Chapter 33
Brooke
By the time I pick up the knife, training has already become routine.
For weeks, I train for hours every day. I run left handed drills until my shoulder burns. I work on balance and footwork, repeating the movements until my body stops hesitating and starts reacting.
My right wrist stays locked in the brace, aching with every movement, a constant reminder of what I can't use yet.
Then I started gun training.
The brace on my right wrist stays strapped tight while the bones slowly knit back together. Seth doesn't want me touching a weapon with that hand yet, and Beau agrees.
So everything comes from my left.
The indoor range smells like oil and gunpowder. The room has concrete walls and hanging targets, with no windows and no distractions.
Beau doesn't stand in front of me like an instructor. He moves along the perimeter instead, his eyes fixed on my form. He watches for any hesitation, correcting me the moment my body falters.
“Again,” he orders.
I raise the gun. My left hand grips firm. My right hand comes in just enough to support, careful not to put pressure through the brace.
“Too open,” he adds. “You’re presenting your whole torso like you want to get shot.”
I adjust, turning slightly, angling my body so less of me faces the target.
“Better.” His gaze tracks my stance. “You’re not on a range. You’re in a hallway. Or a stairwell. Or a parking garage. Nobody gives you space to square up.”
I fire.
The recoil slams harder without my dominant hand. It snaps through my left wrist, travels up my forearm, and settles deep in my shoulder. My right hand absorbs what it can, but the brace still takes a dull, unwelcome jolt.
The round lands near the center.
Beau steps in and presses two fingers against my elbow, nudging it inward.
“Line your bones up,” he instructs. “If your frame’s crooked, the bullet will be too. Don’t fight physics. Use it.”
I reset and fire again closer.
He circles behind me.
“You’re still thinking about it. You hesitate half a second before the break.”
“I’m not hesitating.”
“You are. You’re asking your body if it’s ready. That’s how you lose.”
He steps into my peripheral vision and points toward the far wall.
“Move.”
I pivot left and fire.
“Your movement is loud,” he adds.
He walks up beside me and demonstrates, shifting his weight without lifting his boots fully, gliding instead of stepping.
“You don’t stomp. You slide. Control the sound.”
I mirror him. Shift. Pivot. Fire.
The round strikes center mass.
“Good. Again. Keep your shoulders down.”
My shoulder burns, the tremor in my left arm getting worse every shot. I tighten my grip anyway.
Beau steps close enough that I can feel him behind me.
“You’re not here to win a gunfight. You’re here to make sure one never actually happens.”
He moves away again, his voice carrying in the room.
“You don’t trade shots. You don’t clear rooms. You appear where they aren’t looking, and you leave before they understand what happened.”
I shift left, pivot, fire.
“Again.”
I move before he finishes the word.
“Faster.”
I fire mid step, recoil knocking my arm slightly off line. I correct and fire again.
“Control your breathing,” Beau says. “The shot happens at the bottom of the exhale. Always.”
I force myself to slow it down. In. Out. Break.
The next round lands dead center.
Across the room, Seth leans against the wall, arms crossed, silent and watching. His eyes track every inch of me. When my shoulder flinches, his jaw tightens. When I correct it, he relaxes a fraction.
Beau tosses me a fresh magazine.
“Reload while you move.”
I eject the empty mag and step backward at the same time, slamming the new one home without looking down.
“Eyes stay up,” Beau snaps. “You look at your hands, you die.”
I keep my gaze on the target and rack the slide by feel.
I fire.
The impact jolts through my arm. My shoulder screams. My grip starts to shake visibly now.
My arm trembles harder, but my stance stays set.
Beau stops pacing and faces me fully.
I shift, pivot, fire.
He nods once.
“Better.”
When I finally lower the gun, Seth pushes off the wall.
“My turn.”
Beau nods and backs off without a word. That is their routine, switching off like two halves of the same machine.
As he passes me, he pauses long enough to murmur, “Disappear before you pull the trigger. If they see you coming, you’ve already failed.”
I nod.
Seth tosses a practice blade at my feet. “Pick it up.”
I do, with my left hand. The grip still feels wrong, but less wrong than it used to.
He circles me once, then stops behind me. “You don’t win knife fights with strength. You win by staying on your feet.”
I tighten my grip.
He moves fast. His arm hooks around my waist, knife pressing lightly to my ribs.
“Dead,” he says.
