by Kaylea Cross
“A pistol. Maybe a rifle too, but not until later. I want to see if I can get comfortable with a firearm first.”
A lot of people who’d been victims of gun violence were afraid of them. Seeing your entire family slaughtered in front of you was something else altogether. He admired her courage for wanting to face this, take this step toward conquering her demons. And he loved that he’d been the one she had reached out to. “All right.” He gestured to the registration desk. “After you.”
He knew the clerk at the desk. Filling out the paperwork took only a matter of minutes. After grabbing a Glock, ammo and protective equipment for them, he led her through the door onto the sound-safe viewing area. She stayed close to him, stood to his left as he stopped where she could get a good view of one of the Feds shooting a paper target at the end of the lane.
“You’ll need these,” he said, handing her earplugs, earmuffs and protective glasses.
“Thanks.”
He didn’t miss the nervous way she kept darting glances at the Glock. “It’s not loaded. Ammo doesn’t go in until we’re in position and ready to fire.” He pulled back the slide to show her that the chamber was empty, then released the magazine to show her it was too.
She nodded and relaxed a little. “Okay.”
He held it out to her. “Here.”
She hesitated, glanced up at him a second, then gingerly took it, holding the pistol away from her body as if it was a coiled rattlesnake.
“Like this,” he murmured, and maneuvered her palm and fingers into position around the grip. “Always keep the muzzle pointed downward and away from everything you don’t want to shoot at, even when it’s not loaded.”
She nodded and studied the weapon. He explained all the parts, and what they did. Then he had her watch the fed shoot for a few minutes, pointing out his technique, giving her some tips.
“Ready to give it a whirl?” he asked.
Expression solemn, she nodded. “Ready.”
Once they got their ear and eye protection on, he led her through to the range, to the last lane at the end, figuring a little privacy would make her more comfortable. He showed her how to load the magazine, slide it into position, then got her into a proper stance. She glanced at him over her shoulder, uncertain.
“I’ll guide you through everything until you get the hang of it.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Moving in to stand mere inches behind her felt strangely intimate. He did it slowly, giving her time to adjust to having him in her personal space, in a position that had to make her feel vulnerable after what she’d suffered. He wanted to help her past that.
Reaching around her body to place his hands on hers in a gentle but firm grip, he guided her arms into position and adjusted her aim.
She stood rigidly before him, arms outstretched. As if her body and mind rebelled at having a big, powerful man so close, and in a position where she couldn’t see him.
Brock didn’t move, letting the tension slowly bleed out of her muscles. The fruity scent of her shampoo teased him, his awareness of her so acute that he could track each steadying breath she took, could see the elevated pulse throbbing in her neck. “Okay?”
She nodded, squared her shoulders, her attention on the target at the end of the lane.
“Fire one shot when ready.”
She squeezed the trigger, jolted a little as the Glock kicked in her grip. Brock steadied her hands, helping absorb the recoil and preventing her arms from jerking upward. The round hit the extreme right edge of the target, missing the outline of the person’s head and torso completely.
“Adjust your aim a little down and to the left, lock your wrists.” He eased her hands into place and relaxed his grip, cradling her hands this time rather than controlling them now that she knew what to expect. “Again. Fire when ready.”
She squeezed the trigger. This time the bullet hit the target in the lower left abdomen.
“Good. Try again.” He eased his grip even more.
Victoria adjusted her stance and aim and methodically emptied the mag one shot at a time, the final few rounds hitting the target center mass in a ten-inch grouping. Brock counted out each shot, moving away from her little by little even as he wanted to stay close.
When the slide locked open on the final shot she stopped, lowered the weapon and turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “How was that?”
Damn, that sparkle in her eyes was pretty. “That was pretty damn impressive for your first time.”
The smile she flashed him squeezed his insides. “Can I do it again?”
If it meant putting another one of those smiles on her face, and him getting to be the recipient of it? “Absolutely. Release the mag, then you load it this time.”
He supervised while she loaded in the bullets and slid the mag home. Once he set up a new target for her he stepped back against the wall and folded his arms to watch, part of him feeling guilty as hell for the way his gaze roamed over her body while her back was to him, taking in the long, lean lines of her.
Victoria faced the new target, aimed, and methodically emptied the mag, ending with another grouping center mass, tighter than the first. Lowering the empty weapon, she turned to face him, pulling off her eye protection as she gave him another smile she couldn’t possibly know affected him so much. “That felt good.”
He grinned, completely charmed and a hell of a lot more interested than he had any right to be. “It looked good.” Almost as good as she did.
She broke eye contact, her cheeks flushing but the hint of a smile still in place. “I think I’m done for the day.”
“You sure?”
She met his gaze once more. “Yes. I got what I needed.” The look in her eyes told him she meant more than the opportunity to fire a weapon. “Thank you.”
“Then I’m glad. And you’re welcome.” He took the empty weapon from her when she held it out, got the door for her as they stepped back into the observation area.
“Would you be up for doing this again sometime?” she asked, stopping near the bank of long, wide windows along the inner wall.
“Absolutely.”
