Kane handed me my gun and ear protection.“Same rules.We go slow.We stop if you overload.”
“Overload,” I repeated, adjusting the earmuffs.
“Buzz out.Overheat.Whatever your brain calls it when your body starts screaming.”
“I’ll tell you.”
He didn’t hover.He stayed close enough to catch me if my hands failed, but he gave me room to own it.That mattered more than he probably understood.
I loaded.Racked.Positioned my feet.Aligned my sights.The steps flowed faster now -- my hands had carved a path through panic.
My first shot cracked across the range.Recoil punched up through my arms.Gunpowder smell wrapped around me, sharp and real.
A hole appeared on the paper silhouette, landing under the collarbone.Not perfect.Not terrible.
Kane’s voice warmed.“Nice.Again.”
I fired again.Then again.My breathing steadied into the rhythm of the work.The fear didn’t vanish, but it stopped driving.It sat in the back seat, glaring, while I kept my eyes on the front sight.
By the end of the first magazine, my arms buzzed with adrenaline.By the middle of the second, something in my chest loosened.Not joy.Not rage.Control.
The slide locked back on the last round.I lowered the gun slowly, breathing hard.Sweat dampened my palms.
“Enough?”Kane asked.
“Yeah.”I swallowed.“I don’t want to shake and undo it.”
Kane took the pistol, cleared the chamber, and set the weapon down.Every movement conveyed care and respect, as though both my nerves and the gun deserved equal consideration.
When he turned back to me, the heat in his eyes made my knees wobble worse than the recoil had.
“Keep staring at me with those eyes,” I mumbled, aiming for humor while my chest constricted, “and I might forget which end of the gun goes where.”
A low laugh.“Then I’ll put it away.Can’t have my girl distracted around live rounds.”
“My girl,” I echoed, the words still too big to sit comfortably on my tongue.
“Yeah.”No flourish.No joke.Just truth.
His words “my girl” burrowed deeper each time he said them, as though they’d carved permanent homes beneath my skin.
The compound transformed when late afternoon arrived, becoming even more active than before.
I watched men move with purpose across the compound.Spade darted between the office and yard clutching his tablet, barking orders nobody questioned.Atilla huddled in the garage with General and Rook, their voices dropping whenever anyone walked past.Knuckles sat at a picnic table cleaning weapons, arranging magazines in perfect rows the way he arranged everything.
Marci caught my eye and beckoned me toward the small meeting room adjacent to the kitchen.When I entered, I saw a whiteboard propped against the wall, colorful markers scattered across the table, and papers stacked in neat piles -- someone’s attempt to organize approaching chaos.
“Good,” Marci called.“Sit.”
I slid into a chair beside Casey.Solena sat across from us with her hands folded, calm as a nurse and twice as intimidating.
“What is this?”I asked, eyeing the board.
Solena’s mouth twitched.“War council.Old lady edition.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“Only if you’re on the wrong side of us,” Casey muttered.
