Chapter 15 #2
Watching Coop with a gun in his hand was like watching a dancer who’d found his perfect partner. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, beautiful in its lethality.
He played it perfectly, missing just enough shots to seem human, clustering others with the kind of consistency that spoke of training without showing off. He laughed at his “mistakes,” talked shop with the other shooters, all while steadily advancing through the elimination rounds.
This was what Coop was. What he’d been trained for—the dark pieces of himself that had caused him to leave me. Violence made elegant. Part of me—the part that remembered his hands gentle on my skin, his promises whispered in the dark—was terrified by his competence.
Another part, the part trying to survive, was desperately grateful for it.
By the fifth round, it was down to six men. By the seventh round, only four. The crowd pressed closer with each elimination, money changing hands, voices rising with excitement. The smell of testosterone and adrenaline was thick enough to choke on.
By the tenth, just two.
Oliver and Coop.
They stood at the line, both men checking their weapons with the kind of careful attention that came from respecting what those weapons could do. From knowing intimately how quickly they could end a life.
Oliver had chosen a customized SIG Sauer with pearl grips—death dressed in designer clothing, just like the man himself. Coop stuck with the basic Glock he’d been using all along, utilitarian and deadly.
My heart hammered so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. This wasn’t just a contest anymore. This had become something else, something primal. Alpha males establishing dominance while the pack watched.
“Best of three rounds,” Oliver announced, his voice carrying that cultured tone that made violence sound civilized. “May the steadiest hand win.”
The crowd pressed closer, breathing collectively held. Snake was taking odds, his dead eyes tracking between the two shooters with something dark flickering in them—anticipation, hunger, or maybe both.
The first round was close. Oliver put all ten shots in a grouping tight enough to be covered by a playing card, precision that spoke of years of practice.
Coop matched him shot for shot, his grouping maybe a hair wider.
Deliberately? Accidentally? I couldn’t tell anymore where Coop ended and his cover began.
“Tie,” Tommy announced, trying to sound official but excitement bleeding through. “Reset for round two.”
They changed targets, the paper silhouettes replaced with fresh ones at fifty yards—a distance that would challenge even experienced shooters with handguns. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the sharp pain to keep myself grounded.
Oliver went first this time, those gray eyes focused with absolute concentration. Ten shots, methodical as a metronome. When they brought the target forward, nine were clustered in the center. One had clipped the edge.
A miss. Barely, but still a miss.
Coop stepped up to the line. I watched him breathe, controlled and even, his whole body becoming a part of his weapon. His first shot cracked across the range. Then the second. By the tenth, I already knew.
All ten clustered in the center, a grouping so tight it looked like one ragged hole.
The crowd erupted. Someone slapped Coop on the back hard enough that I heard the impact. Money changed hands rapidly, Snake collecting from several unhappy buyers with the efficiency of a Vegas bookie.
Oliver’s expression never changed, but something shifted in those pale eyes. Not anger. Something worse. Interest.
“Final round,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise. “Let’s make it interesting.”
He walked to the weapons table, selected the fancy rifle with the casual familiarity of a man choosing a favorite wine. “Moving targets. First to miss loses.”
My blood turned to ice. They’d set up a mechanical system—targets that popped up at random intervals, staying visible for only seconds before disappearing. Military training systems. The kind of thing Coop had probably done thousands of times.
The kind of thing that would be almost impossible for him to deliberately fail.
Oliver went first again, the rifle smooth against his shoulder like an extension of his body. Targets appeared and disappeared in rapid succession. His shots followed, precise, deadly. One. Two. Five. Eight.
On the ninth target, he clipped the edge instead of center mass.
The crowd went silent, everyone turning to watch Coop take his position. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird. If he won too decisively, it would wound Oliver’s pride in front of his buyers. But if he deliberately lost now, after the first two rounds, it would be obvious.
I watched him make the calculation. Saw him decide.
Please, I thought, not sure what I was begging for. Please be smart. Please be safe. Please get us out of here alive.
Coop raised the rifle, and time seemed to slow. The first target appeared. His shot took it center mass before I’d even fully registered it was there. The second. Perfect shot. By the fifth, the crowd was murmuring. By the eighth, even Snake was watching with something that might have been respect.
Or rage. Who knew with Snake.
The ninth target popped up—the same one Oliver had clipped.
Coop’s shot took it dead center.
The tenth appeared and disappeared so fast I barely saw it, but Coop’s shot was already there, the target falling with a hole punched through its middle.
Silence stretched across the range, taut as a bowstring. Coop had won. But everyone was silent.
Then Oliver started clapping. Slow, deliberate applause that everyone else quickly joined, but I heard the threat in it. The calculation. He walked over to Coop, that shark’s smile perfectly in place, and offered his hand.
“Exceptional shooting,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It seems we have a true marksman among us.”
They shook hands, Oliver gripping just a little too long, those ice-gray eyes never leaving Coop’s face. But something else flowed through his expression—not the anger I’d feared, but something else. Approval? Respect?
The desire to possess what had beaten him?
“Your prize, as promised.” Oliver gestured toward the lodge, checking his expensive watch. “You’ll have a ten-minute head start when the main event begins.”
“Looking forward to it,” Coop replied, keeping his tone easy despite the attention focused on him like crosshairs. But Coop had no idea what the main event was either.
A head start for what? A race?
Oliver became his charming host self once more and announced they’d have a siesta then everyone would reconvene tonight for the party.
The crowd began dispersing, most heading back toward the lodge and the promise of more alcohol. Snake and Bishop stood near the weapons table, staring at Coop with identical looks of barely controlled fury.
They’d lost money on the betting, but it was more than that. Coop had shown them up, proven himself better with the one skill they valued above all others. In their world of might-makes-right, he’d just declared himself apex predator.
And they hated him for it.
But there was something else in their expressions too—a dark anticipation when they looked at me. Like they knew something about this main event that we didn’t. Like that ten-minute head start might not be the advantage it seemed.
Tonight wasn’t about just gathering intel anymore. Tonight had become about something else entirely, and we were walking into it blind.