Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“First things first,” I tell her. “We need to sort out your dominant eye.”
“Okay,” she agrees. “Tell me what to do.”
I stand behind her and reach for her arms, forming a triangle with her hands and then extending them.
“Have a look out there at that target,” I say. “And put it between that wee triangle.”
She does.
When she pulls it back, she says it’s her left eye. We test it a few more times to be sure and then continue.
“We’ll start with the Glock.”
I show her the basics first. The magazine and the trigger safety.
“I fired one like this,” she tells me. “And it wouldn’t fire a second time.”
That’s a conversation for another time.
“See this wee bit here. That’s the slide.”
I show her how it works and then explain the trigger.
“The weight of your finger needs to be evenly distributed. Ye need to fully depress this middle bit as well, or it won’t fire a second time. That’s the safety mechanism.”
“Okay.”
I hand it off to her.
“Aim it downrange and just get used to it in your hands,” I say. “The weight of it.”
She reaches out and grabs it, and it’s heavy in her small hands, but she handles it well.
“You carry this thing around on you all the time?” she asks in disbelief.
“Aye.” I smirk. “I do.”
“Jesus.”
“Bend your knees a wee bit.” I grab her hips and press a hand to her lower back. “Lock out your elbows and lean into the target.”
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“It feels good,” she says. “Now can I shoot it?”
Scarlett likes to feel powerful. There’s nothing more powerful than this. What she’s about to feel.
And I want to give that to her.
I teach her everything I’ve learned over the years. Everything Niall taught me. I show her the parts and how they all work together. I explain the difference between the revolvers and the semis and she feels the difference in recoil between them.
She’s a semi type of girl, she decides. And unlike the physical self-defense I tried to teach her, I actually have her full attention this time around.
Scarlett’s a good student. She’s by no means a pro, but I’m confident that she’ll be able to defend herself should she ever need to pick up a gun again. She learns quickly and follows my instruction well. Soon, the target has chunks of debris flying out as she hits it over and over again.
When we get to the AK’s, she’s surprised how easy they are to use.
“Why do ye suppose third world countries give them to child soldiers?” I ask.
She frowns, and I don’t want to dampen the mood, but I also need her to understand this is real. The lads and I have an arsenal, sure, but we don’t live in the Wild West and we don’t go around shooting them every chance we get.
We pack up, and she’s quiet.
“Ye did a grand job of it,” I tell her.
“I liked it,” she says. “You were right. It does feel like a high.”
I nod, and I know what she’s thinking about. Who she’s thinking about.
“I need their names, Scarlett.”
“No,” she says. “You don’t.”
“I can’t help you if ye aren’t honest with me. If ye don’t trust me.”
“It’s not about trust,” she says. “I’ve sown these seeds, and you can be damn sure that I’m the one who’s going to reap them.”
“Do ye have any idea what it’s like to hurt someone you didn’t mean to?” I ask.
“No,” she bites back. “Every person I ever hurt was because I wanted to.”
I sigh, and it only incites her further.
“I know you think you’re going to save my soul, or whatever. You Irish boys are big on that. But you can’t save what isn’t there, Rory. You think I’m going to regret it, but I won’t.”
“You can’t know that,” I argue. “And I won’t stand for ye to do this.”
“You don’t have to allow me anything,” she says. “I’ll do what I want. With or without you.”
I grab her by the waist and hoist her up onto the bench, pressing my body between her legs as I cup her face in my hand. I don’t know what to say to her to make her understand. It’s the same argument we’ve been having for months.
She’s still throwing a tantrum because I wouldn’t let her kill the butcher.
For all of Scarlett’s strength and stubborn will, she can’t see what lies beneath. Her fragile heart. The one beating in her chest right now, beneath my other palm.
“You kill people all the time,” she whispers to me. “And you’re still good.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her. “You didn’t know me before.”
“Before what?” she asks.
“Before my father. He was my first. The first kill.”
She’s quiet, her eyes moving about my face, and some of her walls crumble under the weight of my admission. So I tell her the thing I haven’t said aloud to anyone, even my brothers in the syndicate. I confess my sins to make her understand.