“Sorry about squishing you all night.”
“Stop already,” he says. “Don’t bring it up again.”
“All right.”
I wonder whether I upset him and turn to see. He smiles brightly at me in the early morning light. I duck my head.
He reaches up and tousles my hair. “I like your hair better down like this than in a braid. It’s fun.”
“Fun isn’t something I associate as a priority for you.” I smile at him.
“I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought.”
“I really don’t.”
I sit up and he pulls back, swinging his legs out and over the supply bags. I yank my legs up next to my body. When he sits up, it strikes me again how much bigger he is than me. He gazes out the window peacefully.
The moment’s so quiet that it startles me when he says, “I’m going to take down the perimeter wires. Can you start pulling down branches?”
“Uh, sure.”
Sam’s wires were so well laid, I can’t see them when I look. I force myself to stop watching him so I can take down the branches covering the truck. I pile the biggest ones into the truck bed.
Sam raises one eyebrow at the pile when he returns.
“I thought if we put your bags down over them in the back of the truck, maybe we’d save ourselves some time tonight.”
He shakes his head. “It’s a good idea, but I don’t have twine and I can’t risk the bags flipping out the back. They’re heavy, but it could still happen with wind gusts. Plus, I’m not sure what kind of trees we’ll stop near, and the cover for the truck has to match or it won’t be very effective.”
“Duh.” I’m an idiot. I hop up on the truck bed and start pulling the large branches out. He reaches over easily and grabs all but one remaining branch in a single, smooth movement.
I pick up the last one just before he swings the bags from the cab back into the truck bed. I pull three granola bars from my bag and hand him two.
“Breakfast. That I can handle.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh!”
“What?” Sam asks.
“My snares.” I hop up and run out to check them.
Nothing else. I’m not too disappointed. I don’t relish the idea of a dead critter in the truck with us, or even worse, a live one stuffed in a bag waiting to die.
I stuff the empty snares back into my bag and open the door to climb back into the truck cab. “We’re off now, right?”
“Not yet. We left hot yesterday so I didn’t have time to stop for this. We’re still in a hurry, but it’s important.”
“More important than surprising WPN to sneak in and then back out with a cure for the disease that almost eliminated humanity?” I ask.
He reaches into the back of the truck and pulls a black box from one of the bags. He opens the box, pulls out a gun, slides a magazine into it and holds it out to me. I’ve avoided guns pretty uniformly since I watched my dad bleed out from a gunshot wound. Even on guard duty, they always let me choose a tranq gun.
I take a step backward. “I’m good. I passed basic training.”
“Not with me, you didn’t. I need to know what you know.” He holsters the gun, grabs a bag, and walks away from the truck and down a path toward a clearing.
I jog after him reluctantly. “Assume I’m useless and maybe I’ll surprise you in a pinch.”
He ignores me. “Because you’re so tiny, we’ll start with a twenty-two.” Once I reach him, Sam places it in my hands and wraps my fingers around it. “Normally you’d get a firearm of your own after you Pathed and someone from Defense would teach you a refresher and give you marks. Those marks ensure your basic aptitude and let us assign you an emergency security post. Since you haven’t had your evaluation, I need to see what you can do. I can’t have you running around without a gun anymore. Not if we’re going in tactically.”
The black handgun’s heavier than I remember from basic. I try to recall what to do with it, but it’s been too long. I try to hand it back to Sam. “I hate guns, okay?”
He looks at me flatly, ignoring my attempt. “You need to know how to use it.”
“Show me with a tranq gun. I remember those details way better.”
He shakes his head. “We have one tranq, which I will carry and use whenever I can. We don’t have two, so you won’t even have one. Plus, its range sucks and it’s harder to use, which is why I’ll hold on to it. If it’s safe to use a tranq, I will. Otherwise we use regular, old, bullet-filled guns. I’m not saying you have to fire this live. I hope you never do, but if it comes to it, it won’t be my fault you aren’t trained.”
