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“Would you contact him so that we can speak to him?”
Without taking his eyes off Jessica, Gage said, “He’s out of town. Back day after tomorrow. I’ll set it up.” He dipped down and snagged a cell phone, tapped buttons, and extended the phone to Jessica. “Give me your number.”
She hesitated for a moment, then took the phone. After typing in the number, she handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” she said, then grabbed his arm. “It was MIT, not Harvard.”
His face softened. “Don’t thank me until something comes of it.” He crouched down and scratched behind the ears of the German shepherd whose attentive brown eyes were still focused on them. Military dog. Dean was almost sure of it.
“Service dog?” Dean asked.
Gage finally looked at him. “Yeah, adopted him after he was retired for injury and my tour was up.”
“He’s beautiful. What is his name?” Jessica asked.
“Donner. It’s German—”
“For thunder,” she said.
He straightened up. “I’ll be in touch. See you around, MIT.”
As she and Dean exited the garage, Jessica released a soft sigh. Women and bad boys. It was as old as time.
* * *
With the back of her wrist, Ophelia rubbed the drop of sweat off the end of her nose. Twenty-five yards down range, she could see the targe silhouette clearly, with its three new holes in the center of the chest area. Fourteen orange stickers covered the chest where she’d emptied the first clip.
She was on the second magazine and still shaking. Her palms were slick with sweat even though she’d rubbed them on the seams of her jeans over and over in a futile effort to keep them dry. A thin line of sweat trickled down her spine and soaked her waistband. Her jaw ached from clenching it to keep everything tight and controlled. Although muffled by the ear protectors she wore, the constant thuds from firing had given her a headache to end all headaches.
Gulping air, she held on to the shelf in front of her where she’d carefully placed her handgun. After her last shot, the slide had locked back, the breech in open position. Now she flicked the safety on with hands shaking so badly she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to press the button hard enough.
She could do this. She was SWAT and the men and women in this business didn’t get spooked from taking one in the vest. She got lucky. It was a handgun bullet instead of a high velocity round. She was going to have this terrible bruise for a while, but it would heal.
Her body would heal.
It was her mind she was fighting with right now. She hadn’t gone to the SWAT pistol range, not like this. This was the first day she had tried to get back in the groove. She had given herself a couple of days.
She convinced herself she was fine.
There was a thud to her right. The memory of the bullet leaving the thug’s gun in the warehouse moved with such a slow pace, she was sure she could sidestep the bullet. Another thud made her jump, and she opened her eyes, slightly disoriented. Willing herself to calm. Before she went back to work, she would have to overcome this, or she’d be benched. Pure and simple.
She would make herself get over the shakes. One more challenge to face.
She didn’t want to think about the stressful training she would have to go back to. That would be later. First things first.
And she couldn’t stop thinking about the situation with Dean. At a very basic level she’d figured some stuff out. Her knee-jerk reaction to almost dying led her to seek comfort from him. It had been such a long, long time since she’d allowed herself to be that vulnerable and raw.
But there was more than the shooting that had stirred up the thoughts that were still running through her head. She had been quite aware that he could get to her. She should have handled that situation better, too. She’d been off balance, though, the entire time—her fault for facing him too soon after the shooting.
Her whole life was sliding through her fingers, and she couldn’t get a firm grip on anything.
She swept her palms down her sides again and picked up the semi-automatic. The barrel vibrated against her palm. All she had to do was touch the thing and the shaking started.
Putting the gun down, she bent forward at the waist, stretching the tight muscles of her back and neck, her hair falling forward and catching in her mouth. She puffed the strands away and stared at her sneakered feet. Anything to keep from picking up the pistol again.
The concrete floor was a lovely gray. The angled pit that trapped the bullets down at the end of the range was a lovely gray. The pitted cement walls behind the target were also gray and lovely. Very muted and tasteful. The gray seemed a metaphor for her life right now.
Stop drawing this out, she chastised herself.It’s not going to help. She took a few slow breaths and stood up. She could do this.