I elbow him, spin, and try to slash. He dodges and catches my wrist mid swing. His grip is firm but not punishing.
“Don’t hold back,” I snap, breathing hard.
“I’m not,” he says. “But I’m not breaking your other wrist just so you can feel tough.”
“I want to feel ready.”
His gaze locks onto mine. Calculating, like he is weighing whether I can take what I am asking for.
“You sure?”
“Stop asking,” I say. “Make me fight for it.”
He lunges.
I dodge this time, barely. I get a slice across his forearm. He grabs my shoulder, twists me, pins me against the padded wall.
“Knives are personal,” he mutters near my ear. “You want to survive a close fight? You’ve got to be meaner than the fuck trying to kill you.”
“I am,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“Then prove it.”
I shove backward, dropping my weight, catching his knee just enough to throw off his stance. I turn fast, blade up, my chest heaving.
His eyes flare for a second.
“Good,” he says.
I stand there, knife in hand, my heart pounding.
“Again.”
Sweat rolls down my temple as I slam my forearm against Seth’s wrist, twisting the knife from his grip.
He steps back before I can finish the motion.
“Again,” I say, my breath ragged. The right side of my body feels half dead, but I need this.
“You’re still favoring your right,” Seth points out. “Stop doing that. It’ll get you killed.”
I lunge again. This time he lets me get the blade, but as soon as I have it, he knocks me flat with a shoulder to the chest.
“Fuck,” I hiss, staring up at the ceiling.
Seth crouches beside me. “You’re moving better,” he murmurs.
I push myself up. “Again.”
I lunge. He blocks, disarms me, and sweeps my legs. I hit the mat hard.
Seth helps me up. His fingers ghost down my arm, checking the bruises, the joint stiffness. When he gets to my ribs, I flinch and he freezes.
“I hate this,” I whisper, my breath hitching. “I hate how weak I feel.”
Seth’s arms wrap around me before I can finish. He holds me there while I shake, biting down hard enough on my lip to keep from crying.
“You’re not weak,” he says into my hair. “You’re the strongest woman I know.”
“I don’t want to just be strong,” I whisper. “I want to be ready. I want to make them suffer.”
“You will. We’ll make sure of it.”
The door opens behind us.
Travis steps in quietly, his eyes going straight to me instead of the room. He pauses then crosses the training space and drops into a chair against the wall.
“You good?” he asks.
I let out a short laugh that scrapes on the way out. “No.”
He nods once. “Fair.”
Seth pushes off the wall near the mats. “We’ll take a break.”
Then he heads for the door without another word, giving us space.
I don’t argue. My body feels heavy, like it has finally decided to feel everything at once.
Seth nods and steps outside.
“Look at you, GI Jane,” Travis leans forward, his forearms on his knees. “These fuckers have no idea what’s coming.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “I’m just not sure it fixes anything. Revenge doesn’t bring people back. It doesn’t undo what happened.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I probably wouldn’t have been a great mom anyway,” I sigh. “I’m too fucked up, this isn’t something you bring a kid into.”
“Don’t say that,” Travis says immediately. “You would’ve been a great mom, Brooke.”
I shake my head.
“No,” he adds. “You really would have. Just because you’ve been through hell doesn’t mean you’d repeat it. If anything, it makes you better at protecting the people you love.”
I stare at the floor.
“Good things happen to bad people all the time,” I whisper. “And good people get screwed for no reason.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I had the same thoughts after I lost Mila.”
That cracks something open in my chest.
My eyes burn. I look away fast and wipe at my face before anything can spill.
“I’m so fucking mad, Travis. Everything in my life feels fake now. My dad was part of it. That whole psycho murder cult. He killed other killers, apparently, but he was still involved. And my aunt and uncle knew. They lied to me my whole life.”
My voice drops. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
He doesn’t rush to fix it.
I swallow and shift. “How are you holding up with all this?”
He leans back in the chair, dragging a hand down his face.
“Surprisingly well, considering the circumstances,” he says. “I’ve gotten used to being an accomplice and possible federal fugitive.”
I huff.
“As long as me and Seth end up in the same cell, hopefully I won’t be someone’s bitch,” he adds dryly.
“That’s not how prison works,” I mutter.
“Let me cope.”
A faint smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.
“What about your parents?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I called them from a burner. Told them I’m traveling abroad and I’ll probably be out there for a couple years.”
“And?”
“And of course they were busy,” he says flatly. “So they didn’t ask many questions.”