I try again to pass it back, spinning the gun around by the circular area near the trigger.
Sam holds up his hands. “Whoa tiger, let’s go over a few rules first. Number One, always assume a gun is loaded. Number Two, never point this at someone when it’s loaded unless you plan to shoot them. They should’ve taught you that in basic.”
“It’s been a while.” Plus, I tuned out most of what they told me. I turn the firearm toward the ground. “Is this loaded?”
“Do I look stupid to you?” he asks.
“You really want me to answer that?”
Sam scowls. “You saw me put in a magazine, but you didn’t notice it was empty. In any case, if you don’t know, you behave as though it is.”
“I assume that means I need to load it first?”
When it becomes clear I don’t know how, Sam shows me how to pull the magazine out, put bullets in it, and put it back in. He makes me show him the safety and the trigger and pretty much all the other gun essentials. I remember some of them, but I stop him before he starts in on cleaning techniques. “Is this really critical?”
“Not interested in cleaning, huh? Typical girl. Only the showy parts.”
“Umm, I think you mean typical guy. I’m focusing on what matters.”
“I think you’re ready to fire.” He reaches over and plucks the gun from my hands, keeping it pointed away from both of us. I follow him to the edge of the clearing. He circles behind me and reaches his arms around to place the gun back in my hands. Somehow, in those few seconds, he screwed something onto the end of it.
“What’s that?”
“It’s called a silencer or sometimes a suppressor. Typically, you wouldn’t use one. It’ll mess with your aim, but I don’t want the report from the gun to attract anyone’s attention. We’re still annoyingly near Marked territory and they’re bizarrely aggressive right now.”
“Okay.”
He presses my hands back over the gun and moves his hands down to my hips. It’s hard to focus with him wrapped around me, but I’m grateful for the distraction. I do not want to be touching this thing.
He shifts my hips gently. “Stand like this. Now, go ahead and shoot at that big tree whenever you’re ready.”
He steps back, and I almost drop the gun. I need to learn, though. I’m tired of being a drain. I think about the kids shooting at us. I should be able to help defend us if we’re cornered again. And what if Sam’s in danger and he needs me?
Ha. Yeah right. Focus, Ruby.
I close my eyes and open them again before any nightmares can spring to life behind my lids. I breathe in and out deeply and pull the trigger.
“I missed,” I say, disappointed.
“No, you didn’t. Look right there.” He points, and I squint.
“I missed.”
“No, you hit right below that branch that juts off to the right. See how it’s dangling?”
I bite my lip. “I wasn’t aiming at that tree.”
He laughs. “All right. Let’s keep practicing.”
I improve slightly. Sometimes I even hit what I aim at. “At least it should be easier to hit a person than a tree.”
“Harder, actually. People move, plus you feel guilty about it your first few times.”
“You don’t feel guilty?”
He shrugs. “Not anymore.”
My eyes widen. “Well, that sucks.”
“Part of the job. Keeping Port Gibson safe means guarding resources, and food’s scarce. Energy, too.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t want to path Defense, because even if I got over the guilt, I can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
He chucks me under the chin, which makes me feel about five years old. “You did great. Better than most.”
Most? My head fills with images of Sam shifting lots of women’s hips and wrapping his amazing arms around them to do it. I’m surprised when my nostrils flare, my fists clench, and bitter words erupt from my mouth. “Train a lot of young women, huh?”
“Young women, young men. They make the newbies do them all. I trained pretty much everyone for a year before Rhonda came along. New trainees have a tendency to follow the person who certifies them around like a puppy. It’s irritating.”
I suppress a snort. “I think they might have imprinted on you for more than your adept skills at handling a gun. I’d think you might like the adoration, actually. Most guys would.”
Sam’s brow furrows. “Why would I like it? Rhonda’s always trying to foist the training off on me. Says I’m better at it. Truth is, we all hate it, and she’d make up any excuse to get out of it.”
