I’m broken, but she can’t see my flaws. Each time our eyes meet, she offers a faint grin before looking back at the road.
My heart thuds for an entirely different reason when Macy pulls the van into a bureau practice range forty clicks out of town. We have access to several locations nationwide; however, this is my first visit to this one.
Actually, come to think of it, I haven’t been to a firing range in years. I only went when I needed to remind myself that I still had control over some things, even when everything else in my life was in chaos.
I guess that time is now, and the acknowledgment solidifies my belief that Macy knows me better than anyone. At places like this, my focus is on nothing but the target. I don’t feel grief or remorse. It is as if my baggage is stored away for an hour or two, and I can breathe without fearing that I’m stealing the oxygen from someone more important.
After stuffing a freshly cut key into the lock, Macy pulls open the heavily weighted door before gesturing for me to enter before her. The range smells like gun oil and paper targets, yet its dusty appearance announces no one has used it in years.
“How do you know about this place? And when did you get a key?”
Macy switches on the light, highlighting a twelve-person gun range and a separate stimulation chamber. “Afriendowed me a favor, and this was the only thing he had that interested me. Since he has a background in locksmithing, I had him cut me a set of keys.” She walks behind the counter like she owns the place before placing a selection of guns onto the glass counter. “What’s your flavor, Malfoy?”
She grins at my eye roll before waving her hand across guns that range from semi-automatics to multi-chamber machine guns. I usually burn off steam with my own gun, but I want a change, so I select the weapon that will be heavy in my hand and with ammunition.
After accepting earmuffs and a box of ammo from Macy, I follow her toward the long line of shooting stalls. She doesn’t stop at the first cubicle or the last. She continues pacing until we arrive at the stimulation room.
“Six perps have cornered themselves inside a mirrored house at the annual state fair. They are accused of robbing a bank, which resulted in the death of the security guard and a bank teller. Multiple sources state that they are armed and are holding over two dozen hostages. Your objective, if you choose to acceptit, is to use any force necessary to apprehend the suspects and lower the chance of additional civilian casualties.” She gleams at me like she can feel the excitement slicking my skin before announcing that the clock has already started. “You have thirty minutes to neutralize your targets and secure the scene. Good luck, Agent Rogers.”
A balk stiffens my spine. “I’m not ready. I haven’t even loaded my gun.”
Macy twists her lips before lifting her eyes to the glowing red timer ticking down the seconds outside the entrance of the chamber. “Tell that to the hostages waiting for you to save them.”
Under her amused gaze, I load the magazine of my gun and then enter the stimulator, my earmuffs left behind. The weight of the firearm is familiar and grounding. It clears my head of negative thoughts and reminds me what I live for.
As I enter a long line of mirrors, I line up the first target. It’s a simple silhouette of a man in his mid-twenties, but I’m most interested in the painted Glock in his jeans.
When I squeeze the trigger, I remove a self-inflicted penectomy from the perp’s death certificate. My bullet cracks through the air before it slices the cardboard cutout in half.
When I spot something out of the corner of my eye, I jackknife around to face it, causing my heart to thud in my ears. I almost fire again until I realize the woman is pushing a stroller. This stimulator has all the bells and whistles. Sounds, tastes. It even has the smell of a freshly fired weapon. They make it as realistic as possible because games like this are the only way to determine if an agent will choke before putting them in the field for real.
After highlighting the closest exit, I continue through the maze of mirrors. Although I hate to admit it, after learning the truth only an hour ago, my mind is blank, and I am only focusingon my job. I save lives for a living, and even when my personal life is spiraling, I have no shame in admitting that.
I fire again when I’m jump-scared by a cutout on a motorized arm. The perp goes down with a hole between his brows, but the woman he was using as a shield remains unscathed—if you exclude the fake blood splattered on her face.
Because testosterone has controlled my anger, I move through the maze like I’m on a mission, hopeful I won’t confront a perp made of cardboard. I want him to be real, and for his veins to bleed red like mine.
With each perp I take down, a little piece of anger and the guilt I’m struggling to move past shifts a smidge. I feel like I have a purpose, and that a lie did not squash my entire existence.
As I near the halfway point of the test, I replace the perps’ faces with the bastards I’ve chased over the past fourteen years. I make the game personal, and that ensures I play it to the best of my ability. I don’t miss a single target, and I save over a dozen innocents.
I’m in the last phase of the stimulation when I replace the image of the final cutout with that of my father. His familiar grin and icy-blue eyes barely register for a second, but the guilt they instigate nearly makes me drop my gun.
I love my father, and he loves me, so why would he do what is being accused?
It doesn’t make any sense, and it makes me feel more conflicted than I’ve ever been.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when Macy announces over a speaker above my head that I have nine minutes left on the clock. If I end the game now, I will hold the course record.
Competitive is my middle name, so after taking in the perp’s dark eyes and stubble-covered chin, I kill him with a direct hit to the heart.
I won. The game is over. But the instant the light flicks on, the truth crashes back into me.
This isn’t my reality. I didn’t save Cameron, and I didn’t find her, either.
Crouching down, I fight to replenish my lungs with air. I can’t breathe with the weight on my chest. It feels like it is crushing me, and not all of it centers on Macy’s admission that Cameron wasn’t kidnapped. It’s the fact I’d even considered placing my father in one of the perp’s shoes.
He’s meant to be the good guy, the anchor of our family.
