Page 84 of My Crazy Killers
“Oh, so it’s a naughty list now? Would I be on the bottom or top?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and even though I groan at his ridiculousness, it helps to break the tension; even Sly looks like he almost-kind of wants to smile.
“Okay, so first we go shooting, then we come back here and plan,” Elias says, setting the laptop down and pushing to his feet.
“And then we party!” I say happily as I smile at him.
“Shouldn’t the celebration come after we defeat the bad guys?” Pete asks.
“That’s not what the party’s for,” I tell them, my eyes meeting Elias’s.
“Then what’s it for?” Pete asks.
“Today is Elias’s birthday!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ELIAS
Ihadn’t celebrated my birthday in years. I’d almost forgotten about it, and as soon as Wren realized what the date was, she was set in her plan to make the rest of the day special for me, apologizing profusely for not realizing sooner.
Having her fawn all over me definitely wasn’t a hardship, though, so I didn't really mind if she wanted to make a big deal about it. But right now, I have more important things to worry about.
I watch Wren take aim, and I’m unsure whether I want her to hit the targets or not. Leaving her back at the hotel tomorrow would make me feel better about her safety, but there’s also a part of me that worries that the second we leave her alone, Ivan will find her. I suppose we could ask Harry to watch her, but as much as he had proved to be on our side, I couldn’t trust him with her life.
Which means she really was safest being in the field with us. And she was right. If planning to do this kind of thing long term, she wouldn’t be okay with being left at home tobake cookies each time we went into battle. Wren had been stuck at home her whole life; this was her opportunity to get out and experience everything. Even if killing bad guys isn’t my first choice, letting her choose what she does is.
So as she squeezes the trigger and her first shot misses the target I made, I frown, hoping that she can actually pull through and hit the majority of them.
“That was a practice shot,” she says, carefully lowering the gun as she stares at the untouched sheet I cut into the silhouette of a man and attached to the trunk of a tree.
“There are no practice shots in the field," Sly tells her from my side, where we’re all safely standing a good fifteen feet back, directly behind her. “That’s one.”
“Fine,” she grumbles, before lifting the gun and taking aim again. She holds it tightly with both hands and fires. The shot rings loud but clearly misses again.
“That’s two,” Sly says loudly. She lowers the gun to the ground before turning her head to narrow her eyes at Sly.
“I can count, thank you.”
“Just making sure,” he fires back.
She hasn’t hit anything, in any of the times we’ve come out here, at least none of her intended targets. Maybe the two-handed approach wasn’t working for her.
“I think we should change up your grip,” I tell her as I move in behind her.
“You’re just trying to mess me up. I was closer that time.”
“You really weren’t,” I whisper in her ear. “But I think you should try holding it with one hand. You’re used to the recoil now. It might take you a shot or two to get used to it with one hand, but you might find you have better aim,” I explain as I remove her left hand and place my right over hers, and we lift the gun together as I show her how to hold it.
“Now look down your arm and the barrel and aim.”
“Do I close my right eye?”
“No,” I shake my head. “That’s for snipers.”
“Wait—You weren’t closing an eye before, were you?” I ask, realizing what the problem might have been.
“Kinda.”
Some chuckling breaks out behind us, but we choose to ignore it. “Okay, well, that might explain your aim then. You want to try with two hands again, but keeping your eyes open this time?”
