They were decorations. Props. Shadows of women who’d once been whole. My heart broke for them. If the feds took downthese buyers, would these women get their lives back? I had to believe that was the case.
“Gentlemen!” Oliver moved to the center of the room, his voice commanding attention with the ease of someone used to being obeyed. “Before we continue with business, I’d like to invite you all to participate in the first of our annual traditions. A shooting contest, to remind us all why we’re here—the celebration of superior firepower and those who know how to use it.”
Excited murmurs rippled through the room like blood lust given voice. These men loved their guns with the passion other men reserved for women or cars or God.
“The rules are simple,” Oliver continued. “Elimination rounds, best shooter wins. We have a selection of weapons to choose from, or you’re welcome to use your own. The prize?” His smile turned predatory, a wolf deciding which sheep to eat first. “A ten-minute head start in the main event.”
That got everyone’s attention. Even the men who’d been hanging back suddenly looked interested, though I caught confusion flickering across several faces. A few of the buyers exchanged glances, and I realized they didn’t know what the main event was either. But none of them asked. In this world, admitting ignorance was admitting weakness.
We moved outside in a pack, the November mountain air sharp enough to cut. My skin pebbled with cold and fear, the dress Oliver had forced me to wear offering no protection against either. The too-small heels I’d forced my feet into didn’t make anything better.
The shooting range had been set up with multiple stations, paper targets at varying distances, their human silhouettes making my stomach turn. Someone had arranged a table of weapons—handguns, rifles, even some sort of rifle that made several of the buyers whistle appreciatively.
The smell of gun oil mixed with expensive cologne and cheap cigarettes, creating an olfactory cocktail that made me want to gag. Or maybe that was just the fear, sitting heavy in my stomach like I’d swallowed stones.
“You participating, Coop?” Snake asked, checking the magazine on his own Sig Sauer with practiced ease.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Coop’s tone was casual, but I could feel the calculation in it. This was dangerous—showing too much skill would raise questions, but showing too little would damage the credibility he’d built. Another tightrope to walk, another performance where one slip meant death.
And Coop handled it all with ease, completely unshaken, at least to the naked eye.
The first rounds were almost comical. Some of these men clearly bought weapons for intimidation rather than use. The Hong Kong buyer’s first shot missed the target entirely, the recoil surprising him so badly he nearly dropped the gun. The nervous man with the gold jewelry flinched every time he pulled the trigger, his shots scattered like he was trying to outline the target rather than hit it.
But others were good. Dangerously good.
Volkov put all his rounds in a grouping tight enough to be covered by a fist, his form perfect, economical, deadly. Bishop shot with military precision, his stance and grip speaking of years of training, muscle memory that never forgot how to kill. Snake also shot with the mechanical certainty of long practice.
And Coop…
Watching Coop with a gun in his hand was like watching a dancer who’d found his perfect partner. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, beautiful in its lethality.
He played it perfectly, missing just enough shots to seem human, clustering others with the kind of consistency that spoke of training without showing off. He laughed at his “mistakes,”talked shop with the other shooters, all while steadily advancing through the elimination rounds.
This was what Coop was. What he’d been trained for—the dark pieces of himself that had caused him to leave me. Violence made elegant. Part of me—the part that remembered his hands gentle on my skin, his promises whispered in the dark—was terrified by his competence.
Another part, the part trying to survive, was desperately grateful for it.
By the fifth round, it was down to six men. By the seventh round, only four. The crowd pressed closer with each elimination, money changing hands, voices rising with excitement. The smell of testosterone and adrenaline was thick enough to choke on.
By the tenth, just two.
Oliver and Coop.
They stood at the line, both men checking their weapons with the kind of careful attention that came from respecting what those weapons could do. From knowing intimately how quickly they could end a life.
Oliver had chosen a customized SIG Sauer with pearl grips—death dressed in designer clothing, just like the man himself. Coop stuck with the basic Glock he’d been using all along, utilitarian and deadly.
My heart hammered so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. This wasn’t just a contest anymore. This had become something else, something primal. Alpha males establishing dominance while the pack watched.
“Best of three rounds,” Oliver announced, his voice carrying that cultured tone that made violence sound civilized. “May the steadiest hand win.”
The crowd pressed closer, breathing collectively held. Snake was taking odds, his dead eyes tracking between the twoshooters with something dark flickering in them—anticipation, hunger, or maybe both.
The first round was close. Oliver put all ten shots in a grouping tight enough to be covered by a playing card, precision that spoke of years of practice. Coop matched him shot for shot, his grouping maybe a hair wider. Deliberately? Accidentally? I couldn’t tell anymore where Coop ended and his cover began.
“Tie,” Tommy announced, trying to sound official but excitement bleeding through. “Reset for round two.”
They changed targets, the paper silhouettes replaced with fresh ones at fifty yards—a distance that would challenge even experienced shooters with handguns. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the sharp pain to keep myself grounded.