“Not sure I’m ready for a rifle yet.”
The weapon Ruiz’s men had murdered her family with. No surprise she wasn’t up for firing one yet. “That’s okay. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
She watched him with those dark, shadowed eyes for a long moment, a subtle but unmistakable tension winding between them. A bone-deep, elemental awareness of each other that made him go still and his heart pound.
His cell phone went off, shattering the fleeting intimacy.
Cursing silently, he pulled it from his pocket and checked the display, prepared to ignore it. But it was his team point man, so he answered, ninety percent of his attention still on Victoria. “Freeman. What’s up, my man?”
“You busy?”
Yes. “No, why?”
“Where are you right now?”
He met Victoria’s curious gaze. “I’m at the range.”
“I need a favor.”
Brock blinked in surprise. Freeman never asked anyone for anything, and wouldn’t unless it was important. “Name it.”
Freeman released a breath. “Just got a call from Taggart. Someone planted a bomb in Rowan’s rental car in her office parking lot. Her brother was critically injured when it went off.”
That drew Brock’s attention off Victoria completely. “Oh, shit.” Freeman was friends with the brother, and if Brock wasn’t way off base, something had been going on with him and Rowan a while back, too. Freeman would want to go to the hospital, but he was currently stuck acting as temporary security detail for Nieto’s mistress. “You need me to come take over for you there?”
“I would appreciate it.”
“Done. Text me the address and I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No worries. I’ll call you from the road.”
“Sounds g
ood.”
Brock ended the call and put his phone back into his pocket. Victoria watched him, her keen intelligence clear in those velvet-brown eyes. She catalogued everything, analyzing and drawing conclusions as naturally as breathing. It was easy to see why she’d been such a force to be reckoned with in the investigative journalism world. “One of my teammates. Rowan Stewart’s brother was just injured in an explosion at her office.” He only told her because she knew both Rowan and Freeman.
Victoria gasped. “Oh no, is he going to be okay?”
“Not sure. Sorry, but I’ve gotta go.”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped out of the way, clearing a path for him to the door.
His phone dinged in his pocket, no doubt Freeman giving him the address where he needed to go. Ignoring it for the moment, Brock stopped in front of Victoria, unwilling to leave without a real goodbye.
An overwhelming need to touch her pulsed through him. To forge their connection in a physical way. He held out his hand. “Good job today.”
The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. “Thanks. You’re a good teacher.” She slid her hand into his, the skin of her fingers and palm cool and silky against his own. And she held his gaze, showing him another glimmer of that steely inner strength he’d witness the night of her rescue, and acknowledging their connection.
Whatever it was, she felt it too.
Brock squeezed gently then made himself let go. He’d never enjoyed a shooting instruction session more.
Damn, he hated to leave her so soon, wished he could have invented a reason to spend more time with her, get to know her more in a relaxed setting, just the two of them. Dinner, maybe. Or even a walk somewhere she’d be safe. “Text me whenever you want to do this again. If I’m in town, I’ll make time to see you.”
Searching his eyes, she nodded. “I’m definitely going to take you up on that.”
I sure hope so. A smile curved his mouth. “Good.” He couldn’t remember ever being this absorbed in a woman. After today, it would be impossible to stop thinking about her.
He hurried for the door, aware with every step of the way her eyes followed him…
And that he liked it. A lot.
Chapter Eight
Rowan sat next to Kevin’s hospital bed, holding his limp hand. On the opposite side sat Nick, Kevin’s soon-to-be fiancé, though he didn’t know it yet.
Staring down into her brother’s swollen, battered face, she pressed her lips together and prayed he’d get the chance to live his happily ever after.
“He’s gonna be okay,” Nick said to her quietly, stroking his thumb over the back of Kevin’s other hand. “The doctors had to sedate him to help him heal, that’s all.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The shockwave from the blast had ruptured Kevin’s eardrums and spleen. A surgeon had removed it and stopped the internal bleeding that had almost cost Kevin his life. He’d been conscious when they’d put him on the operating table, and all brain scans showed no sign of permanent injury, merely a concussion.
Beneath his closed lids his eyes were swollen out like golf balls, a hideous, almost neon purple. They wouldn’t know about his vision until the medical staff reduced his meds and he regained full consciousness. Hopefully sometime tomorrow.
“You should take a break. Go get some coffee or something,” Nick said.
“No.” She was still full from the dinner Kevin had brought her. The thought of forcing anything else down her throat made her stomach gurgle. “I can’t leave him.” Her parents were outside the room talking to the doctors. They’d met her here within minutes of Kevin arriving in the ER.
Nick reached across Kevin’s legs to cover her hand, bringing her gaze to his. His deep brown eyes were bloodshot, but full of understanding and kindness. “You didn’t do this to him, Rowan. It’s not your fault.”
Her breath hitched on a strangled sob. “Yes it is,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely get the words out.
“No. Honey, no.”
She nodded stubbornly, refusing to let him try and assuage her guilt. “It should have been me.” It would have been her, whenever she’d finally finished up for the night and gone down to her rental car.
