“You did.” Pride etches his features. “But that was me helping you line it up.”
“Bullshit,” I say, even though I know damn well what he’s saying is true.
He leans close, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel the warmth of his words. “Then prove it.”
The first time I try, I miss.
The second time, it goes wide again.
“Much closer. Your arms were too stiff again. Loosen up a little. And don’t forget to keep that weight forward.”
The third time, I hit the fence.
Catfish chuckles and then draws a cold knuckle down my cheek. “Don’t fight the gun, Wren. Let it move with you.”
“Whatever that means,” I mutter.
“I heard that.” He reaches out his hand and nudges my wrist a little so the nozzle of the gun is a little more upright.
I swallow hard. “Are you always this hands-on when you teach?”
“Only when the student is worth touching. And you are.”
That earns him a half glare, but I can’t hold on to it. “You’re impossible.”
“Nope. Just a taskmaster.” Then, softer, almost like he wasn’t meaning to say it out loud: “You look good holdin’ a weapon.”
And maybe it’s the way he looks at me.
Maybe it’s the praise that I soak up like water to a dying plant. But I remember all the technique he’s taught me. I plant my feet, I put my weight forward, I raise my wrist.
And the next shot hits dead center.
“Yes,” I shout, throwing my fist up into the air.
“Guess you had a good teacher,” Catfish says, walking over to take the gun from me.
“Meh. It was all-natural skill and talent waiting to come out.”
“Really?” he asks. “Then let me see you do this.”
And as snowflakes fall around us, he fires bullets in rapid succession. And the scent of gun smoke lingers in the air as the tin cans whirl on the wind to the ground in applause.
15
CATFISH
The storage unit sits like a rusted tin box, beyond the edge of town. It’s surrounded by graffiti-tagged fencing. We wait, just out of sight, but it doesn’t look like we have anything to worry about.
While there are big overhead lighting units, none of them are on.
And under cover of darkness, me and my brothers survey the property.
Everyone is tooled up and running on equal parts adrenaline and suspicion. There isn’t a one of us who doesn’t want our money back or Wren’s security locked down.
Grudge slaps the hood of the truck, his impatience making me twitchy. “We stick to the plan we made in church. Catfish with me and Babyface. Atom, Smoke, and Taco. Then Jackal and Shade with Wraith.”
“It looks like a glorified junk shed,” Jackal says, stating the obvious.
