10. Erik
ERIK
Makari puts three photographs on the kitchen island before Rowan finishes breakfast. Each shows the same black sedan on a different night.
The first is half a block from the penthouse garage, the second across from the service entrance, and the third was taken at one-fourteen this morning from an apartment building across the street.
Rowan sets down her coffee and pulls the nearest photograph closer. "Same plate?"
"Three different plates." Makari takes the stool beside her and opens his tablet. "The registrations belong to two dead men and a roofing company that dissolved last year. The vehicle is the same in all three."
I enlarge the third image. Rahil Antonov sits behind the wheel with one arm near the open window. The picture is clear enough that he knew there was a camera and stayed anyway. "He wants us to react."
Rowan leans closer to the screen. "He wants us to know he's here."
"He wants to know what changes after we know." I close the image, then look at Rowan before I say anything to Makari. "I want additional coverage on Laura and Callie. Harper too when she's off campus, if she agrees."
Rowan turns on her stool to face me. "We discussed you making security decisions about my family."
"We did, which is why I'm asking instead of ordering it." I point toward the photographs. "Another vehicle for your mother if she agrees, one additional operator near Callie, and coverage on Harper only after somebody asks her."
Some of the resistance leaves Rowan's posture. She looks down at the photographs again and taps the timestamp on the third. "Callie gets another operator. Mom gets the car if she agrees herself. Harper gets asked before anyone follows her."
"Agreed."
Makari enters the terms into his phone without comment, then closes the security file and slides an appointment card across the island toward Rowan. "There's another decision waiting for you. I reserved a private range in Litchfield County."
Rowan picks up the card and reads the address before looking at me. "You planned that without asking."
"I reserved access to the range. You decide whether you use it."
"What am I training with?"
"A handgun."
She puts the card on the counter instead of refusing it. "You know I can't carry one on campus."
"Yes, and you can't solve Connecticut permitting before lunch either."
"That was going to be my second point." Rowan folds one arm across her body, careful of the healing cut on the other. "Then why are we doing this?"
"Because you should know how to use one before the day somebody puts one in your hand under pressure." I leave the card between us rather than pushing it back toward her. The decision has to be hers if I expect her to believe anything I said at the safe house about partnership.
She picks up the card again. "You're giving me an actual option."
"I've been told I improve slowly."
"That's one interpretation." Rowan finishes her coffee and slips the card into her bag. "I'm going."
The range sits behind a private sporting club north of Ashford, far enough from Blackthorne that nobody should accidentally photograph Rowan Bennett learning to shoot beside the dean already occupying too much local coverage.
The owner takes us through a side entrance and closes one bay to everyone else while Makari stays outside with the vehicles.
Rowan walks to the shooting bench in jeans, boots, and a fitted black sweater, with her hair tied back and a smaller dressing on her forearm than the one Serena applied. I put an unloaded pistol on the bench between us, then set pepper gel and a personal alarm beside it.
She studies the three items. "You brought options."
"I brought what you can legally use and what I want you trained to recognize. The law comes first."
Rowan rests one hip against the bench. "You're giving me a law lecture."
"I'm giving you the version where a mistake can end your career." I wait until she gives me her full attention. "Connecticut requires a permit to carry. The process takes months. You don't have one, which means you leave this property without a handgun."
"I know that part." She picks up the pepper gel and reads the label.
"I know you do. University property creates another problem. Carrying a firearm on campus exposes you to a separate charge, and a pending weapons case follows you through law school and into character and fitness."
She puts the gel down more carefully than she picked it up. "I can learn to shoot, get good at it, and still walk into Fenwick with pepper gel plus an alarm."
"That's what you can legally carry."
Rowan looks through the glass toward the target lane. "The men following me have guns."
"I know."
The unfairness of it is obvious enough that I don't insult her by trying to make it sound better. She can learn to defend herself against armed men, but the law limits what she can carry while the men threatening her have already demonstrated they don't care about the law.
