by RJ Blain
All three doctors stared at me, but it was Mr. Dr. Sampson who replied, “You don’t want painkillers?”
“It doesn’t hurt that bad.” It was the truth, too. “Don’t tell my instructors I said this, but please, please, please let me play with some guns. Please. Please.”
“Look at her, Dad. How can you refuse such a face? If you refuse, I’m going to tell Agent Thomas you made his beloved woman cry after you stole her away from him.”
In that moment, I realized the real threat was my psychologist, and not even her parents were brave enough to face off against her. I wisely kept my mouth shut, waiting for the final verdict.
“Don’t make me regret this, Melissa,” Mr. Dr. Sampson warned.
Mrs. Dr. Sampson stared at me before turning her gaze to her daughter. “This is going to be interesting.”
The doctors took me to a firing range operated by the British military, and the supervising instructor handed me a Beretta M9 with a magazine loaded with live rounds. For the first time since I had woken up with Jake at my side, I was free from the sling immobilizing my arm. I went through the motions of stretching my shoulder, hissing at the stiffness and pain radiating from the joint. A bandage kept me from bleeding all over the place.
If I could shoot a gun, even for a few minutes, I didn’t care if I set back my recovery.
A sheet of paper was about to become confetti, and I looked forward to every last second of it. I paid a minimal amount of attention to the instructor as I systematically dismantled the Beretta, checked it over, reassembled it, and loaded it. My right hand was so weak I doubted I’d be able to hold onto the gun no matter how hard I tried. With my mufflers in place, I stared at the supervisor and waited for his nod of approval to start firing.
When he gave his permission, I shifted the weapon to my left hand, took aim, and fired. I kept firing until I emptied the magazine. I dumped it, grabbed the spare from the sill, reloaded, and kept shooting. Five magazines later, I scowled at the empty sill.
Why couldn’t standard magazines hold more than thirteen rounds? Sighing, I stooped, gathered the empty magazines, and went to work refilling them. When I finished, I lined them up on the sill, set my empty gun beside the magazines, and reached up to remove my mufflers.
My three doctors stared at me, their mouths hanging open. The supervisor pulled in the target, spreading it out over the sill.
The three holes outside the kill zones should have annoyed me far more than they did. I wanted to grab the sheet and hold it close.
“Agent Thomas, I was under the impression you’re right handed.”
I widened my eyes at the middle-aged man with bright blue eyes and sun-blond hair. “If I had been using my right hand, sir, I wouldn’t have missed.”
His gaze dropped to the sheet, focusing on the three stray rounds. “Ma’am, they’re still within the silhouette.”
“But they’re not in the kill zones, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider defecting, would you?”
I blinked at him, but before I could come up with a reply, Melissa clapped her hand over my mouth. “She politely declines.”
“Pity. If this is her off hand, I would love to see what she can do with her main hand.”
“Think you can handle a few rounds with your right?” my psychologist asked, lowering her hand from my mouth.
“Are we placing bets on how many shots I last before I drop the gun?” I replied, eyeing the Beretta warily. “I don’t know if I’d be able to keep a grip on it after one. It’s sore enough from stabilizing my left.”
My left hand, shoulder, and arm ached from the effort of holding onto the Beretta after so long without practice.
“Let’s not push our luck,” Mr. Dr. Sampson spluttered. “Does she qualify, Lieutenant?
My supervisor, one Lieutenant Wilhelm, gaped at my orthopedic surgeon. “You’re bloody fucking with me, aren’t you? Damned yanks.”
“Translation: don’t ask stupid questions,” I offered, stretching my hands in my effort to resist the urge to put my mufflers back on, hunt down another sheet of paper, and murder it as enthusiastically as I had the first. “Of course I qualified. What do I look like to you?”
“Someone who hasn’t touched a gun in over a month,” my psychologist replied.
In truth, since I had joined CARD, I had limited my range time to the mandated number of hours. Instead of telling them that, I shrugged. “I prefer a Glock. My Glock.”
I wasn’t above faking a sniffle while regarding the Beretta with disdain.
Lieutenant Wilhelm laughed. “Bloody hell, lady. You’re something else.”
