51. Target Practice
51
TARGET PRACTICE
The sharp tang of gun oil and Pyrodex filled Ronan’s nose as he headed for the locker room. His shoulder ached from where Christian had smacked it, their words about Maya still echoing in his head. He spotted Christian lounging against the wall near the weapons vault, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across his half-brother’s scarred knuckles.
“Quinn.” Christian jerked his chin toward the door. “Walk with me.”
Their boots squeaked against the polished floor as Ronan fell into step beside him, matching his lazy pace down the empty corridor. The temperature dropped several degrees as they entered the indoor shooting range—Christian’s sanctuary, according to base scuttlebutt. The familiar scents of gunpowder and metal intensified. Christian’s callused fingers moved with practiced efficiency as he began field-stripping a Sig, the pieces clicking softly against the wooden bench.
“So,” Christian said, not looking up, “you planning to actually shoot something, or just stand there looking pretty?”
The protective earmuffs pressed uncomfortably against Ronan’s temples as he settled into the lane next to his brother. They shot in companionable silence, the synchronized rhythm of their breathing barely audible under the sharp crack of gunfire. The weapon’s recoil traveled up Ronan’s arms, grounding him in the moment.
“Your grouping’s decent,” Christian finally offered, the paper target rustling as he examined it. “For an invalid.”
“Yeah? Let’s see yours.”
Christian’s target showed a slightly tighter cluster. Maybe. If you squinted.
“Lucky shots,” Ronan muttered, catching a whiff of Christian’s familiar combination of sage soap and weapon solvent as the man leaned closer.
“Keep telling yourself that.” The soft cloth made whisking sounds as Christian cleaned his weapon, each movement precise. “You know, for someone carrying my cross, you’re kind of a smartass.”
The metal was warm against Ronan’s chest where the cross lay hidden under his shirt. His fingers were slightly sweaty as he set his pistol down. “Look, I know I’m not what you expected in a brother. The screw-up Murphy. I can own that.”
Christian’s hands stilled on the weapon, the silence sudden and heavy. “I never blamed you, you know. For Dad’s affair with your mother. For any of it.”
“You ... didn’t?”
“How could I blame a baby for choices two adults made?” Christian’s voice echoed slightly in the concrete range. He reassembled his weapon with quick, metallic clicks. “Though I guess I owe you an apology too. For never reaching out when you were growing up.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Christian’s laugh bounced off the walls, hollow and harsh. “Because I didn’t want to deal with the feelings. In case you haven’t noticed, we Murphys aren’t exactly emotional champions.”
The admission loosened something in Ronan’s chest. His fingers found the cross at his neck, warm from his skin, its edges smooth from wear. “Hey, do you want this back? I’m going to make it, and I appreciate the gesture?—”
“Keep it.” Christian’s voice was firm, his jaw set. “If you’re willing to honor what it represents.”
“I am.” Ronan’s eyes traced the elaborate cross tattooed down Christian’s forearm, the black ink stark against his tanned skin. Sweat beaded at Christian’s hairline from the range’s stuffy air. “Though what I really want is one of those.”
Christian blew out a breath that smelled faintly of coffee. “That’s a hard no.” Then his face cracked into a grin, softening the scar above his eyebrow. “Just kidding, bro.”
The words hung between them, warm and genuine for the first time, free of its usual bitter edge.
“When you’re ready, I’ll take you to my guy. You’re good with travelling back to Damascus, right? No. Wait. Hassim emigrated to Jordan, which is awesome. I like Amman way better. You’re not on any wanted lists there, right?”
Ronan blinked hard, trying to maintain his hold on the thread of the conversation. “No. No problems.” He set his weapon down. “What do you mean, ‘ready?’ Are you talking an initiation or something?”
“Nah.” Christian’s fist thumped against his own chest. “When you’re ready in here. Like when you finally know for sure you’re going to make it through BUD/S and earn your trident. You’ll know.”
“Sounds reasonable.” And way better than the vague hazing he was imagining. They’d exchanged few words, but what had just passed between them felt momentous. He wasn’t sure whether the buzzing in his head was from the illness, or this emotional overload. Whatever the cause, it was time for some air. He shuffled his feet. “So we’re good?”
Christian set his handgun in its case and zipped it shut. “I’m good if you’re good.”
“Great.”
“Fine.”
The overhead lights hummed as Christian shifted, his boots scraping against the floor. “Actually, I’m glad we’re talking. The Big Man authorized me to feel you out about something. How would you and your team feel about joining Knight Tactical?”
Ronan’s pulse jumped. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” Christian’s eyes, the same shade of green as their father’s, held his steadily.
“I ... I don’t know if they’d want to. Izzy and Deke have kids, and the others ... it’s been a long time.” His fault, completely.
“It’s not all or nothing. We’ll take whoever wants to come.”
Ronan’s throat closed. He swallowed hard before asking, “What about Maya?”
Christian’s grin turned predatory, his teeth flashing white. “The admiral’s extending a personal invitation to the lady right this very minute.” His expression hardened, shoulders squaring. “That gonna be a problem?”
Only if she refuses. Ronan’s fingers found their way into his pocket, crossing tightly. The childhood gesture made his palms sweat.
“Nope,” he said aloud, proud of how steady his voice sounded.
“Good.” Christian’s hand cracked against his back, the impact stinging through his shirt. “Hockey team’ll be hitting the gym Monday after school. Fifteen hundred. Be there.”
His footsteps echoed off the walls as he left, leaving behind the lingering scent of gun oil and sage. Ronan stood alone in the fluorescent glare, possibilities spinning in his head. The cross felt heavy against his chest as he bowed his head, offering up an awkward prayer, acknowledging the unwavering faith he’d witnessed in Christian, in his team, in Maya. He could learn if the Lord was willing to have patience with him. Something flickered in his chest, tiny but warm—a seed of hope to nurture.
And while he was at it, maybe the Lord could help him find the courage to tell Maya how he felt about her. His fingers traced the cross again, and for the first time in years, he felt truly anchored.