Chapter 15
Fifteen
After lunch, I follow William through the woods. I didn’t tell York where I was going, and I didn’t see him before I left. Fuck him.
We exit the trees a dozen meters or so from the edge of a cliff, and he turns and hands me his rifle. I look at it, holding it out awkwardly for a second.
“Can you shoot a rifle?” he asks.
“I’m sure I can, but I don’t have any experience.” Lie.
“No problem.”
Walking ahead of me, he stops a few feet from the cliff edge and stacks a few fist-sized rocks up before carefully lowering himself to his stomach. I drop down beside him and rest the muzzle of the rifle on the rocks as I tuck it into my shoulder.
“Good grip.” He nods. “Set this dial for the distance to target—estimate it,” he clarifies.
“Fire selector switch: safe, semi, auto.” He flips the little switch on the side back and forth.
“Mag eject.” He indicates to the outside of the rifle and then taps a handle close to my face. “Charging handle. Pull it.”
I do it, feigning difficulty when extending it fully. It clicks.
“Ready the weapon,” he breathes out.
I flip the safety switch to semi and peer down the scope.
“Good. Get that tall dead tree in your sights. At this distance, every breath is going to affect your aim. Hold your breath for accuracy.”
Pretending you can’t shoot is difficult when the skill is drilled into your head, becoming muscle memory.
“So,” he mutters, lifting his spotter’s scope. “Target is to your front, at your own time, go on.”
When the tree is in my crosshairs, I watch it.
Breathing puts your target into a gentle ellipsis at this distance, which I need to get the feel of and then time.
After a couple of revolutions, I hold my breath just as the target hits the center of my crosshairs.
I squeeze the trigger, and the sound of the rifle cracks the air as splinters fly.
“Good.” He shifts beside me.
I just grazed the outside of the trunk. It was intentional.
I’m not sure what buy-in looks like, according to York, but there is no way I’m going to be at the end of a sniper’s rifle for whatever the hell he has going on.
Regardless, I can’t be too good at this, and I can’t look completely incompetent either.
I’m not sure they’d believe the incompetence anyway.
“Are you buying in yet?” I keep looking down the scope.
“No,” William says quietly. “Again. Try to hit the center this time.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not a cheap date.”
I hold my breath and squeeze the trigger. The air cracks, and splinters fly again. “Why?”
“I’m on vacation,” he mutters. “Besides . . . big fish, big risk.”
“Oh, yeah?” I look over the scope at the tree in the distance. “Big risk, big reward?”
“The biggest. Patriotism is priceless.”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “What does that mean?”
“The Agency has been fucking around for a long time,” he says. “Lots of people would like to take a crack at them.”
My breath catches without me trying, and I pull the trigger, missing the tree entirely. I lean back and stare at him. “There isn’t a payday attached to that.”
“Patriotism is priceless,” he repeats. “Now, take the top off that fucker.”
Refocusing, I aim and shoot. Three shots later, the top breaks off, tilts to the side lazily, and then snaps and disappears into the canopy below.
Whatever York isn’t telling me is huge, and this is exactly what I was afraid of. I don’t want to go up against the Agency, not directly . . . not in fucking person.
William gets up to his knees. “You’re a natural.”
“It’s not rocket science.” I shift back and pass him the rifle.
“The further the target, the more science involved,” he points out dryly and slings the weapon. “You gonna tell me why you’re here with him? How?”
“I don’t even know why I’m still breathing, William.” I dust off my pants and wander back into the trees.
***
“You have first watch tonight with August,” York says, glaring as I walk back into camp.
He’s setting up a tent, and I watch silently as I post up against a tree. If they’re all here because they want a crack at the Agency . . . just . . . why? Why would York risk this? Patriotism. What the hell is really going on here?
I’ve never wanted to disappear more than at this very moment. The only way I can do that is by getting out of the country, and the only chance I have of that now is with a clean passport. I have to go back to Maine to pick that up . . . but I’m sure my house is being watched by now.
York snaps the fly into place over the top of the small tent and then grabs his bag and throws it through the door before following it in. I crouch in front of the open flap and watch him roll out a couple of sleeping bags.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“How was shooting practice?”
“Fine.”
Exhaling loudly, he stretches his neck and scrutinizes me. “What did I say about my sight?”
“You want eyes on me, you better ensure you’re paying attention. I’m not doing your job for you.”
Hissing quietly, he turns his attention back to his bag and then zips it closed with a grunt and shoves it into the corner.
“Does it kill you that you can’t put me over your knee in front of everyone?”
“Can’t?”
He gets to his feet in front of me, jaw tense for a moment before he points at the tent. The energy required to go head-to-head with him is more than I can muster. Plus, it would only piss him off more if I caused a scene.
I duck into the tent as silently commanded and stretch out on my back as the door zips closed and his footsteps retreat. There is no reason for me to poke him the way I have been. It’s getting me nowhere, but I just can’t play the good little captive.
And that’s exactly what I am.
The presence of the others seems to be tempering, but it’s probably difficult for him to not manhandle me when I run my mouth. I know he’s resisting because I’m hurt too. What does that mean?
Butterflies bloom deep in my stomach, and I unzip the raincoat, laying it beside me before toeing off the boots and closing my eyes.
The thing is, I want to be manhandled right now .
. . a lot of the time, really, but I can’t let him know that.
He blew the top off a thing inside me that I didn’t know was there, a desire, and now I don’t know what to do about it.
I also don’t think I could stand the satisfaction on his face if he figured it out.
It’s exhausting trying to guess at whatever it is he has planned. By the time I give up on it for the time being, I’m curled up on my side, dozing in and out to the sounds of soft footfalls in the dirt and the crackling of damp wood on the fire.
***
The unzipping of the tent flap makes me shoot upright. My gaze locks on York’s, and although I’m clothed, you wouldn’t think so with the way he eyes me. I shiver and cover it up with a stretch.
“How are your wrists?”
“I’m fine.” I rub one of the bandages, and then look past him to the darkening sky. “What time is it?”
“Almost five. Watch starts soon. You need to eat.”
Sliding toward him, I pull my boots back on and grab the coat. He extends his hand, but I brush it aside and get out on my own. Grumbling something under his breath, he zips the flap closed, and I make my way to the fire, which they’ve managed to build up a bit more.
Carter passes me a steaming mug of soup, and I sit with it as they chitchat.
“I’m in,” William murmurs to York, who responds with a curt nod and comes to sit beside me.
“The Agency?” I mutter discreetly into my cup as I take a drink.
“I know you can figure it out on your own.” He leans into me. “No matter how clueless you want me to believe you are.” The soup goes down hard, and I wipe the corner of my mouth as I glance around the fire warily. He leans in even closer. “And I know you think I’m an idiot, but trust me, I know.”
“Whatever you know is less than half of the big picture.”
“Mm.” He leans back and gives me an appraising look. “Give me the other half.”
“You first.” I toss the remainder of my soup on the ground and toe some dirt over it with my boot.
I’m a great fucking actress. It might be the only thing I’m exceptional at because I’m even fooling myself at this point. Fooling myself into thinking I fucking hate him when all my body wants to do is climb on top of him.
Then again . . . he already said we were using each other, didn’t he? I set the mug down and pull out my gun, cocking it while staring at him and then stuffing it back into my waistband.
“Sun’s almost down.” I look around the fire again. They’re all watching me except August; he’s gone. “Don’t sneak up on me,” I say quietly and head into the woods alone.