Page 34 of Specter Bred

Not a memory.

Not the past.

Now.

As if I were kneeling beside him all over again, watching him die while knowing there was nothing I could do to save him.

A sharp voice somewhere in the distance snapped me back.

The memory shattered.

Fairfield slammed back into focus.

Teller was still standing.

Still alive.

Still swearing at whoever had shot him.

He was already brushing the colored powder off his neck, but my heart continued to hammer against my ribs.

By the time training ended, my appetite had vanished entirely. So instead of heading to the mess hall with the rest of the instructors and recruits, I made my way back to my room and settled for a liquid dinner. Half a bottle of whiskey later, sleep still refused to come.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Reaper.

The blood.

The dirt.

The helplessness.

Eventually, I gave up trying.

I wandered down to the firing range, already knowing exactly who I'd find there.

Teacup.

She'd been spending most of her nights down here, and this was the third night in a row I'd ended up there too. Not that she'd noticed.

I always took the last stall, tucked away in the shadows at the far end of the range where the darkness swallowed most of the light. From there, I could watch her shoot without being seen, listening to the steady crack of her rifle as she chased perfection long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

I preferred when she couldn't see me watching her. Whenever Archer looked at me, she made her feelings abundantly clear. The woman hated my guts.

Every glare was sharp enough to cut skin. She delivered her responses curtly and with irritation. Our interactions felt as if she were one fragile moment from telling me to kick rocks. Which was exactly why I kept coming back. At least, that's what I told myself.

Archer was a recruit. My recruit. It was my job to identify weaknesses, expose flaws, and determine who belonged in ASOG and who didn't. From the day she arrived, I had convinced myself she was a liability waiting to happen. A woman trying to force her way into a position that would eventually break her.

So I told myself I was down here looking for proof hat she'd hit her ceiling and was finally ready to crack. I needed proof that I'd been right all along.

The only problem was that Archer never cooperated.

For the last three nights, I’d settled into the last stall, hidden in the shadows where she wouldn't notice me. I'd even started using scent blocker before coming down here, which was a detail I preferred not to examine too closely. Because scent blocker implied planning and intent.

Yet every time I watched her, instead of finding reasons she didn't belong, I found the opposite.

I watched her stay for hours after everyone else had left. She would run the same drill over and over until exhaustion made her hands shake. I watched her miss a shot, grit her teeth, and immediately set up another. She never quit early, never made excuses, and never looked for sympathy.

The harder ASOG pushed, the harder Archer pushed back. That should have made me respect her. Instead, it irritated the hell out of me.