He leaves us alone in the mess hall.
Cassie reaches across the table. Takes my hand. Her grip is firm, no tremor in her fingers.
“This is it.” Not a question. A statement of fact.
“Yeah. Max security. Hard target.”
“You’ll get it done.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s what you do.”
“It’s dangerous, Cass. I can’t promise?—”
“I know.” She cuts me off; eyes focused on mine. “I know you can’t promise. But I know you, seeing you with them … You’re good at this. You save people. That’s who you are.”
“I try.”
“You do.” She squeezes my hand. “Just—don’t take risks you don’t have to. I’m staying here so you can focus. So focus. Get the job done and come back.”
“That’s the plan.” I lift her hand, press my lips to her knuckles. “And it’s a good plan.”
“It’s the only plan.”
We finish eating in comfortable silence. The coffee is bitter and the eggs are cold, but the company makes up for it. The fear is there, a low hum in the background, but trust is louder.
The shooting range is a concrete tunnel extending into darkness.
Fuse moves with a slight hitch in his stride, a lingering stiffness from the injuries he took getting Talia safe, but he doesn’t let it slow him down. If anything, he seems energized by the familiarity of the range.
“All right.” He hands Cassie the Glock I gave her earlier. “Show me what Halo taught you.”
She assumes a stance—feet apart, arms extended, both hands on the grip. It’s wrong in half a dozen ways, but she’s trying.
“Not bad for a beginner.” Fuse moves behind her. He winces slightly as he twists, a fleeting expression of pain that vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
He focuses on Cassie, adjusting her posture. “Feet wider. Bend your knees. You want to absorb the recoil through your whole body, not just your arms.” He repositions her hands. “Thumbs forward. Trigger finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
“Like this?”
“Better.” He steps back. “Now. The target is fifteen meters. Don’t worry about accuracy. Don’t worry about grouping. Your only job is to pull the trigger without flinching. You ready?”
“Ready.”
“Safety off. Site alignment—front site on the target, rear sites blurry. Slow breath. Squeeze the trigger.”
The gun bucks in her hands. The sound is sharp, flat—suppressed by the range’s acoustic dampening but still loud enough to make her flinch.
“Not bad.” Fuse checks the target. “You hit paper. That’s more than most people manage on their first shot.”
“I pulled left.”
“You anticipated the recoil. Natural instinct.” He hands her fresh ammunition. “Again. Slower this time. Let the gun surprise you.”
She reloads with fumbling fingers. Takes her stance. Fires.
This time the grouping is tighter. Still left of center, but closer.
“Better.” Fuse nods. “Again.”
“Let your breath out halfway before you squeeze,” a voice says from the shadows behind us.
