20
Blake places the AK47 in my hands and points to the cans on the fence several yards away. We spent an hour at the shooting range, where his goal was for me to get used to a firearm in my hands before encouraging me to aim for the targets. An AK47 is on a different level of power than the firearm I used in the shooting range, though.
I peer through the scope, pretending to know what the fuck I’m doing when it’s all so foreign. There’s a moment of doubt stirring in my stomach where I wonder if it’s worth it. Should I forget it? Should I move on with my life and let my predators be?
Gabe’s smooth voice echoes in my mind like, reminding me that there are other victims younger than me, and my finger finds the trigger and squeezes. My arm propels backward from the pressure as a splice of pain shudders up my arm.
“Jeez,” I gasp, looking to Blake beside me, watching me precariously.
“You missed by miles,” he points out, taking the rifle from my hands and peering through the scope. “I think you hit one of those trees in the field by the creek.”
“What? That’s nowhere near the cans,” I’m horrified as I rub my aching shoulder at how bad my shot was.
“Lie on the grass on your stomach,” he insists, and I shoot him a warning look. Reading my scowl, “That was not a come-on, Rae. Not this time, anyway. You might shoot better on the ground to steady your aim.”
I do as he suggests, and he hands me the AK47, and I find this position is much better. I peer through the scope, find the middle can on the fence, and squeeze the trigger. I strike the can and raise my fist to celebrate. “Yeah, mother fucker.”
“Shot,” Blake states proudly, clapping. “Now, hit the next one.”
Again, I peer through the scope to find the next can; when it feels right, I squeeze the trigger. I hit the can with a smile, but it occurred to me that my target, the Crow, although he’s a physically large man, is a moving target, unlike these cans. Am I really good enough to hit him on the first strike? “You’ll be backing me up, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there all the way, Rae,” he explains as the sound of a vehicle approaching on the lonely road. Blake turns in that direction and doesn’t seem concerned. “If you believe you can’t take the shot, I’ll step in. But we can’t waste time when we’re in the moment, so you’ve got to communicate with me.”
“Okay,” I sigh as I sit up to watch the vehicle, a pick-up truck with bails of hays on the back, drive past on the road several yards away. I doubt he could see us that well, nestled amongst trees and grass, but he’d hear the gunshots as they echo throughout the empty spaces. “Whose land is this?”
Blake shrugs as if he’s not bothered or knows but doesn’t care. “Wait until that truck has passed before shooting the next target.” Those brown eyes run over my backside and bare, smooth, tanned legs, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn him, and he grins.
“You’re a dang hot woman, Rae,” he implies unabashedly, still perving at my backside covered in khaki shorts.
“With a gun,” I assert, gazing up at that likable face. “Just saying.”
“Point taken,” he grins, rubbing his unshaven chin with his knuckles. “A woman must have her boundaries.”
“We must,” I reply, smiling at my win, even though these men can just look at me a certain way, and my clit pangs. I can fight against this weakness or go with the flow, or maybe it’s not a weakness but a celebration of my body.
The pick-up truck disappeared down the stony road, and Blake signaled to me to take another shot. “The can on the far left,” he suggests as the sun’s sharp rays burn the back of my legs as dribbles of sweat run down my neck. It’s the hottest part of the day, and I lie in the sun.
Just as I’m about to squeeze the trigger, the shadow of a bird flies over me, making me flinch. I miss the can, but the sound of the gunshot echoes, and I worry that a local farmer will think we’re trying to kill a cattle beast.
“Again,” Blake states. “You jumped. If you will use that weapon safely, you must steady your nerves.”
“We’re running out of cans,” I state the obvious.
“This time, I want you to hit the can on the far right, under the shadow of the hanging branch,” he explains, and I change positions slightly to aim the furthest away from me.
“Does Gabe know that you work for Smiler?” I ask curiously as my finger lightly rests on the trigger, and I close one eye to peer through the scope.
“There’s not a lot that Gabe doesn’t know,” he replies, standing slightly behind me. “Concentrate.”
I squeeze the trigger, and this time, I strike the can, ignoring how much every gunshot disturbs me whenever that sound slices into the peaceful silence.
