by Lois Winston
Cassandra spun around to confront him. “I told you I don’t do guns. You agreed.”
“I said we’d discuss it.”
“This doesn’t look like a discussion to me.”
“You need to learn how to protect yourself.”
“From sitting at a computer terminal all day?”
He removed a gun and a clip from a locked cabinet. “This is a Glock,” he said, fitting the clip into the gun. “You won’t always be sitting at a computer terminal. There will be times when you’re out in the field. I need to know that you’ll be prepared for whatever might go down. That you’re capable of taking care of yourself and watching your team’s back. They’ll be doing the same for you.”
He grabbed her elbow and led her over to one of three counters. “Put these on.” He handed her safety glasses and a neon green plastic hearing protection earmuff that hung from a hook on the wall.
She glanced from him to the glasses and earmuff to the gun and back to him. “I suppose it’s not a smart idea to argue with a guy holding a gun.”
“You catch on quickly.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a human resources person I can file a complaint with over this.”
“You’re looking at him.”
“Swell.” She placed the glasses on her face and the hearing protection over her ears. Demarco turned her to face the target at the far end of an enclosed tunnel that stretched beyond the counter. He came up behind her and grabbed both of her hands, positioning them around the gun. “Spread your legs,” he said.
She moved her feet to either side a few inches.
“More.” He inserted a leg between both of hers and spread her feet wider. Then he raised her arms. “Lock your elbows.”
She locked her elbows.
He drew her into his chest—his extremely hard chest. Gavin Demarco was all six-pack abs and not an inch of flab. She glanced at his exposed forearms. All taut muscle and sinew. All business.
“Now sight the target and pull the trigger.” He gently squeezed his finger over hers. The room erupted in a thunderous explosion, the recoil slamming her deeper into his chest—and lower, equally hard, parts of his body. She quickly shifted her weight forward as he dropped his arms.
When her heart stopped knocking against her own chest, she looked down the tunnel at the target, a silhouette of a figure. A hole pierced the poor guy’s head.
Demarco stepped away from her. “Try it by yourself.”
A cool breeze kissed her back in place of the searing heat of his body. She wanted the heat back. It had been too long since a man had held her. Now all she felt was empty.
“Ready?” he asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, wondering if he detected the tremor in her voice. She stood the way he’d shown her, raised her arms, locked her elbows, and fired.
“Now try it with your eyes open, Cassandra.”
She looked down the tunnel. Wherever her bullet had landed, it hadn’t hit anywhere near the target.
He had her practice for half an hour. By the time they’d finished she felt like she’d been subjected to a form of Medieval rack torture. The tension within her had taken refuge in her less-than-toned muscles, and they weren’t shy about protesting against the intrusion. But she’d started hitting the target nearly seventy-five percent of the time.
An unexpected sense of accomplishment swept through her. Back in junior and senior high, her lack of athletic ability meant she was always chosen last for any mandatory team sport. She’d never mastered the fine art of landing any ball anywhere remotely near its designated spot—whether softball, volleyball, or tennis ball.
She still hated guns, but after only half an hour she was batting .750, mixed-metaphorically speaking. She’d never come close to a stat like that in any gym activity. However, Gavin Demarco better not expect her to climb a rope because she really sucked at that. Factor in the added underarm jiggle developed over the last two decades, and she knew the only .750 stat would be the percentage of an inch she might be able to raise herself. However, even that was doubtful.
“You’ll practice half an hour a day, every day for the next few months,” said Gavin. “I want you hitting the kill zone every time.”
What! .750 wasn’t good enough for him? Her body told him to go to hell, but her mouth stayed firmly shut. If she protested, he’d probably make her practice an hour a day.
~*~
Cassandra spent the remainder of the morning absorbing additional computer instruction from Noreen and Hanna. At twelve-thirty the three women broke for lunch and headed up to the cafeteria where Cassandra was introduced to some of the members of the other Greek teams and various support personnel. However, after filling their trays, Hanna led them to an empty table rather than choosing to sit with anyone else.
“No fraternizing among the troops?” asked Cassandra as she settled into her seat.
“Not unless we’re working together on an investigation,” said Noreen.
“And even then,” added Hanna, “Gavin has a strict policy about not discussing cases outside of our own areas unless he’s authorized it. We don’t even talk shop among our own team members here.”
“Why?”
“To prevent contamination,” said Noreen.
Something else she didn’t understand but decided not to question at this time. To her way of thinking, more ears and eyes on a case could only help, but Gavin apparently had his reasons. If Noreen and Hanna knew what they were, neither was offering her any further explanation at this time.
~*~
For the remainder of the day Cassandra alternated between mental and physical training. The mental training consisted of learning to use various computer programs and studying previous cases. The physical training involved a masochist named Hawkeye Barnstable, ex-marine and official savingtheworld.us personal trainer.
After changing into workout clothes waiting for her in the locker room, Cassandra entered the gym at her designated time. The first thing she did was scan the ceiling for evidence of climbing ropes. Finding none, she breathed a sigh of relief.
