Caught In The Crosshairs. Elisabeth Rees

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      She stared at him without blinking, realizing exactly what he meant. “You mean you want to protect me?”

      She saw his chest rise and fall quickly. “Yes, Hanson, I do want to protect you.”

      “And I want to protect you,” she said, allowing the words to hang in the air for a while before adding, “I need to make sure that you don’t walk into danger. I can keep you safe.”

      He looked taken aback as he nodded slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re a superb sniper, Sergeant, there’s no doubt about that. But you need to know when to take a step back. You won’t always be strong enough to protect those around you.”

      She swallowed hard. His words cut open old wounds that she hoped were healing. She was strong. She had to be.

      “I haven’t failed so far,” she said defiantly. “I’ve never missed a target since joining the military. Ever.”

      “But you will,” he said quietly, as if trying to lessen the impact of this harsh reality. “Eventually, we all miss something.”

      He looked into her face, holding eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. She stared back, feeling the unwelcome connection between them take a tighter hold. He seemed to know the inner secrets of her heart—the fears that she’d voiced to no one.

      “Not me,” she said, breaking her gaze away. “I won’t miss again.”

      He opened his eyes wide. “Again?”

      She shook her head vigorously. “I mean I won’t miss a shot,” she garbled, flustered. She gritted her teeth, angry with herself for revealing too much.

      “Is there something you want to get off your chest, Hanson?” Dean said, leaning toward her.

      “No,” she said quickly, recovering her composure. She felt crowded. She pushed her chair back, away from his probing eyes.

      She breathed deeply, reminding herself that she wasn’t eighteen years old anymore, watching a huntsman lining up a shot on a deer. She wasn’t on the hilltop, fumbling with her rifle, panicking as she took in the horror unfolding before her eyes. She wasn’t still watching her father die from a single shot to the heart. She was here, as an elite sharpshooter, saving lives. She’d moved on.

      She realized that Dean’s hand had inched closer to hers on the table. His fingers were perilously close to touching hers, and she slid her hand from the table back into her lap.

      “I can protect you, sir,” she said. “I need to know that you’ll give me a chance.”

      “I’ll try, Hanson,” he said, clenching his fingers into a ball. “But if we face any serious danger, I’ll be the one standing on the front line. That’s where I belong.”

      “It’s where I belong, too,” she said. “That’s why you chose me for this mission, isn’t it?”

      “I chose you for this mission because it was a one-off job requiring your expert skills. I never anticipated it would get this complicated.”

      She felt her heart drop into her stomach. “Do you regret giving me the assignment?”

      He said nothing. She looked away, clenching her teeth and pushing her hair behind her ears. It was obvious Dean didn’t accept her as a front-line protector and she knew she couldn’t change his mind. Not yet, anyway.

      “You completed your mission flawlessly,” he said finally. “Your skill saved me from an enemy sniper, and I want you to know how thankful I am. But I worry about what will happen from here on. We don’t know what danger is waiting for us out there, and you’re vulnerable to all kinds of attack.”

      “Don’t worry about me,” she said with conviction. “I can take care of myself.”

      His eyes flicked quickly over her slender frame and she watched him assessing her, no doubt wondering how she would defend herself against an assailant. She knew she was small and, physically, not powerful, but these things didn’t matter to her. Sheer brute force was not a strength she coveted. A gun and a cool head were enough for her.

      “You’ll need a handgun in order to take care of yourself,” he said. “Your rifle won’t be suitable for close combat.”

      She nodded. She’d only ever experienced warfare from a distance—hidden away, safe and secure in the knowledge that she was invisible. The thought of facing the enemy at close quarters sent a cold shiver through her but she was determined not to show it. She knew she could handle it just as well as Dean.

      “I keep a small store of handguns locked up in the basement,” he said. “We should go find one that’s suitable for you.” He looked at her earnestly, betraying his fears for her. “I hope to God that you never need to use it but it’s important we’re prepared for every eventuality.”

      He rose from his seat, and she followed him to a locked door in the hallway that he opened with a key from his pocket. He flipped the light switch, and the bulb popped in the darkness. He clicked his tongue and extended his palm. “Take my hand,” he said. “I’ll lead you down the stairs until I can switch on the lamp at the bottom.”

      She took his hand and he gripped it tight, sending a jolt coursing through her. His fingers were warm and firm, and she couldn’t help but feel reassured by his strong presence guiding her through the dark. Even when she was angry with him, she felt close to him, sensing that he was willing to bear the brunt of her fury with quiet acceptance.

      He kept a firm grip until they reached the last step, and he was able to switch on a small, yellow light, casting a dingy glow in the windowless basement. He unlocked a steel-gray cabinet in the corner and took out two handguns.

      “Let’s try these for size,” he said, handing a Glock 17 to her.

      She took the gun from him and aimed at a spot on the wall, assessing the weapon’s size and weight. She became aware of Dean’s body behind her, his arms reaching around her torso, cupping his hands over hers and bringing his face to rest just to the side of her head. She caught her breath as goose bumps appeared on her skin.

      “It’s important that your grip feels natural,” he whispered in her ear. “Not too heavy, not too large for your fingers. It should sit in your hands like it’s meant to be there.”

      She watched his hands completely envelop hers until they were almost invisible beneath his thick fingers. She felt smothered by him and pushed against his bulk. He stepped back, and she turned to face him.

      “I have fired a gun before,” she said incredulously. “This one feels perfect.”

      He put his hands in the air. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to tread on your toes.”

      She found herself smiling. “By the time we’re done on this mission, I suspect my toes will be bruised beyond recognition.”

      He laughed and leaned toward her face. “If that’s the case, Sergeant Hanson, I’ll be forced to carry you everywhere.”

      “Never,” she said strongly, turning to help herself to ammunition from the cabinet. “I’d rather hobble.”

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