I nod once.
“How’s Naomi? Have you talked to her?”
“Not really.” His jaw tightens slightly. “We both think it’s not safe. Especially with these Collective assholes. They’re tying up loose ends with anyone who survived that hotel. That bartender, Dane, was found dead in his apartment.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“I don’t want to put her in danger just to hear her voice.”
“You could call from a burner,” I suggest.
“Yeah, I might.”
The door opens again.
Seth steps in, letting Luna and Krueger enter first.
Luna pads across the mats and curls in my lap. Krueger follows and presses against Travis instead, lowering himself heavily at his side.
Travis hesitates for half a second before resting his hand on Krueger’s head.
The dog leans into it immediately.
I watch them.
“You two have come a long way,” I smile. “I remember when you were convinced he was going to maul you.”
Travis scratches behind Krueger’s ear, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I guess the hellhound’s grown on me.”
Krueger huffs and pushes harder into his hand.
“I know he definitely missed you, though,” Travis adds quietly, not looking at me when he says it.
My chest tightens.
Seth stays near the doorway for a beat, watching me, then shifts his focus.
“Travis,” he says. “Take the pets and give us the room.”
Travis nods, pushing to his feet. He gives Krueger a scratch before guiding both animals towards the door.
“I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”
Luna pauses at the doorway and looks back at me. Krueger hesitates longer, then follows when Travis calls him again.
The door closes behind them.
Seth steps forward.
His eyes move over me, taking in the way I'm standing, the tension in my shoulders, the way my left hand flexes around nothing.
“You ready to hit harder?” he asks.
I exhale slowly. “Yes.”
“You know why I’m good at this,” he steps closer. “It’s not talent. It’s not training. My body’s been in fight mode since I was a kid.”
He doesn’t look away.
“I didn’t get to run. I didn’t get to freeze. It was hit or get hit. Win or get chained to a wall. That switch flipped and it never flipped back.”
He taps two fingers lightly against my sternum.
“You,” he adds, “your body went the other direction.”
I stiffen.
“Since you were twelve,” he continues. “You learned how to leave before things got bad. You got good at reading rooms, hiding, running, figuring out who to trust.”
I swallow.
“And with this,” he says plainly. “You got good at escaping, physically, mentally. You survived by staying one step away from impact.”
He steps back and picks up the training knife from the mat. He tosses it to me without warning.
I catch it with my left hand.
“But you don’t get to run anymore,” he tilts his head. “They’re not gonna stop hunting you.”
The word lands heavier than if he had said us.
“They’re not going to get bored. You can’t outrun people like that. You have to kill them.”
He moves in without ceremony, his hand striking toward my shoulder.
I block late.
He grabs my wrist, twists slightly, and forces me to adjust my footing.
“You stepped back before I even touched you.” His grip tightens for a second. “That’s flight.”
He releases me.
“Again.”
He comes at me faster. A straight jab toward my ribs.
I shift back automatically.
He stops immediately.
“See that?” His eyes drift to my feet. “You give up space before you have to. You retreat before you’re hit.”
He steps in again.
“This time you don’t move unless you need to.”
He lunges.
I hold my ground and knock his arm aside. My injured wrist throbs inside the brace, but I stay planted.
He nods once.
“Better.”
He circles me slowly.
“You don’t need to be like me.” His voice lowers. “You don’t need to enjoy it. You don’t need to crave it.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“But you need to switch.”
He strikes low toward my hip.
I pivot and drive the knife toward his side.
He catches my forearm and redirects it, letting the blade pass harmlessly by.
“Let the anger guide you.” He keeps hold of my arm. “Use it. It sharpens you.”
He shoves me back hard enough that I have to step to keep my balance.
“But don’t let it blind you. Blind anger swings wide. It chases. It overcommits.”
He moves again, quick, forcing me to react.
I don’t step back this time.
I step in.
I close the distance and press the knife toward his throat. He grabs my wrist mid motion and stops it inches from his skin.
We stand there, breathing hard.
“That,” he says quietly, “is fight.”
He releases me.
“Your body’s going to want to run.” He holds my gaze. “Override it.”
He walks past me and turns.
“You don’t get to freeze. You don’t get to wait. You see the threat, you end it.”
I adjust my grip on the knife.
He faces me again.
“They’re coming for you. So next time, you don’t back up.”
He steps forward once more.
“You make them fucking regret it.”