She looks back at me. "You're taking this better than I expected."
"I already argued with the law before breakfast." I pick up the unloaded pistol and clear it again before handing it over. "The law won."
Her mouth curves. "Then you can teach me."
I begin with the pistol unloaded. Rowan listens through the safety sequence, repeats each step back to me, then checks the chamber herself before I allow ammunition onto the bench.
She's never fired a handgun, but she also has no interest in pretending she knows more than she does.
That makes the first part of the lesson easier than what follows.
She takes her position at the line. I check her grip before speaking. "Your support hand needs to move higher."
Rowan lowers the pistol and turns toward me. "Where?"
"Higher on the grip." I indicate the open section below her thumb.
"That's the same word with more confidence."
I take the unloaded pistol from her and demonstrate the position rather than repeat myself. "Your support hand fills the open side here. More contact gives you more control under recoil."
Rowan copies the placement when I return the weapon. "That explanation would've saved us one round of irritation."
"Instructions are explanations."
"No, they aren't." She raises the pistol, checks her position, then looks at me over her shoulder. "Instructions tell me what you want. Explanations tell me why."
Her elbows are locked. I almost tell her to loosen them before I recognize the trap I'm walking into.
"You need enough movement in your arms to absorb recoil without losing your line.
If you lock your elbows, more of the force transfers into your shoulders.
If you leave them too loose, the muzzle travels farther than you want. "
Rowan adjusts immediately and tests the stance. "See? That makes sense."
"It was also what I meant."
"Meaning it and saying it are different skills."
Ammunition may improve the conversation.
We load one round. Her first shot goes low and left. Rowan studies the target, then keeps the weapon pointed downrange while she turns her head slightly toward me.
"I assume you know why."
"You anticipated the recoil."
"How do I stop doing that?"
I take the pistol after she clears it, reload, and return it. "Keep your attention on the front sight. Press the trigger without choosing the exact instant the shot should break. If you choose the moment, you start preparing for it."
Rowan raises the weapon again. "That was an explanation."
"I'm learning."
"Slowly." She turns back to the target with a smile.
The second shot moves closer to center. The third drifts left again, and I see the problem before she asks. Her support hand has moved lower during the last two rounds.
"Your left hand changed." I indicate the gap near the grip instead of touching her.
She adjusts it. "Here?"
"It needs to come a little higher. You need contact through this side."
I step behind her before considering whether that's a good idea, then put my hands over hers.
It isn't a good idea.
Her back settles against my chest while her arms remain extended toward the target.
I adjust her support hand against the grip and move her thumb forward.
My mouth is close to her ear, and the faint scent of her shampoo is far more distracting than it has any right to be in a room containing a loaded weapon.
"That position will control the rotation better."
Rowan stays where she is. "That's much clearer."
She shifts backward by less than an inch. The movement puts more of her against me and contributes nothing to her stance.
I keep my hands over hers long enough to be certain she has the position. "You moved."
"You told me to adjust."
The innocence in her voice is fraudulent.
I remove my hands and step away. "I didn't tell you to move toward me."
Rowan turns her head enough for me to see her smile. "Your instructions should improve."
I make myself look downrange. "You have the position now."
She raises the pistol and fires. The round hits inside the center ring. She resets, fires again, then puts three more rounds close enough to the first two that the grouping would satisfy an experienced shooter.
Rowan clears the pistol before setting it down. When she turns toward me, her smile has nothing to do with the target. "Five."
"I can count."
She removes her hearing protection. "I wanted to be sure."
"You wanted to provoke me." I gather the empty magazine and ammunition before I do anything less useful.
Rowan picks up the paper target. "Those things can both be true."
She knows exactly what standing behind her did to me, and she knows I'm aware that she did it deliberately. I've spent most of my adult life around people who either fear my attention or want something from it. Rowan seems to enjoy testing how much of mine she can take before I lose patience.
The problem is that I'm beginning to enjoy the test.