It’s stupid that I care. Even after everything…I still fucking care.
“Hey, where are you going?” Maeve asks, sounding panicked, following me to the door. “Trigger—”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the officer who put me in jail, and the prosecutor who helped him along?”
She freezes at my words, her eyes widening in surprise. “I…I…”
“Right,” I say, buttoning my shirt before grabbing my jacket and shrugging it on. I slip into my boots and reach for the door when she grapples for my hand.
“No, wait!” she cries out, her nails digging into my skin. “I didn’t know…I mean, not until I checked the case file yesterday. I had no idea that the Jones you were talking about was my father’s friend, or that the woman you spent the night with was his ex, Anya Jones.”
“Do you really want me to believe that?”
“I’m telling you the truth. My dad and I don’t discuss his cases, and he wasn’t even directly involved. I had no idea Gareth would do something like this, but I’m meeting them today and we’ll clear everything up. I’ll talk them into dropping the charges and then we’ll fix everything.”
Fix? I nearly laugh at the word.
“How the hell does onefixbeing wrongly accused and spending six fucking years in jail and the other four in fucking chains?” I hiss, firing up with a rare display of the anger I always keep tucked away. “I was barred from leaving the country and had to surrender my passport, was given a curfew like a fucking ten-year-old, and had to make regular check-ins with the same people that locked me up. I lost my gun ownership rights.”
I run my fingers through my hair at the memory of having to give up my weapon collection. Saint did manage to save most of my guns before the cops could grab them all, but the loss fucking stung.
“My name, Trigger, is an identity I carried over from the Marines. It’s not just some stupid nickname, Maeve. I was the best scout sniper, not just in my platoon but in the battalion. I joined the Marines because I had nothing and nowhere to go, but I left with an identity. And then yourfamily friendstole that from me!”
I watch her eyes well up with tears, feeling a desperate need to reach out and touch her, comfort her. But instead I simply shrug off her hand and walk out the door. There’s a dark cloud of rage around me that’s apparently visible, as when I step into the elevator, the dog and his goatee owner shrink to the back and away from me.
My fingers itch for a release.
I haven’t felt this fucking helpless in a long time. The last time was when I realized I was being framed ten years ago. Realized there was no fighting it, that the system was rigged against me and I’d be going to jail for something I didn’t do.
My whole life, I’ve always looked out for myself, kept my chin up despite never having any real family. I just always tried to do the right thing. Whatever the next right thing was. That’s how I got all those medals. I was good at my job. I was a good Marine. And then I realized that all thatbeing goodgot me fucking nowhere.
People jump out of my way as I storm out of the building and head straight to my bike. It’s tempting to speed back to the clubhouse, but I can’t get pulled over—they would just fucking arrest me to spite me and revoke my parole. With how hard my blood is boiling, I’m surprised I even make it to the clubhouse instead of just driving to the police station and giving Gareth Jones the attention he’s been begging for. Fucking asshole.
“Hey, Trigger!”
I don’t turn to see who called my name as I park my bike in my spot, head straight to the weapons room, and select my favorite gun. A 1911 Colt, an early production model that damn near wiped out my savings when I first bought it fifteen years ago from a private collector. I had to jump through hoops to get it, but I only wanted the best in the market.
The weight of the gun feels familiar as I walk to the firing range, a room that nearly takes up the entire basement. I use this place to train some of our newer members, or just to relax since I can’t fucking carry a gun or walk into a public firing range.
I don’t bother with earplugs as I load my gun. I need to hear and feel everything. If only to get rid of this rage. This…helplessness.
My jaw is tight, the Colt a comfortable weight in my hand as I step on a line, the target twenty yards away. I allow myself to picture Gareth standing there with his uniform and that stupid sneer on his face.
“Have fun for the next ten years, Trigger. No one will miss a street rat like you.”
I fire.
One shot. Then another. And another.
Right to his chest, shoulder, and head. I don’t miss a spot. Every bullet hits where I want it to hit, the thunder of each shot echoing through the walls until I’ve emptied the magazine. I don’t take my eyes off the target as I reload the gun, and then firing at it again, but it doesn’t matter how many shots I make, the sneer stays.
I reload again, eyes on the target before aiming. The 1911 kicks back with raw power, the recoil slamming through my arm, but I barely flinch. My entire focus is on the man who just won’t go down. I don’t plan to stop until I’ve wiped the sneer off hisface, but when I reach out to reload again, my hands come back empty.
I turn around to find Saint staring at me calmly, arms crossed. He smirks. “Are you trying to bring down the entire building? Trigger, you know this is a shooting range, right? Not a battlefield?”
“Sorry, I got carried away,” I say, realizing that the session has barely scratched the rage burning inside of me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
