The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon

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СКАЧАТЬ his arm around her shoulder and leaned close. “You were awesome,” he said, his voice low and intimate, but filled with conviction. “You fought like a tiger, and I feel damn sorry for anyone who tries to mess with you.”

      She laughed, even as the swell of pride rose up in her worn-out body. “You silver tongued devil.”

      “I’m not bullshitting here, kiddo. You’re fierce, and don’t hold back. That’s gonna keep you alive.”

      Her ego deflated as she remembered, yet again, why she was doing all this. The bastard wasn’t out of the game. “You know what’s weird? I can’t hold on to it. Even when it scares the crap out of me, even when I’m shaking in my boots, it won’t stay in my brain. And every time I remember, it’s like knowing for the first time. Knowing he’s after me. That it’s intensely personal, and that he’s never going to just give it up.”

      Boone squeezed her shoulder. “You’re not the victim anymore, Christie. You’re the victor. And the poor bastard doesn’t even know it.”

      She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. “We’re gonna kick his ass.”

      He nodded. “We sure are.”

      “Cool.”

      “Yeah. Cool.” Boone’s lips parted and he moved a tiny bit closer. Her eyes fluttered shut as she waited.

       5

      BOONE WATCHED HER EYES close, felt her breath as she leaned forward. His gut tightened as he moved in to kiss her, but the sound of a heavy weight just across the gym startled him into backing away.

      He coughed, trying to cover his embarrassment, then turned toward Milo, who was staring at him accusingly. “Let’s go. We need to grab something to eat before we go to the range.”

      Behind him, he heard Christie shift on the mat. She didn’t say anything and he hoped she wasn’t planning ways to use her new training to kick him in the nuts. She had every right. Dammit, he was the one in charge of this operation, and he’d clearly given her the wrong signals, which was not only stupid but dangerous.

      He turned around to find her standing near the door, her arms crossed over her chest, her shoulders slumped. All the confidence she’d had just moments ago had vanished because he was a screwup of the first order.

      “What do you want for lunch?” he asked.

      “I don’t care.”

      “Yeah, sure. Maybe we can find a diner that serves Lucky Charms.”

      Not a smile, not even a glance. Shit.

      “Okay then, I’ll take you to a place I like. It’s not fancy, but it’s on the way.”

      Christie shrugged. Then she called the dog, and when Milo approached she crouched down to give him a hug.

      The woman was terrified out of her mind. She had exactly one person to turn to. “Come on. Let’s hit it. I want to get in a couple of hours at the shooting range.”

      As she led Milo out of the gym, Boone kept a respectful distance behind her. He could tell she was sore. Her movements were stiff, her posture rigid. She’d need a long soak tonight, and an early bedtime.

      He would stand guard, and he wouldn’t think of anything but the job.

      SHE STOOD WITH BOTH FEET flat on the floor, shoulder width apart. The headphones played no music, just blocked out sound, and the goggles hurt the backs of her ears. She stared at the target, the familiar silhouette they show in all the movies, and she imagined that it was the bastard, standing right there.

      Boone had told her a gazillion things to focus on, some of them out-and-out contradictory, but she wasn’t thinking of any of them. She lifted her Glock 39 with both hands, pointing it straight at the bastard’s head. Between the eyes. As she squeezed the trigger, she visualized the bullet screaming from the barrel, speeding toward the sweet spot. There was still the shock of the recoil, but she’d shot the gun before, so it wasn’t so bad.

      She lowered her arms and whipped off the goggles and earmuffs, desperate to see the target.

      “Looks good, but you shouldn’t take off the goggles.”

      “I’m not going to be wearing goggles if he breaks into the house.”

      “True, but when you’re here, it’s important to observe all protocols.”

      She turned. He was still standing about a foot behind her, slightly to the right. Maybe if she looked as good as he did in goggles, she’d wear them, but that wasn’t the point. “I want to see.”

      He nodded, went to the side of her booth and pressed the button. Just like on TV, the silhouette man shivered as it rumbled toward her. Halfway there, she saw she’d missed the target. Completely. She sagged with disappointment. She’d been so sure.

      “That’s great, Christie. Good shooting.”

      “I didn’t even hit the target.”

      “That’s okay. Your stance was good, you were calm and you’re getting better about not jerking the gun so much.”

      She leaned against the side of the booth, her muscles aching from calf to neck. “I can’t do this, Boone. Can’t we just go home?”

      He shook his head and waved her into position again. His hands went to her shoulders and he leaned in, his voice low, inches from her ear. “The key in defensive shooting isn’t to see how accurately you can fire a handgun, but how quickly you can fire it accurately. You need to believe you’re going to hit what you aim at, every time, no exceptions. You need to be comfortable. Remember, you’re going for a smooth trigger pull. Smooth and easy, nothing jerky. Be conscious of your breathing. Hold your breath, but only when you start to squeeze the trigger.”

      He went on, his voice even, steady, and as smooth as the breath on her neck. His hands moved down her arms, lifting them into position. She tried to listen to his advice, but she was too aware of his body pressing against hers from her shoulders to her bottom. If he hadn’t shown her so very clearly that he wasn’t going to go for the sex, she’d be moving back, shifting ever so slightly, just enough to get a rise out of him. Instead, she concentrated on the lesson, not the man. She just wished he smelled bad, and that his voice would stop swirling in her head.

      “The only thing you should be moving is your trigger finger,” he said. “Use the tip of your finger, the most sensitive spot, so you feel what you’re doing. I want you to dry-fire as often as you can, get used to the feel of the weapon, make the action comfortable and easy. I want you to be so used to pulling that trigger that you don’t even have to think about it.”

      “And just how long will that take?”

      “Not long. We’ll be back here tomorrow, and the next day, if we need to be.”

      “You said dry-fire.”

      “That’s pulling the trigger,” he said, his breath shifting just a bit so it hit her neck in a new way, “without a live round in the chamber.”

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