He says it so nonchalantly, like it’s nothing. I guess it’s a routine part of his job. I’ve watched girls flock to him for years, and it never bothered me before. Why do I care now? I probably feel sorry for him, getting hounded like that. He obviously doesn’t appreciate the attention.
“What part of the job do you like?”
He takes my gun and unscrews the suppressor. “I like most of it, and I don’t mind the rest.”
“You like shooting, right? Didn’t you get first in marksmanship in the Unmarked Games last year, and the year before?”
Sam shrugs.
“I didn’t realize you were so modest. You’ve taken it every year since you Pathed. That justifies a little pride.”
I remember Sam winning medals year after year. He never even smiles when they award him. I want to know why he’s so stoic about it all, so I keep after him. “Your dad must be proud. You medaled in like, seven things that first year, right?”
“Dad wasn’t proud. He said it doesn’t mean much to win against a few hundred thousand people. He medaled in the real Olympics. Before. The Olympics that mattered, competing against the entire world. Millions. Billions. I’m the biggest fish in a pet store tank, and he swam in the ocean.”
“That’s a pretty crappy thing to tell your kid.”
Sam shrugs again, but it doesn’t bug me. Not anymore. I used to think he thought he was better than everyone. Now I know he’s as modest as they come.
“Is that why you transferred to Port Gibson? To get away from him? Nashville must be way more exciting. Since your dad’s the leader of the Unmarked, you could pretty much go anywhere. You could’ve stayed there, in the largest Unmarked city, the capitol.”
“I wanted to get as far from him as I could,” he says. “And I know people in Port Gibson.”
People, not just my family, or he’d have said he knows us. Which reminds me—Rhonda mentioned a week or two ago that he liked someone. Maybe he came to Port Gibson for a girl? Even though he denied liking her earlier, I wonder whether he came for her.
“You wonder if what was for who?” he asks.
I must’ve said that last part out loud. Ugh. “Nothing.”
He looks at me funny. “What’re you talking about?”
“Rhonda said. . .Nevermind. It’s just, I heard you liked someone. I was wondering who.”
He looks away when I mention Rhonda’s name. I rack my brain trying to think of who I’ve seen with Sam, but I can’t think of anyone. He’s a serious loner. He comes to our house to hang out with Job sometimes, and he stays for dinner occasionally. Other than visiting our house and going to work, I never see him with anyone. Not that there’s much to do or many people to be seen by or with in crummy little Port Gibson. Plus, with as often as I get out, he could have girls at his place every night and I’d never know.
Finally, he speaks. “Rhonda told you that?”
Now that he’s talking, I realize I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear about the girl he likes.
“No, she told me . . . never mind. I was teasing you, that’s all. It’s none of my business.”
“You don’t want to know?” He opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Definitely not. It’s none of my business, and I’m sorry I asked.”
“Right.” He shakes his head. “Port Gibson’s pretty small. Hard to keep anything a secret.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve known all about your boyfriend for a while, for example.”
“Then you don’t know anything,” I say. “I mean, Wesley’s—”
“Your boyfriend.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Why do I even care what he thinks? Maybe because Sam seems to be changing so much. Although, if I’m being honest with myself, Sam might not be the one who changed. I clearly made some snap judgments about him years ago and never took the time to check them out. I spent all my free time signing up for Special Projects, trying to get to know Wesley. How would I know what Sam’s really like?
Maybe I’m the one changing.
“He’s Marked now, so I guess that complicates things.” Sam walks back toward the truck.
“Wait,” I say. “What about your turn?”
“My turn for what?”
“I want to see you shoot.” I put quite a few holes in the tree during my lesson. I wonder how much better he is.
“We need to go.”
“We have sixty seconds to spare,” I say. “You’ll be fast, and I bet I can learn something from watching you.”
“I don’t use this caliber.”
