I step to the firing line. “You’re sure?”
Ben cocks his head, studying me. “Scared?”
I load two shells and snap the shotgun closed. “Guests go first.”
We shake on it—brief, electric, and laced with enough unspoken history to blow up a small building.
“Hey, Ben, you don’t have to—” Rex starts.
“Bet’s made, Rex,” I say. He throws his hands up and heads for the control panel.
Ben takes his stance and glances my way. He doesn’t look worried. Not even a little bit.He should be.
“You can still back out if you want,” he says far too smugly.
“Nope.” I pull on a pair of safety glasses and ear protection. “I like to know who’s on my team. Or... who’s about to shoot me in the back.”
Ben gives me a look that’s equal parts amused and assessing, like he’s playing along but also reading between every word I say. Calculating. Wondering how much I know—and how much I’m hiding.
Rex presses the button and the machine releases the clay pigeons. Ben fires. First one—clean hit.
My turn. I track the disk, pull the trigger. It shatters.
Next round. Ben aims, fires—just a graze.
Mine explodes in midair.
Ben pulls off his ear protection, and I can’t help the smug smile stretching across my face as I eject the empty shells and set the shotgun down with a little flair.
He eyes me, equal parts suspicious and impressed. “You hustled me.”
“Don’t hate the player,” I say with a casual shrug. “Hate your aim.”
He shakes his head, but his smile causes my heart to flutter in my chest. I immediately shut it down.
Focus.
I move closer, arms crossed, pulse skittering under the surface because this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since my conversation with Athena last night. “Ready to answer my question?”
Ben shifts, and for a second, I think I catch something—nervousness. My mouth opens to ask the question that’s been burning in my brain—Are youFBI?—but his phone buzzes.
He pulls it out, glances at the screen. And then immediately answers. “Gran?”
If he thinks a phone call is going to distract me from getting to the truth, he’s—
“Whoa, Gran, wait.” His voice sharpens, concerned now. “Slow down. What do you mean you’re in a dumpster?”
I freeze. My gaze slides to Rex. He shakes his head.
“What do you mean you were tailing—” Ben stops short, rubbing his temple. “Gran, where’s Bernie?”
Rex starts packing up the shotguns, still shaking his head like this isn’t new.
“Who’s he talking to?” I whisper.
“His grandmother.”
I frown. “His grandmother is in a dumpster?”
