Page 86 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
“The longer the barrel, the higher the velocity of the shot. And the faster the shot, the more accurate it is.” He gestured with her gun. “This thing? You’d have a better chance of hitting someone with it if you threw it at him.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Now who’s being patronizing?”
He didn’t reply, just handed it back to her.
She looked down at it, tiny and pink, and realized the asshole who’d sold it to her had been low key trolling her.
He swiveled her until she was facing out into the backyard. Through the haze of rain, she could just make out the dark shapes of objects: rubbish bins, a ride-on mower half covered by a tarp, and a couple of forty-four-gallon drums.
Pointing at one of them, he said, “Aim for that drum. See it? Imagine it’s your target. Don’t try and be fancy and think you’re gonna put one between his eyes. Go for the center mass. Shoulders, torso, stomach, back.”
She looked up at him. “What about aiming for the leg or something? Seems more…humane.”
“Way harder than it looks.” He met her gaze directly. “You shoot him where you have to, ma’am. And you keep on shooting until he goes down. Got it?”
She held it in her right hand, palm around the grip and her index finger under the trigger guard. He got behind her, lifting her elbow until her arm was out in front of her. Then he angled her until she was pointing it at the drum.
She said quietly, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
His voice was next to her ear. “No one I wanted to.”
She looked back at the drum, squinted one eye to bring it into focus. When she thought she had it lined up with her hand, she squeezed the trigger. There was more resistance against her finger than she was expecting, which made her think it was stuck or something, but then it went off with an almighty bang.
The recoil shot up her arm and pushed her whole body back against him. He steadied her with both hands on her upper arms. The sound reverberated and died away. ‘Did I hit it?’
“You pulled it to the right. Try again.”
She did, trying to focus on the drum and not on the feel of Inglis’s hands on her shoulders or his body heat radiating through the damp fabric of his shirt. Three more times she tried, and on the last, saw a bright yellow spark and heard the faint metallic ping of the bullet hitting the target.
“Woo hoo,” she said, lowering the gun and glancing up at him. “What’d I win?”
He was still standing right behind her. His gaze fell upon her, the corners of his mouth quirking up in the closest approximation of a smile she’d seen on him.
Registering their proximity, he promptly released her and retreated a step. “Okay. That’s enough practice.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. They just stood there listening to the drum of rain on the roof and the thump of each wind gust against the roller door, like they were the most fascinating sounds on Earth.
Finally, she broke the silence. “He’s still out there, isn’t he?”
Inglis met her eyes again, his expression tense. He nodded.
Jessica cast her gaze upwards. Their shelter was dubious at best. The fragile structure felt like a metaphor for her own precarious situation, each gust a painful reminder.
She looked down at the little gun in her hand. Sure, it was better than nothing. But would it be enough to protect her from the men who were hunting her?
TWENTY-SEVEN
The rain was relentless;it crashed like a waterfall over Roach’s windshield. Visibility in the dead state trooper’s SUV was better than it would have been in his abandoned Catera. But even with the wipers going full tack, he still couldn’t see shit.
He’d turned off the interstate some miles back, but he had no idea where he was. Didn’t even know what direction he was driving in.
He gripped the steering wheel in both hands, face inches from the windshield. His breath fogged the glass, making it even harder to see. He smeared his balled-up fist against the cold surface, using the split-second gap between the dash of the wiper and the bloom of rain against the windshield to get a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glimpse of his surroundings.
A squat gray building with a wide overhang to his left. He didn’t even think, just jerked the steering wheel around and slammed his foot on the accelerator. It was only when he was under the shelter of the overhang that he realized it was a gas station. The place was dark inside, and it was hard to tell if it had been shut for the storm or closed for good.
Only one way to find out. He directed the front grille of the Ford straight at the automatic doors and hit the gas. The vehicle rammed right through the middle of them, glass raining down on the hood in glinting shards. The sound of the crash was almost completely drowned out by the roar of the storm.
He shoved the door open, jumped down. Pulling his SIG out from his waistband, he squeezed around the front of the SUV.
