Page 31 of Collateral Damage
"Let’s assume I agree," she says. "I spend the next five minutes learning how not to shoot my own foot."
She gestures vaguely toward the dark trees.
"Do you really think I stand a chance?"
"Your chances improve."
She holds my gaze, weighing that. "That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement."
"It’s the truth."
Her nose wrinkles, then she nods. "All right. Show me."
I retrieve my backup and bring it out along with a box of ammunition and ear protection. We move away from the cabin, toward the tree line where the snow is undisturbed.
"First rule," I say. "Never point it at anything you're not willing to destroy. Second rule: keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Third: always assume it's loaded."
She listens intently, her focus absolute as I pull the gun out from my pocket and rack the slide. "Take it," I say, holding it out grip-first.
When her fingers wrap around the handle, I step in behind her to correct her form. I keep my touch clinical, my hands covering hers to show her the proper overlap of her fingers. The scent of her—rich honey and dark, intoxicating jasmine—is sharper out here in the frozen air. I find myself lingering a second too long before I force myself to let go.
I move to her side, adjusting her stance with a light tap of my boot against hers to widen her feet. "Lower your center of gravity," I mutter, my voice tight. "Lean into it. Don't let the gun boss you around."
I reach out to steady her shoulders, my thumbs pressing into the heavy fabric of her coat.
"Good," I say, stepping a full yard away. "Now you can take a few practice shots. Aim for that tree trunk about fifteen yards out."
She takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and fires. The Glock recoils, but she keeps hold of it.
"Again," I say, loading another round. My eyes are on the target, but my peripheral vision is locked on her. Every time the gun kicks, her body tenses, and every instinct I have wants to step back into her space to steady her. I stay rooted to the spot.
She adjusts her stance slightly and fires. This time, she's ready for the kick. The shot goes wide, but closer to the tree.
"Better. One more."
The third shot hits the bark.
"Good." I take the weapon back, our fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric second during the hand-off. I clear it and holster it immediately. "That's enough for today. You did well."
Ava pulls off the ear protection, her cheeks flushed from the bite of the wind. She doesn’t look thrilled. She looks like she’s just performed a surgery she didn't want to do.
"The kinetic energy," she says, her voice steady but quiet. "You feel it in your marrow. It’s... a very absolute sort of power, isn't it?"
"It’s a tool, Ava. Nothing more."
"No," she says, looking at the tree where the bark’s splintered. "Stethoscopes are tools. Scalpels are tools. This is a period at the end of a sentence." She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "Do you ever get used to the weight of it?"
"If you get used to it, you shouldn't be carrying it."
She weighs that, a small, somber nod of agreement. "Fair enough."
We start walking back toward the cabin, boots crunching through fresh snow. The world is impossibly quiet now, the gunshots already fading, swallowed by the white stillness. The air’s thick with the scent of frozen pine, the only heat coming from the steam of our breath.
We're halfway back when Ava stops abruptly, her hand shooting out to grip my arm.
"Look," she whispers.
I follow her gaze, my hand instinctively hovering near my sidearm before I see what she sees.
