“Shoot house?”
“Specialized training facility for close quarters combat and room-clearing exercises. I have teams practice breaching the buildings and rescuing hostages or neutralizing the enemy.”
“Wow.”
He glanced at me.
“I think it’s cool to have your own business. And teaching people to be better soldiers, that’s an admirable job.”
“They’re mercenaries, Lili.”
“But not trigger-happy ones you read about, right? Who abuse their power. You wouldn’t train assholes.”
He made a sound. “I try not to. Most of my clients are reputable outfits.”
He parked under a carport attached to the main building. Then he took out a set of keys and unlocked the heavy-duty lock on the warehouse door. I smoothed down my long, gray skirt. It was A-line, made of thick fabric that was super comfy, and I’d paired it with a long, white T-shirt.
The air inside the warehouse was warm and stuffy. Cole took some time opening up some roller doors, and letting the cooler air in. I studied the space with interest.
The centerpiece of the cavernous space was what looked like a giant version of some sort of two-story maze a mouse would run through. Plywood walls formed a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. It had stairwells and windows, and I glimpsed plain tables, chairs, and sofas in the rooms. There were many doors, both open and closed, as well as a number of other obstacles scattered throughout.
“It’s like a giant obstacle course.”
His lips quirked. “Something like that. This is my indoor shoot house. When I train teams in close quarters combat, I teach them situational awareness, how to make quick decisions, and safe room-entry principles.”
That sounded intense and badass.
He led me to a set of metal stairs that led to a small upper area overlooking the entire warehouse.
“Office and kitchenette. You can hang out up here. The guys are decent, but a little rough around the edges, so I want you to steer clear.” He pushed open the door.
It was a sizable office space, with the kitchenette tucked away at the back. As I took in the actual workspace, however, I sucked in a breath.
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Told you it was a mess.”
There was an ancient computer on a rickety metal desk, that looked like it should have been put out of its misery a decadeago. Receipts, invoices, and other pieces of paperwork were piled haphazardly around.
“A mess? Cole, this is Armageddon. How do you get your taxes done?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Painfully. I hate paperwork, and I’m not fond of computers, either.”
No, he struck me more as a man of action.
I set my laptop bag down on the chair—which looked like it was being held together by duct tape and hope—since that was the only free spot. There was a lonely filing cabinet in one corner, with a dead plant on top of it.
The sound of several cars pulling up made Cole look out the window.
“Go,” I told him.
“You sure you’ll be okay up here?”
“I’ll be fine. Go do your obstacle course.”
His lips twitched again, then he walked out. I followed, standing in the doorway, and watched him head down the stairs.
Well, okay, I was watching his ass in his cargo pants. It was very firm and muscular. I’d only got a side-on glimpse of it earlier in the shower.
Which brought that memory to the front of my head in clear, thorough detail. I dragged in a breath and turned.
