“Out.”
Lev holds up his hands in surrender. “Come on, big guy. We know when we’re not wanted.”
They head for the door, but not before Lev shoots me one last grin. “Play nice, boss. She bites back now.”
Then it’s just Mary and me. And the loaded silence between us.
“Now,” I say, stepping behind her. “Let’s see if we can keep you alive.”
I pull hearing protection off the wall, hand it to her, then fit my own over my ears. “Put those on. It’s going to be loud.”
She fumbles with them, sliding the muffs over her head. The oversized plastic makes her look small, out of place. Still clutching the Glock like it’s a live snake, her hands tremble.
I step behind her again, correcting her stance. Feet apart. Knees loose. Shoulders square. “Thumbs forward,” I murmur against her ear. “Both hands. Support hand wraps around.”
She follows, awkward but willing. The gun wobbles in her grip, not steady yet. “Now breathe. Let half out. Hold.” My hands guide hers toward the target.
“See that center mass? That’s what you aim for.”
“The heart?” she asks, tentative.
“Center mass. Biggest target. Stops the threat.”
“Right. Stop the threat.”
“Squeeze straight back. Don’t jerk it.”
I wait. But nothing happens. Her knuckles whiten. The Glock twitches slightly in her grip, but her finger doesn’t move.
Her voice is small, breaking through the muffs. “I… I’m not sure I can.”
Her shoulders are quivering, tension locked in every muscle. I lean closer, my chest brushing her back, my mouth near her ear.
“Don’t think about the gun. Think about them. The ones who came for you. The ones who would’ve killed your grandmother in her bed. The ones who put their hands on you.”
Her brows draw tight, eyes narrowing on the target. Fire sparks where fear was.
“You’re not weak, Mary,” I whisper. “Not with me.”
Something shifts. Her breath stutters, then steadies. Her finger presses the trigger.
The Glock cracks, the recoil jolts through her arms. The shot punches into the paper—not center, but close enough.
Her chest heaves. She stares at the hole like she can’t believe it’s there. “I… I did it.”
“Again.”
For the next hour, she does. I load magazines for her, show her how to rack the slide, how to lock it back, and drop it forward again. She listens, learns. Her stance steadies. Her grip tightens. Shots cluster closer to the center.
When she puts three into the nine-ring in a row, I nod. “Better.”
“I’m actually not terrible at this.”
“No. You’re not.”
She sets the Glock on the counter, turning to face me. Close. Too close. Sweat dampens her hairline, and her eyes are sharp with something new: resolve.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
