GUNS
Chris
Leaning over the coffee table, I work the slide back and forth, checking the fit before laying the barrel down. The door swings open behind me with a rush of cool air and Sara’s laughter. “I drove the quad,” she says all delighted and proud of herself.
I turn with a grin already forming. Every time she learns something new, she shines. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and adrenaline, her hair messy from the helmet, her eyes glowing. God, she’s perfect.
“Did you now?” I reply, matching her tone and move over to help with her coat.
“She did. Handled it like a pro. Barely screamed,” Cash says, kicking off his boots.
“I did not scream,” she glares.
“Okay, fine. Swore like a sailor.”
Sara narrows her eyes at him, but she’s beaming, and I can’t help it. As she passes, I pull her in for a quick hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead before she can slip away.
“Proud of you,” I say into her hair.
“You should be. It was insane,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around me.
“Next time,” I murmur, “you’ll be flying helicopters.”
She snorts. “Let’s start with not flipping the quad.”
She’s gone up the stairs and back down again in seconds, but her smile dims. Her gaze locks onto the table she’s approaching. Two Glock 19s lie field-stripped beside their magazines and a small maintenance pouch.
Her eyes widen slightly. She looks at the weapons with the same curiosity she has for anything new. “What is all that?” she asks, cautiously curious.
“Show-and-tell,” Cash says, too flat to sound light.
Even empty, the guns carry a presence. I pick one up. Exactly what she needs to start with: a compact pistol, light enough to hold with one hand, not too wild when it kicks.
I glance over at her. “Thought you might be up for some more action. You ever shot a gun?”
She shakes her head.
“We’ll go over safety first. Then we’ll practice and show you how to hit what you’re aiming at.”
Her eyes spark. The idea of learning a new skill excites her. She steps closer, leaning in with that eager hunger of someone catching sight of a world they’ve never entered. Her shoulders tuck in a fraction as she touches the metal with care, the same reverence you’d give a borrowed instrument.
A flicker of uncertainty crosses her features, but she stays, fingers twitching. She glances from the weapon to me, then back again. I guide her hand so she can get a closer look.
While she studies its shape and weight, Cash’s words replay in my head.
He really had been digging on his day out.
Still nothing about a Board, but he checked every name on his list. Public footprints.
Databases. Socials. Too easy these days.
Not like I haven’t done the same. One name belongs to the type of man who leaves a trail.
Goes home to a wife and kid. Cash talked about leverage, using them for intel.
He said it like it was just math. Like it didn’t come with blood.
Cash and I never got a chance to talk about last night, about whether anything went on between him and Sara after he took her to bed.
My cameras don’t cover that angle. If they took things further, it could explain the edge in him now.
It could also make him more dangerous in how he acts on his plans.
At some point, I’ll have to decide how far I’ll let him go.
Threatening families? Forcing Sara to stay against her will? Not happening.
After Sara hands me back the weapon, she excuses herself upstairs.
“Guns? Seriously?” Cash clearly isn’t thrilled about pairing Sara with Glocks. “If you think she’s going to return to a life where she needs this, maybe we stop pretending she should go home at all, don’t you think?”
“I want her to have options, a normal life, if that’s still possible. Teaching her to shoot is a skill she hopefully never needs, but better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”
“Hopefully? Hope isn’t a strategy, you know that.”
“Tomorrow’s election day and I scheduled a call with her father. That decides everything. Best case, she’s free to go home safely. Worst case, we all lose.”
He’s not stupid. He knows what this means. For him, it’s the opposite. If the plan works, Sara won’t be a part of his life anymore. If it fails, she stays close. Just not for the right reasons.
He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Still willing to give me that last night with her?”
“I’m not giving it to you,” I say. “I’m giving it to her.”
◆◆◆
Outside, fall carries a crisp bite. I set a single paper target at roughly fifteen feet. Close enough that she can appreciate the hit, far enough that it’s not trivial.
“You ready?” I ask.
She nods, her grin brimming with anticipation.
Sara doesn’t know about the Board or the consequences of being marked. For now, she doesn’t need to, especially if we’re not even sure it’s true. To her, this is just another new skill to master.
Approaching the table, she studies the gun, her mind clearly working through each detail. Small hands wrap around the grip, skin blanching where the cold metal meets her palm. She lifts it carefully. There’s respect in the way she holds it.
“Rule one,” I instruct. “Barrel pointed downrange. This one doesn’t have an external safety switch like some other pistols. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready. Treat every gun as if it’s loaded. If you point a gun, you have to be willing to shoot. That responsibility sits on you alone.”
She watches my hands and the calm in my movements, glancing at Cash behind me.
He’s watching us with that calculating look he gets when he’s measuring risk.
His jaw is set. He believes we should be removing the causes rather than teaching her to meet them head-on.
He thinks arming her is an acceptance that danger will exist. Danger always exists, a fact he should know.
I move close enough to adjust her stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. Lean in. Breathe from your belly.”
She inhales and tries it. Her body settles a degree. The first pull makes her flinch. The report cracks through the clearing and she jumps. The round tears through the paper and flutters the target. It’s off-center, far from perfect. But it lands, and she stands straighter.
“You hit it,” I tell her.
She looks surprised and then pleased. Her smile unfolds slowly, brightening her features. Her chest rises faster, no sign of discomfort. If anything, she wants to go again.
Cash stands back, arms crossed, jaw clenched through the entire lesson. I bet every part of him itches to interrupt, to tell Sara there’s another way, a better one, a safer one. But he’s just as captivated by her eagerness to master this as I am.
On her second shot, the impact lands closer to the middle. Each round is a lesson she owns. Her stance steadies. Her hands remember the corrections. By the fourth magazine, she’s breathing low. Her posture is centered, her face lit with the fierce glow of someone perfecting a new language.
“Again,” she demands.
“You sure?” I ask, squinting at her. “You’ve been at it a while.”
“I’m fine, I can go again,” she says, sensing where I’m going.
She’s gripping the handle more forcefully than she needs to, and her knuckles are red, the tips of her fingers flushed with that worrying shade of blue-tinged cold, close to shaking.
“Show me your hands,” I say, stepping forward.
She looks confused for a second but holds them out. They’re ice-cold.
I take them gently and start rubbing warmth back into them. Her skin is pale against mine, and the chill of it seeps past my calluses.
“That’s enough for today,” I say softly.
She frowns. “I’m okay—”
“You’re freezing.” I look her straight in the eyes. “Not negotiable. You want to shoot again, we’ll do it tomorrow. Once the blood’s back in your trigger finger.”
Cash stows the guns in their cases, tension in his movements.
The distance between us vibrates with urgency.
He may be planning ways to make her world smaller so she never needs to pull a trigger.
I’m planning to give her the means to step through it.
Both strategies are about keeping her safe.
They are not the same. They will not be the same.
On the way back inside, Sara glances between me and Cash repeatedly.
She can tell something’s off. I can see her trying to line it up in her head and not quite getting there.
She’ll go back this week. I’ll push to make that happen, and I’ll have to watch Cash because I’m not sure where his impatience will end.
Where I stand emotionally is irrelevant.