“I thought you were the best shooter the Unmarked has.” I put one hand on my hip. “Is the great Samuel Roth nervous?”
Sam whips the gun out so fast that I step back reflexively. “I could fire off a few, I guess.” He loads the magazine and clicks it in place.
“Wait,” I say. “You need the silencer.” I walk toward the box, but he waves me off.
“I’m not using it. It ruins your aim, remember?”
“Male pride.”
He smirks. “We’re leaving, so we can risk a little sound. I’m not sure I’d ever live it down if you told people my aim sucked.”
I roll my eyes. “Who would I tell?”
He reaches into his bag and grabs two pair of ear covers. He hands me one. “Put these on. You’ll need them without the suppressor.”
He slides his on while I do the same, then he holds the gun out, takes aim, and fires off several shots in quick succession. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he shoots several more times. They hit the trunk of the beech tree he told me to target earlier.
“Go check it out for me,” he says. “See if any of them hit.”
I raise one eyebrow, but walk across the clearing like he asked. When I’m close enough to see the tree, I gasp and run my fingers over the beech bark. It’s still hot around the new holes. His twelve shots fill in the blanks around the seven of mine from before. They transform my messy, erratic holes into the outline of a perfect heart. Unbelievable. I knew he was good, but not that good. I couldn’t even see the target clearly from so far away.
“Holy crap, Sam. How’d you do that?” He didn’t just have perfect aim, he put it into a shape. When I turn back, he’s looking at me intently. I’d always thought of Sam as a cartoon cut out. A big, dumb, brawny kid who never spoke. I mistakenly assumed it was because he had nothing to say. Maybe I never let him get a word in.
I turn back toward the trunk and touch it one more time. When he clears his throat right behind me, I jump. I’m beginning to hate how quietly he moves. I punch him on the arm and walk all the way back to the truck before noticing that he hasn’t followed. He�
�s leaning toward the tree for some reason.
“You coming?”
“I’ll be there in a second,” he says. “I ought to clean up all these casings. That’s why we have the reloading gear, right?”
I have no idea what casings are, but I’m beginning to care about things I paid no attention to last week. Guns usually trigger nightmares of the night Dad died. But when I climb back into the truck and close my eyes, I don’t think about the freckle nosed man, or my dad in a pool of blood.
I think of greenish gold eyes, and arms around my waist. And I smile.
Chapter 13
“What made you smile, sunshine?” Springs creak as Sam plops down on the truck seat.
I open my eyes and shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Okay then.” Sam turns the engine over, and puts it in gear.
I glance around, my eyes caught by the Cracker Barrel sign again. Maybe it’s a supply depot. Maybe it refers to cracking barrels open. “Where are we?”
“Close to Beaumont, Texas,” Sam says. “The Marked attack set us on a strange trajectory, but we’ve made it to I-10, so we’re back on track.”
Trajectory? I can’t believe I thought he was dumb. “I still can’t figure that out. Two large attacks in twenty-four hours. Bizarre, right?”
“They were looking for something the night they attacked Port Gibson.”
“Really?” I ask. “Any guesses as to what?”
Sam shrugs. “We don’t know exactly.” He glances at me and then looks back at the road. “Fairchild’s going to kill me for bringing you down here unless we return with a cure. I really hope your dad made one, and we can find it.”
“Me too,” I say. “For my aunt and everyone else.”
Sam glares at me. “Just say Wesley.”
My eyes fly wide. “It’s about more than just him.”
“Fairchild’s son is Marked, but if we don’t find the cure. . . this is bad. I should’ve circled back around to Port Gibson.”
Regret. That’s a feeling I understand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell everyone it was my fault. I take full responsibility, you know. Like you said, you were protecting me.”
Sam snorts. “I feel so much better knowing the minor in my charge will defend me. Thanks, but no thanks.”
Marked (Sins of Our Ancestors Book 1) Page 12