“So, you know the address of Crow's mistress house?” I ask to clarify. “You’ve already done your homework.”
“Hit the can on the right,” he orders, ignoring my question.
After finding my target down the scope, I squeeze the trigger again, and the bullet fires out; this time, I miss the can I’m supposed to hit, but I hit the can on the left. “That was deliberate,” I lie.
“Sure,” he says in disbelief. “Hit the last can, and then I’ll set them back up again, and we can do it again. I need to get you comfortable with that in your grasp.”
I imagine the Crow’s fat head and the way he held me down, forcing himself on me as the other men laughed and drank liquor. I brushed that sickly thought aside, squeezed the trigger, and hit the last can on the fence.
“Good shot,” Blake’s tone is a mix of cautions and pride, as if he’s unsure I have what it takes to assassinate the Crow. “Put your weapon down, and let me set the cans up again.”
As he walks away from me several yards away, my mind sails back to that week I tried to forget when those men hurt me. As time passes, I can look back with a clear view of detachment and critical thinking. An ant crawls over my hand, and I focus on it moving so quickly, tickling my skin. Yet I don’t flick it off; instead, I let it travel where it needs to go.
The scent of perfume invades my senses. Women’s perfume. Not here and not now, but back when the Four hurt me. There was a woman in the background pouring their drinks and taking pics. I remember when I was half-dazed on the date rape drug; she was flirting and sitting on Lyon’s knee – now and again, she’d check on me, whisper in my ear to make sure I was okay. When I fell asleep, she patted my cheeks with cold water to wake me back up again.
Who was she?
Scarlet lipstick. Brunette hair. I think she is in her thirties and dressed in black lace with red heels. I resigned to her being a sex worker and paid to be there, and I think that’s why I forgot her quickly. I didn’t know her name and hadn’t seen her again. But she’s not an innocent player here either, and that’s why she’s reemerged into my mind right now.
Blake returns from setting the cans up again, yet my mind is still on the Four and the woman. Two are dead, and two more to go, but who was she, and was she there voluntarily or through force?
“Ready to go again?” he asks as his shadow cools my body and shields me from the burning sun.
His voice rings about my ears as I watch the ant crawl off my hand onto the blades of browning grass. Her sickly-sweet perfume and even the scent of her lipstick are infiltrating my senses, and nausea stirs.
I lift my head to gaze at the fence in the distance with the line of cans. “It was a woman,” I tell him.
In my peripheral vision, I see him turn his head to the fence holding the cans, then turning back to me again, confused. “What is?”
I swallow, noticing how dry my mouth is. “The person who filmed the rape and took pictures was a woman. I can still smell her perfume.”
“Was it a woman who took that picture that you had in your drawer?” he asks to clarify.
I nod. “Yeah. The memory came back to me. She wasn’t always there, but it was her behind the camera.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?” he asks dubiously.
“I think so,” I reply, but I doubt I will see her again.
“Is she going on your list?” he asks flatly.
“I’m not sure,” I reply distantly as I prepare the rifle in my hands to shoot the line of cans, a darkened sense of purpose with my demeanor changed.
As I peer through the scope, I consider what I would do if I stumble across her. I squeeze the trigger and hit the can as it flies off the fence, then I quickly move to the next can and squeeze the trigger again, missing the next one.
“If I happen to bump into her. I would ask why,” I mutter as I line up the next can in the scope. “Why she was there?” Squeezing the trigger, I hit the can that I previously missed. “Whether she was there voluntarily or paid to be there?” I line up the next can and squeeze the trigger, and it flies off the fence.
I sense Blake’s posture changing, noticing my change in mannerisms. “Rae,” he says softly, but I ignore him because I’m not in the mood for a conversation or to be told to calm down.
My throat feels like it’s closing in due to the stress of this resurfaced memory, but she mustn’t get away with it because she may be involved with the other girls. But I won’t know until I find out more information about her.
Each can fall one after the other as my confidence grows and I become more comfortable with this powerful killing machine in my hands.
After shooting the last can, I pause and find little ant again running over the blades of grass. I clear my throat, “And why didn’t she help me?”