Starting with June. Emilie Rose

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СКАЧАТЬ for the red door. Sam did the same. It would be good to know if the woman watching his back could hit anywhere close to her mark or if he’d need to take cover if she ever unholstered her weapon. Roth had said she’d graduated at the top of her class, but seeing was believing. The door closed behind them, and the familiar sulfur smell of gunpowder filled his nose.

      June stopped by the first lane. “If you have questions about the HK, let me know. Here’s the deal—one magazine per target, loser buys dinner. Highest number of winning sheets eats free. Just so you know, it’s going to be me, Rivers. I’ll be down there shellacking you.” She pointed to the far side of the room, then headed that way.

      Her cocky wager—not the sparkle in her eyes or the confident swing of her hips—grabbed his attention by the throat. He’d fired more makes of guns than there were weeks in a year. He took the closest lane. “I think I can figure out this weapon, and I’ll take that bet, Jones. I haven’t had a good steak in a while.”

      “You’ll be buying those steaks, Deputy.”

      Her vaunt made him laugh. “Do you know what I did for a living?”

      “I know.” She pulled ear and eye protection from her small bag and donned both before disappearing into her booth. The fact that she kept her own equipment in the car made him wonder if she needed that much practice. He couldn’t see her over the six-foot protective walls, but he could see her target downrange.

      He pulled his spare magazines from his belt and lined them up on the rubber-matted board. Anticipation and adrenaline—not her challenge—made his heart race as he emptied his police ammo, then refilled each clip with cheaper target rounds. He was almost done when the distinct crack-thump of June’s weapon pulled his gaze to the paper rectangle. She’d hit an inch left of center. Not bad. Lucky shot? Her second round drilled the target. Bull’s-eye. Before the paper stopped fluttering, a third round ruffled the edge of the same hole, then a fourth. He blinked and looked again.

      The blonde who wore sequined sandals and a ruffled bikini and cooled herself off with a squirt bottle was a sharpshooter?

      “No effin’ way,” he muttered.

      Roth would have warned him. Or would he? His buddy had a twisted sense of humor. Had he been messing with Sam’s head and enjoying a private joke? That had to be it. Oh yeah, today would be fun. He’d school June on how it was done. Nice to know she’d be a worthy opponent.

      She proved her skills further with eight more rounds. Then she ejected her magazine and backed out of the booth. Frowning down the aisle at him, she removed an earplug. “Need help loading?”

      He realized he’d stopped to watch her, and that was wrong, wrong, wrong. He was a professional, not a spectator. “No. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

      “There’s nothing to do in Quincey but fish and hunt. I used to hang out with my grandfather and two younger brothers. I’m a bit...competitive, or so they tell me.”

      “Not bad, Deputy. But not good enough to get a free meal out of me.” He stepped to the line. He’d never fired this weapon, had no idea if the sights were accurate, and it had been months since he’d discharged a pistol. But if there was one thing he knew, it was ballistics.

      He took a deep breath, then exhaled, slow and steady. His first shot went wide right, barely tearing the edge of the paper. He mentally adjusted for sights that were off and tried again. Low and outside. Damn. He fired a third and missed again.

      He was shooting all around the paper. Was it the gun or him? His mind spun, calculating distance, trajectory, velocity and a hundred other things. He was alive because he was a damned good shot.

       Was?

      The thought rocked him to the core. Had to be the HK.

      He tried to focus, to slow his respiratory and heart rates and still his unsteady hands. Damn it, he was shaking. He didn’t shake—not even when his life was on the line. He emptied the clip, replaced the target, then braced his elbows on the deck and emptied another magazine with the same bad results.

      His surgeon had warned that he might have some depth perception issues for a while due to the unequal pressure in his eyes. Was that the case here?

      “Take your time, Sam,” June said from behind him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed her moving to the back of his lane. Her palm burned through his uniform. The concern in her tone ratcheted up his tension. He stood, reeled in the tattered target and replaced it, then ejected the magazine and popped in the next one.

       Compensate. Figure out what’s going wrong and fix it.

      Her scent drifted across the booth, disrupting his focus. Mind games? Blondie was playing with him—a man who’d been trained to block out biting insects, snakes and other vermin and even bodily functions to get his shot. Hell, he could lie in wait for hours or days, if necessary.

      He’d better concentrate if he didn’t want to spend a meal looking into smug green eyes.

       Come on, Rivers. You’re better than this.

      He shook off her hand and fixed his gaze on the intersecting lines, very conscious of the woman watching him. He exhaled, ignoring her as best he could, squeezed the trigger repeatedly until his magazine was empty. His anxiety level rose with each shot.

      He looked at the Swiss cheese of his target—pitiful—then at June. For a moment he thought he saw sympathy in her green eyes, and his spine turned to steel.

      Then she shrugged. “Sixty-one more rounds to go. I like my steak medium rare with a baked potato drowning in butter on the side.”

      He had to keep his head in the game. “You think you’re gonna beat me.”

      “Of course. I know this weapon as well as I know my own face. You, on the other hand, are still learning your HK’s quirks and you’re out of practice.”

      Her cockiness would have been cute if anxiety hadn’t been chewing a hole in his stomach. “My sights are off.”

      She offered him her weapon, grip first. “Use mine.”

      In other words, put up or shut up, Marine. What choice did he have? He exchanged guns with her. “Are you going to yap all day or shoot?”

      Her eyebrows arched above the clear lenses. Then she about-faced. She took lane three. He moved to lane two, beside her.

      He heard the telltale sound of her popping in a magazine and loading one in the chamber. He’d do better with her weapon. The sights were on target. Her accuracy proved that.

      But he didn’t improve. Four magazines later he admitted it wasn’t the weapon. It was him.

      He was a sniper, a sharpshooter, without a single bull’s-eye. If he couldn’t hit his target, where did that leave him?

      Unemployable and without marketable skills.

      Was the blind spot in his peripheral vision not enough of a curse? Was his visual impairment permanent? It had been five damned months since his final surgery. He was counting on healing and proving the doctors wrong.

      Movement downrange caught his attention. СКАЧАТЬ