The massive gym with its polished wooden floor contained one of every piece of exercise equipment she’d ever seen advertised on TV, along with half a dozen machines completely foreign to her. They were spaced out in two rows running the length of one wall. Gymnastics equipment lined the wall opposite the workout machines. Another area was devoted to weights and a bench press. Several sparring bags hung from the ceiling. Floor mats hung from pegs along all four walls except for the small glass-enclosed office located in a corner to the right of the entrance.
Unfortunately, Cassandra’s initial relief over not finding any climbing ropes was short-lived. After two hours of high-intensity workouts and martial arts disciplines—most of which she’d never heard of nor could properly pronounce—every cell of her body screamed uncle! Thankfully, two hours into the torture session the trainer finally gave her a reprieve. “That’s enough for today, Davenport.”
Bent at the waist, hands on her knees, and dripping sweat, Cassandra desperately tried to pull oxygen into her lungs. “How’d…I…do?”
The masochist barked out a laugh. “For someone who hasn’t exercised in nearly twenty years, if ever? You tell me.”
She tilted her chin up to glance at him. “That good, huh?” The guy made her feel like a wuss. According to Noreen, he’d lost a leg during the Boston Marathon bombing, yet he went on to run in the race the following year—and won!
“Hit the showers, Davenport. Then soak in the whirlpool for fifteen minutes.”
She would have saluted him if only she could raise her arm high enough.
And I thought target practice hurt like hell!
~*~
By the time five o’clock arrived, she could barely move. An hour in the whirlpool wouldn’t have been nearly enough time to soothe her aching muscles. She couldn’t remember how many muscles there were in the human body, but she was certain every si
ngle one of them now screamed out in protest against the torture they’d endured today.
Sitting in front of a computer screen after her stint in the gym only served to compound the problem, turning her as stiff as the Tin Woodsman—before Dorothy oiled him. She stifled a wince when she rose from her chair, but apparently, she hadn’t done as well at masking the expression on her face.
“Epsom salts,” said Noreen. “Soak for at least an hour before you go to bed tonight.”
“It gets easier,” added Hanna. She reached into a desk drawer, withdrew a single dosage pack of Motrin, and handed it to Cassandra. “This will help.”
“Thanks.” Damn! It even hurt to speak. She must have been clenching her jaw against the pain without realizing it.
She tore open the packet and downed the two caplets, washing the pills down with a swig from her water bottle. “How long before it starts getting easier?”
Hanna shrugged. “A week or two.”
“Or three,” said Noreen.
She focused from one to the other. Neither looked anything but serious. This time Cassandra didn’t bother masking a moan. “Three weeks!”
“Depends,” said Noreen. “No two bodies respond the same to a new exercise regimen.”
New? That assumed she had a previous exercise regimen. Apparently, walking up and down supermarket aisles and lugging baskets of laundry up and down two flights of stairs didn’t count.
“Assuming I survive that long.” Which she seriously doubted. Right now, she wasn’t sure she could walk to the elevator, let alone get in her car and drive home.
“Epsom salts,” repeated Noreen. “And a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Three weeks,” she muttered as she shuffled down the hall to the elevator. “I’ll never make it.”
Behind her, she thought she heard a deep masculine laugh, but when she turned around, no one was there.
SIX
Masking her pain and exhaustion from her kids that night seriously tested her thespian skills. They became suspicious the moment she walked into the house with cartons of Chinese take-out. After their initial delight at the midweek treat, they continued to eye her with concern when they thought she didn’t notice. She noticed.
Finally, Hayley said, “You okay, Mom?”
She forced a smile. “Of course.”
“You don’t look so good,” said Cooper.
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you’re in pain,” he said. “You weren’t in an accident, were you?”
“No, of course not. I’m just tired. I’m not used to working full-time in an office.”
“You wouldn’t lie to us, would you?” asked Hayley.
“I was not in an accident. Go check the car if you don’t believe me. You won’t find a dent or a scratch.”
Cooper knit his brows together. “You weren’t hit be a car while crossing the street, were you?”
Cassandra placed her chopsticks on her plate. “Would you like to check me for scrapes and bruises?”
The twins glanced at each other before shaking their heads. “I’ll pass,” said Cooper.
She raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “Hayley?”
“If you say you’re not sick or hurt,” I believe you.”
“I’m not sick or hurt.”
“Okay, but I don’t understand how you can look the way you do after a day of sitting at a desk, reading papers.”
Cassandra sighed. Her kids might be at the age where they were becoming extremely self-centered, but that didn’t negate that they were also smart and observant. She’d have to come up with better ways to dance around the truth.
“I haven’t worked full-time in an office since before giving birth to both of you. New jobs are stressful. There’s much more involved than simply doing the job you were assigned.”
“Like what?” asked Cooper.
“It’s like being dropped into the middle of a new school where everyone else already knows each other really well. Being the new kid on the block is hard work. You have to prove yourself.”
“How long does that take?” asked Hayley.
“Hopefully, no more than three weeks.”
