Page 232 of Barinov

“Where are your bags?” I ask when I spot zero suitcases behind her.

She laughs, tapping her backpack once. “Everything I need is right here.”

“Right.”

I turn on my heel and start walking, throwing my long strides into gear to get the hell out of this terminal. But after about ten paces, I glance back and fucking freeze.

In the sea of towering travelers and bulky luggage, Ivy has completely vanished.

For a split second, my chest tightens. I can already hear the screaming match Bella and Marisol will throw at me for losing the one person I was supposed to pick up. Fortunately, a bright, neon-green beacon of hair cuts through the gap in the crowd.

I let out a rough breath and shake my head. I keep forgetting this chick’s practically the size of a goddamn Smurf.

“So who are you anyway?” I ask as she falls in step beside me.

“Just an old artist friend of your girl’s and Zeke.”

“Artist? My boyfriend’s an artist. He paints and shit like that.”

Ivy lets out a soft, amused chuckle. “Not that kind of artist, sweetheart.”

Chapter 59

ZEKE

Project Dylan’s shooting range - Manhattan, New York

17 days since we’ve been back.

The mechanical whir of the target pulley whizzes through the shooting lane as it drags the shredded paper silhouette back toward us.

My hands are still vibrating from the recoil of my Glock when Tex grips down on my shoulders.

“Your grouping’s tight.”

“I told you,” I eject the empty magazine from the gun. “I remember how to fucking shoot.”

“Attitude’s strong too,” Nate adds, laughing as he types something into his tablet. He doesn’t even look up from the screen. “Your heart rate peaked at one-forty during the rapid fire drill, but it dropped back down within the ninety second window. Numbers look good.”

“So does your aim,” Tex whistles as he holds up the target.

“I told you, I was fine,” I grit out. “The shrink you’ve got me with doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”

“Zeke,” Nate warns, finally peering up from his screen. “You know the drill.”

“Look, I just had to sit through Monroe’s psychoanalysis bullshit for over an hour,” I say, reloading the magazine. “Can we just shoot?”

“You’re deflecting,” Nate says, stepping up next to my lane. “Dr. Monroe says you’re using aggression to mask the anxiety of transitioning back. He literally warned us against you drowning it out with gunpowder.”

“I ain’t masking shit,” I growl, slamming the loaded magazine back into the Glock with a heavy clack. “I’m practicing. There’s a difference.”

Nate sighs, but Tex steps in, leaning his shoulder on the partition. He glances down at my freshly loaded weapon and then up at the target. A slow smirk spreads across his face as he slams the button to send a fresh target out.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Tex says, slowly pulling out his .45 from his back holster. “You get a tighter grouping than Nate and me both… we’ll drop the shrink talk for today and go home and relax.”

I pause, my grip tightening around the cold steel. “And if I don’t?”

“If even one of your shots is worse than ours,” Tex says, dropping his voice into a serious and steady tone. “You talk to us. You let whatever’s eatin’ at you out.”