Banks is too smart to be a petty criminal.
He’s after something much bigger.
Something I suspect McNeil discovered, and the information got him killed. I’m suddenly certain that McNeil is the missing piece of the puzzle, and I barely stifle the urge to turn on my heel and dig into his past.
Banks chuckles at my comment, his hand slipping to the small of my back as he guides me forward. “I thought we would play a little game. The winner will get a special prize.”
Curiosity thoroughly piqued, I head toward the table. I’ve always loved a good challenge. “Prize for what?”
“You’ll see.” Banks shoots me an indulgent smile, then throws his arms wide. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us! Those who want to participate, please gather around the tables.”
Banks doesn’t give me a choice as he guides me front and center. Men of all ages, from grandfathers to boys too young to even have facial hair, jostle for position. My guys quickly push through the crowd and take up spots around me. Banks remains standing next to me, smiling and rocking on his feet. “When given the signal, you will assemble the gun located directly in front of you, then head over to the shooting range. The first twenty people who hit the bullseye will advance to the next stage. And the first person to complete the task will gain a slight advantage in the next round of competition.”
Everyone looks down at the gun in front of them. I’m indifferent to the Glock G45, and I note that one out of every ten guns is the same make and model.
The competition for parts will be fierce.
“Those who think to cheat and grab the display model will fail. Not only are they locked, but the firing pins have been removed.” His eyes latch on mine, then he leans forward and yanks off the sheet. “Begin!”
Startled by the order, I jolt as everyone jumps into motion. Piled in the middle of the table are probably over a hundred different guns—all in pieces. Grinning, I scan the pile and easily locate the frame for my Glock. Elbows are thrown, grunts are ignored as everyone focuses on their task.
People are pawing through the parts, the table descending into total chaos. Instead of joining them, I grab an armful of parts and drag it toward me, not caring that I might be taking pieces someone else might need. The guns aren’t totally broken down, but close enough. I begin sorting parts—slide, barrel, recoil springs, firing pin assembly, pins, and trigger assembly. Then the individual pieces of the magazine—floorplate, magazine insert, magazine spring, follower, and tube.
I quickly push away the parts that don’t belong to my gun, nudging a few pieces toward Gage and Bast after taking note of their weapons. River doesn’t seem to need any help, completely focused on his mission. He easily reaches into the pile and plucks out the pieces he needs like he can sense them.
I’m almost distracted by him when my competitive nature kicks into gear. Others copy me and begin pulling their own piles toward them. I scowl when I finally manage to assemble my gun. All that I’m missing is my floorplate.
When I locate it, I practically have to crawl onto the table to claim my prize. I assemble the magazine in record time. I’m not the first one to complete my gun, men already running for the shooting range. I grab my weapon and hurry across the field. Each station has over a dozen different types of ammo to choose from. I quickly dump out the box of 9mm and load four bullets.
Cursing comes from a few men around me, their guns clicking when they fail to shoot. Just as I slam my magazine home, one gun at the end of the line fires. I don’t hesitate to lift my gun and take aim, quickly firing off my four shots.
A whistle blows just as I clear the chamber, eject the magazine, and lower my gun.
I stand back, noticing River is just taking aim next to me. Gage is still back at the table. Bast is loading his ammo, while Pierce is halfway between the assembly table and the shooting range. Men gather the targets, then they’re brought toward Banks. He looks at the sheets, then lifts his head, his eyes finding mine. “We have a winner—Tabitha Buford!”
The bullseye is shot out from the center of my target. The other sheet has a tiny hole in the very corner of his target, the man making the mistake of only loading one bullet. And having totally shitty aim.
I just smirk, wiggling my fingers. “Just luck and smaller, more dexterous fingers.”
I don’t mention the years of practice and raw skill—everyone knows it.
A calculating look enters Banks’ eyes as he turns toward the crowd. “The rest of the competition will continue. The top twenty people will move on to the next stage.”
Another whistle blows, and the gunmen are in action once more, rushing to complete their tasks. It doesn’t even take another three minutes before the remainder of the spots are filled. Some people assembled their guns easily enough, but they couldn’t hit the targets. Others failed to find the right parts.
Only the best finished the task in time.
As I watch, I can’t get over the impression that this isn’t a recruitment exercise but done purely to gauge the level of threat that we pose…and we just painted a huge target on our backs.
Maybe it’s time to stop playing games.
Each day, the mission becomes more and more dangerous, and I’m beginning to think the job isn’t worth the risk if things go wrong.
Chapter Twenty-four
TABITHA
“You want us to play paintball?” I glance at my guys, anxiety and dread gnawing at my insides at the thought of being hunted, even if it is a game.