used to know. Said it was ideal for a woman. Easy to use.”
He closed the barrel with a neat little flick of his hand. “He was patronizing you. If he really cared about your personal safety, he’d have got you a can of Mace and a jackknife instead.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
He held it up. “This is a .38 Special snub-nose revolver. They’re marketed to women because they look like they’re easy to fire. In fact, the opposite is true. They’re hammerless, see?” He showed her a blank space at the back of the gun. “That means the trigger pull is heavy. And the recoil is a hell of a thing. If you’re not ready for it, it’ll snap your hand right back. Plus,” he added, as if he hadn’t dressed down her little gun enough, “they can’t shoot worth a damn.”
“You seemed pretty twitchy a minute ago, when I had it pointed at your junk.”
He pressed his lips together but didn’t deign to reply. Then he slid his own weapon from its holster with his other hand. It was matte black with a heavy stippled grip. Long, rectangular barrel. It looked well-handled and, in the dull light, coldly lethal. It made hers look like a Mattel accessory.
“This is a Glock 22,” he said. “See how much longer the barrel is?”
She shrugged. “So, yours is bigger than mine. Big deal.”