God, who had planted the bomb? Logic dictated that it must be connected to the Ruiz case. But how would he pull something like this off from behind bars? Unless it was someone else from the Veneno cartel trying to send a message. Nieto maybe?
Investigators were working on it now. It scared her to death to know someone had tried to kill her, but seeing her brother lying so still and fragile in her place was far worse. Whoever had targeted her had clearly intended for her to die tonight. And they hadn’t cared who else was caught up in the blast. Another clue. The sophistication of the operation, the method and the nonchalance about collateral damage bore all the hallmarks of the Venenos.
Nick squeezed her hand, his brows drawing together in a fierce frown. “Hey. Listen to me. It’s no one’s fault but the sickos who planted the bomb. The FBI will find out who soon enough. And when Kevin wakes up, he’ll want to know you’re safe.”
She’d been holding it together really well given the circumstances, but at that her eyes filled. She blinked fast, staring down at her brother once more, impatiently swiped away the tears that fell. Nick was right. That was so Kevin. To wake up like this in the hospital after having major surgery, find out what happened and immediately worry for her safety, rather than his own.
Nick gave her fingers one more squeeze and released her, sitting back in his chair. “Kevin’s going to be okay. And he won’t be alone. I’m not budging from this bed until he wakes up.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “Not sure if I ever told you this, but I really love you, you know.”
His answering smile was warm but tired. “Thanks. I love you too. I always wanted a sister. My brothers are total pains in the ass,” he said fondly.
The door to the private room opened and her father appeared, his face drawn. “Rowan. There’s someone from the DEA here to see you. Says he’s a friend of Kevin’s.”
“Who is it?”
“Special Agent Freeman.”
Surprise flashed through her, but Nick spoke first, sounding surprised. “Malcolm’s here?” Nick had been there the night Kevin had introduced her to Malcolm.
Her father gestured down the hall. “He’s out in the waiting room. Wanted to speak to Rowan privately.”
She glanced at Nick in indecision. She wanted to see Malcolm so badly, but hated to leave her brother.
“It’s okay, go,” he told her. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“I won’t be long.” She let go of Kevin’s hand, fought the stab of guilt that pierced her chest and stood. Her leg and back muscles were stiff from sitting hunched over for so long, and the headache was a dull pounding in her temples.
Ignoring her father’s questioning look, she turned sideways to pass him in the doorway and headed down the hall toward the waiting area. Her mother was at the nurse’s station asking more questions. Rowan nodded at her on the way by and quickly looked away, not wanting to invite conversation or field any questions at the moment. She wanted to find out why Malcolm was here.
The door at the end of the hall loomed larger and larger as she approached, her high heels clicking on the scuffed linoleum floor. If he was cold and distant to her right now she wasn’t sure she could handle it. Not after this.
Taking a deep breath to collect herself, she braced for the moment when she saw Malcolm. Then she pushed the door open, the tattered remnants of her emotional armor gathered securely around her to protect her aching heart.
MALCOLM STOOD FROM his chair when Rowan entered the empty room at the far end of the intensive care unit. She stopped just inside the doorway, her posture stiff, her face pale. There was blood smeared on the front of her top and her knees were scraped, the dried blood visible just beneath the hem of her pencil skirt. She’d obviously come straight here from the sc
ene and hadn’t had time to change.
“Hi,” she said quietly, her expression guarded.
He suppressed the snap of irritation that look caused. Now was not the time to wonder why she would feel wary around him. “Hey. I heard what happened and came as soon as I could.”
She nodded, her eyes a little puffy and red. “It’s fine. Thanks for coming.”
The inane, overly-polite conversation was like barbed wire scraping over his skin. They were like two polite strangers facing each other. “Is he all right?”
“No. He just came out of surgery a little while ago. They took his spleen, fixed other internal bleeding. His blood pressure’s low now, but it’s stable. As far as brain injury, they think he’ll be okay. Not sure yet about his vision.”
Mal hid a wince. “I’m so sorry.”
She exhaled and lowered her gaze to the floor. “Thanks.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Besides hug you. God, she looked like she needed one, and he ached to wrap his arms around her, even if he never could again. Hugging her after the car accident yesterday had been pure reflex. He hadn’t been thinking, had just been so relieved to see she was okay. A mistake.
A shiny lock of ebony hair brushed against her cheek as she shook her head. “No. But I appreciate you coming down here. It would mean a lot to Kevin, knowing you’re here.”
But what about you? He bit back the words before they could burst out of his mouth. They were done. He needed to accept it on every level and drop it.
The pause lengthened, filling the space between them with a brittle silence as they stood facing each other. Mal tried to think of something comforting to say. As hurt as he was, as indifferent as he wanted to appear to her, he still cared and hated to see her torn up like this. Hated even more that someone had targeted her in the first place.
His blood pressure had dropped fifty points when Taggart had told him about the explosion. It was shitty enough that Kevin had been so badly injured. But when Mal thought of Rowan being in her brother’s place right now, when he imagined her walking out of the building juggling her briefcase and files and pulling out her keys to unlock her rental car…
