Oliver went first this time, those gray eyes focused with absolute concentration. Ten shots, methodical as a metronome. When they brought the target forward, nine were clustered in the center. One had clipped the edge.
A miss. Barely, but still a miss.
Coop stepped up to the line. I watched him breathe, controlled and even, his whole body becoming a part of his weapon. His first shot cracked across the range. Then the second. By the tenth, I already knew.
All ten clustered in the center, a grouping so tight it looked like one ragged hole.
The crowd erupted. Someone slapped Coop on the back hard enough that I heard the impact. Money changed hands rapidly, Snake collecting from several unhappy buyers with the efficiency of a Vegas bookie.
Oliver’s expression never changed, but something shifted in those pale eyes. Not anger. Something worse.Interest.
“Final round,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise. “Let’s make it interesting.”
He walked to the weapons table, selected the fancy rifle with the casual familiarity of a man choosing a favorite wine. “Moving targets. First to miss loses.”
My blood turned to ice. They’d set up a mechanical system—targets that popped up at random intervals, staying visible for only seconds before disappearing. Military training systems. The kind of thing Coop had probably done thousands of times.
The kind of thing that would be almost impossible for him to deliberately fail.
Oliver went first again, the rifle smooth against his shoulder like an extension of his body. Targets appeared and disappeared in rapid succession. His shots followed, precise, deadly. One. Two. Five. Eight.
On the ninth target, he clipped the edge instead of center mass.
The crowd went silent, everyone turning to watch Coop take his position. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird. If he won too decisively, it would wound Oliver’s pride in front of his buyers. But if he deliberately lost now, after the first two rounds, it would be obvious.
I watched him make the calculation. Saw him decide.
Please,I thought, not sure what I was begging for.Please be smart. Please be safe. Please get us out of here alive.
Coop raised the rifle, and time seemed to slow. The first target appeared. His shot took it center mass before I’d even fully registered it was there. The second. Perfect shot. By the fifth, the crowd was murmuring. By the eighth, even Snake was watching with something that might have been respect.
Or rage. Who knew with Snake.
The ninth target popped up—the same one Oliver had clipped.
Coop’s shot took it dead center.
The tenth appeared and disappeared so fast I barely saw it, but Coop’s shot was already there, the target falling with a hole punched through its middle.
Silence stretched across the range, taut as a bowstring. Coop had won. But everyone was silent.
Then Oliver started clapping. Slow, deliberate applause that everyone else quickly joined, but I heard the threat in it. The calculation. He walked over to Coop, that shark’s smile perfectly in place, and offered his hand.
“Exceptional shooting,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It seems we have a true marksman among us.”
They shook hands, Oliver gripping just a little too long, those ice-gray eyes never leaving Coop’s face. But something else flowed through his expression—not the anger I’d feared, but something else. Approval? Respect?
The desire to possess what had beaten him?
“Your prize, as promised.” Oliver gestured toward the lodge, checking his expensive watch. “You’ll have a ten-minute head start when the main event begins.”
“Looking forward to it,” Coop replied, keeping his tone easy despite the attention focused on him like crosshairs. But Coop had no idea what the main event was either.
A head start for what? A race?
Oliver became his charming host self once more and announced they’d have a siesta then everyone would reconvene tonight for the party.
The crowd began dispersing, most heading back toward the lodge and the promise of more alcohol. Snake and Bishop stood near the weapons table, staring at Coop with identical looks of barely controlled fury.
