“Same rules as before,” he said.“Muzzle downrange.Finger indexed until you’re ready.You control the gun.Not the other way around.”
“Okay,” I said.
He helped me adjust my stance again.Feet planted.Knees soft.Weight forward.Both hands on the grip.
My mind didn’t scream quite as loudly.
“Good.”His voice stayed low.Calm.“You remember the sights?”
“Equal height, equal light,” I said.“Front post where I want the bullet.”
“Exactly.Breath in.Let half out.Squeeze slow.”
He loaded the mag and racked the slide.The sound still made my shoulders tense but not like before.
“You’re live,” he said.“Whenever you’re ready.”
I raised the gun.Sighted on the center of the paper silhouette.Breath in.Out.My arms trembled a little.Not enough to throw off the aim.
Finger moved from frame to trigger.I expected the panic to spike.It rose.It did not swallow me.
“One,” I whispered to myself.“Two.Three.”I squeezed.
The shot cracked through the air.My shoulders jerked, but I held my stance.The smell of gunpowder wrapped around me.
The hole appeared just left of center mass.“I did that,” I breathed.
“You did,” Kane said.Pride warmed his voice.“Again.”
We worked through the mag.Ten rounds.Each shot easier than the last.Two drifted high.One went wide.The rest clustered around the heart of the silhouette.
When the slide locked back, I lowered the gun, breathing hard.Not from exertion.From adrenaline.“That felt… good.”
“Yeah?”he asked.
“Scary,” I said.“But good.Like I was the one deciding something instead of waiting for someone else to pull the trigger.”
He stepped in front of me and gently took the pistol.Cleared it.Set it aside.“Look at me.”
I raised my eyes.
Kane’s gaze locked with mine.“You’re deciding.About shooting.About staying.About me.Every day you make choices.You act instead of react.Men such as Roth and Diaz fear when people they considered puppets cut their strings.”
My throat burned.“Do you always turn philosophical after I shoot?”
“Pretty much,” he said with a half-smile.“Ask Spade or General.Guns bring out my inner poet.”
I laughed and wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist.
He walked downrange to pull the target.I watched his shoulders move under his cut, the way his jeans clung to his legs, the casual confidence in his stride.Mine, I thought.
The word startled me.Never before had I called anyone mine.
He came back and held the target up.“Look.”
I had.
He drew a little heart around the cluster.“He is having a very bad day.”
