Page 8 of For the Love of Animals

I liked his confidence. Totally misplaced confidence, but it was an attractive quality. No, not attractive. Carmen!

“Then let’s go. Do you want to drive, or shall I?”

“You want to do this now?”

“Captain Benitez has given me until this time next week to deal with Lozano, so I can’t afford to waste time. You have a gun, or do you need to borrow one?”

He hauled a bag out from under his bed. “I’ll drive.”

“What are you planning to do with Dali?”

“Shit. We’ll have to leave her in the bathroom.”

Shit? Absolutely she would. But Nate could clear the mess up when we got back, not me.

What did Nate have in the bag? I kept glancing across as he opened it, trying to act nonchalant as I assembled my own rifle. Inside, I felt twitchy, nervous. Not because I was scared of being outshot, but because I should have been plotting against Lozano and instead, I’d been forced into a stupid contest to get a man who didn’t know when to quit off my back.

A CheyTac. He had a CheyTac Intervention, and yes, he had the .408 CheyTac ammo to go with it for extra precision. American made, that gun cost thirteen thousand dollars, so Nate must have been pretty successful at whatever he did even if he had screwed up the Lozano hit.

And the bad news for me was that the CheyTac had a longer range than my AWM, two thousand five hundred yards compared with my seventeen hundred, and for the first time since I suggested this contest, I began to feel a little nervous.

Block it out, Carmen. I had to trust in my own abilities.

Nate whistled as we sauntered down the range to pin our targets up. Two thick sheets of paper, each one printed with ten small black circles. He may have acted casual, but once I stretched out on the ground, I found comfort in familiarity—the crack of gunfire, the gentle westerly breeze, and the cool metal trigger against my finger as my world reduced to the view through my scope.

“Ladies first,” Nate said.

If he insisted.

Crack. Dead centre.

“Nice shot.”

Yes, it was.

I shifted sideways to watch him, and that stupid smirk disappeared as he focused on the target. He handled his rifle like the pro he was, and I cursed softly when his first bullet punched through the bullseye as well.

And so it went on. We matched each other shot for shot until the tenth, and I feared we’d end up in a stalemate. Nate was good, better than I’d suspected, and I was beginning to regret suggesting this match.

Relax. Stop breathing. Don’t move anything except your index finger. I lined up my crosshairs and exhaled, but just as I squeezed the trigger, Nate’s foot touched mine. A bolt of electricity jolted through me, and the barrel jerked as I fired. My last round clipped the very edge of the target.

“You did that on purpose!”

“Did what?”

The smug grin was back, and I wanted to punch him in the face. “Kicked me, you asshole.”

“Sorry. My foot must have slipped.”

That…that… I hated him. How dare he walk into my life and try to turn it upside down? Perhaps he thought he was some hotshot assassin, and admittedly, he was right about the hot part, but that didn’t mean he could ruin my career.

Not without consequences.

I waited until he lined up his shot, and just as the tension in his forefinger reached its maximum, I blew in his ear. He jumped and then cursed, glaring at me before he squinted through his scope.

“Outer ring. I win.”

What? I checked myself, and my heart plummeted when I saw he was right. He’d hit the black, barely, but it still counted.

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