“Cool! Three weeks of take-out,” said Cooper.
Cassandra picked up her chopsticks, “See? There’s an upside to everything.”
~*~
Two weeks into her training, Cassandra had mastered the various technical aspects of her new job. She still hated her half-hour each day at the firing range, primarily because she hated guns. And always would. Her feelings had not gotten in the way of improving her marksmanship, though.
Just call me Annie Oakley.
However, she hoped she’d never have to use the Glock outside of the basement firing range. Shooting at a paper target was one thing but a flesh and blood human being? She didn’t know how law enforcement and military personnel managed to stay sane after taking the life of another person, even under kill-or-be-killed situations. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe that’s why so many developed PTSD.
She still dreaded her two-hour workouts in the gym each day, but her muscles had begun to adapt to the vigorous pace Hawkeye forced on her. It helped that she noticed her muffin top was disappearing, and her underarms had less jiggle to them. Who knew exercise actually worked?
She returned from her latest torture session to find Gavin deep in discussion with Noreen and Hanna. All three paused as she entered the room, the two women darting a quick look in her direction before focusing their attention back on Gavin.
After nodding toward her, Gavin addressed Noreen and Hanna, “We’ll discuss this further at a later time.”
Another red flag announced itself. What was up? On the surface they appeared to trust her, but Cassandra sensed a definite undercurrent of something else going on, something Gavin and her two teammates were keeping to themselves.
Part of her understood that two weeks wasn’t nearly enough time to gain the trust of her coworkers, not with the type of work they did. However, they had vetted her sufficiently to know they could trust her. It annoyed her that there were obviously things they felt necessary to keep from her at this point. Perhaps that would eventually change.
Or maybe whatever was going on was above her pay grade. There was a hierarchy at savingtheworld.us, like any other corporation. If she needed to know something, she assumed they’d tell her. For now, she knew better than to pry—no matter how much their actions piqued her curiosity.
~*~
After Cassandra left for the day, Gavin invited Noreen and Hanna to join him in his apartment. He poured them each a glass of Merlot and grabbed a bottle of Sam Adams for himself before joining them around the kitchen island. “What’s your assessment of our newest recruit? Think she’ll work out?”
“She’s still pissed as hell over the guns,” said Noreen.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. If the woman had been able to spit nails, his hide would now be tacked up to the wall of the firing range. Although, he wasn’t sure whether her fury stemmed from his deceit or the boner that had surprised the hell out of him—and her— on that first day, given the expression she’d fought hard to mask. Probably equal parts of both.
He’d keep that information to himself, though. He might expect his teams to share everything with him, but information didn’t necessarily flow all the time in both directions—at least not that sort of information.
Why Cassandra Davenport? He’d never reacted in that way to any of the other women he’d trained, and plenty of them had slammed into his body the first time they experienced a gun’s recoil. In hindsight he realized part of him hadn’t wanted to let go of her afterwards. Her soft curves had fit so perfectly against him.
Gavin shook the thought from his mind. He had no time for such things. What mattered was that Cassandra hadn’t walked out. Pissed or not, she’d continued to shoot, and he’d been impressed with how quickly her aim improved. Anger and accuracy generall
y don’t mix well.
Gavin chuckled. “Pissed or not, she’s a crackerjack shot. And after only two weeks of practice. Hard to believe she’d never held a gun before.”
“Do we know she hasn’t?” asked Noreen. “Maybe there’s a reason she hates guns.”
“You mean like being robbed at gunpoint or witnessing a shooting?” asked Hanna.
Noreen shrugged. “Just saying.”
“Nothing came up in our investigation of her,” said Gavin.
“Not all crimes are reported,” said Noreen.
“True.”
“Maybe we should ask her,” said Hanna. “If there’s something in her background that we don’t know—”
“Do it,” said Gavin. “We need to know we can count on her no matter what.”
“When do we read her in on this new intel?” asked Noreen. “Assuming you don’t want to keep it from her at this point.”
Gavin downed his beer, then huffed out his frustration. He’d wanted Cassandra fully trained before exposing her to any out-of-office ops. He didn’t need another member of his team going rogue, as was the case with her predecessor. He’d learned a hard lesson that day and had no desire to repeat his mistake with Cassandra. However, a recent threat uncovered by Delta Team made that a luxury he could no longer afford.
Normally each team operated independently from the others, but none of his teams had ever uncovered a plot that involved a relative of another team member. Until now.
He thought about the Boston police captain who had discovered that his own son planned to blow up a college cafeteria and carry out beheadings in the name of ISIS. When the father first sensed something was out of whack with his son, the kid wasn’t even a blip on any government agency surveillance. Luckily, the father didn’t ignore his own gut instincts. He called the FBI and averted a catastrophic attack.
It takes a certain type of man to be able to come to terms with the horrific revelation that his own flesh and blood is a monster—let alone have the courage to turn him in to the authorities.
Cassandra was smart enough to figure out Gavin had targeted her for one of his teams. He hadn’t expected anything less based on what he’d learned about her. What she didn’t know was why.