Maybe I’d never have Jake’s wide brown eyes capable of melting me from the inside out, but I did my best to imitate my partner’s saddest stare, turning it onto the man overseeing my qualification. “Please, sir, can I have some more?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just get it out of your system,” my psychologist muttered, throwing her hands in the air. “Mom, Dad, we may as well go find coffee. She’s going to be here for the rest of the afternoon.” Narrowing her eyes at me, Melissa put her hands on her hips. “And no, you may not defect. Lieutenant, please keep an eye on her. Someone erased the word moderation from her personal dictionary, and she has a great deal of pent up stress to work out.”
Lieutenant Wilhelm waited unto the three doctors left the firing range before turning to me and asking, “Machine guns?”
“Machine guns,” I agreed. Then I blinked. “Wait, machine guns?”
“We’re all about the hospitality here, Agent Thomas. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t show our guest our finest machine guns?”
“Of course. How silly of me. Please, Lieutenant. I would love to see your finest machine guns. How could I, in good conscience, refuse?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Handling a machine gun was both heaven and hell, and I found savage joy in turning targets into confetti although handling the weapon hurt. After my stint with the machine gun, Lieutenant Wilhelm introduced me to a wide variety of weapons to test. I trembled from pain and fatigue, and I shook my head when he tried offering me a small handgun.
I wanted to take it and empty its magazine, but I had reached my limit. The fact the weapon was a Glock made refusing even more difficult.
“I’m done,” I confessed, proud I didn’t allow my voice to dip into a whine.
“Bloody hell, lady. I thought you were going to be done after the first stint with the machine gun. You’re tough. Let me swap the paper and see what you can really do.”
I scowled but nodded my agreement, taking the Glock from him and checking the weapon over. The model wasn’t marked on the weapon anywhere, and while it had a serial number, it was different from any other Glock I had come across since joining the FBI. “What kind of Glock is this?”
It had unmarked settings on it, which stirred my suspicions.
“A special one. I think you’ll like it.” Once the paper was in place, Lieutenant Wilhelm took the gun from me, adjusted the settings, and handed it back. “Keep a firm grip on this weapon. It has an intense amount of recoil. I’d rather you didn’t punch yourself in the face underestimating it. Small package, big punch.”
I set the Glock down long enough to adjust my mufflers and stretch my throbbing body. I hurt, and I had no doubts the pain would be far, far worse later. Picking up the gun, I firmed my grip on it, took aim, and fired.
I dumped the entire magazine before I realized the weapon was fully automatic. Holding the trigger wasn’t one of my finer moments, but the gun’s recoil had taken me by surprise, and my instinct was to keep a death grip on the weapon so I wouldn’t drop it or point it anywhere other than my target.
“Holy fuck!”
Lieutenant Wilhelm dissolved in a fit of helpless laughter. “Your face,” he choked out.
Shock kept me staring at the target. When I recovered enough to blink, I stared at the little gun in my hand.
I wanted t
he weapon so much it hurt.
“Turn around for a moment, would you?” I begged.
The man snorted. “I know that look, Agent. You want that gun.”
“You have no idea.”
Laughing, he held his hand out for the weapon. “Sorry, lady. I’m not authorized to give you any weapons. I’m just the qualifier. Actually, this isn’t even one of our weapons. I just wish it were. It’s a loaner, and I had permission to let you fire it.”
“I’m so disappointed right now.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?”
“Understatement of the year, sir.”
“I’m sure those white coats will want to have a good look at you. Talk them into letting you pay us another visit. I’d appreciate another chance at talking you into defecting.”
I laughed. “Some ally you are.”
“If you ever change your mind…”
We had tried so many different weapons it took us almost an hour to check over the equipment and put it away. By the time we were finished, I was stifling yawn after yawn. To make matters worse, my stomach voiced complaints at my mistreatment of it.
The Glock was the only weapon that wasn’t returned to the range’s armory, and it took all my willpower to not stare at it in its holster, which Lieutenant Wilhelm draped over his shoulder.
“I should confiscate your weapon for poor transportation etiquette,” I informed him.
He chuckled, shook his head, and guided me down a long hallway to a cafeteria.
My three doctors were seated at a table with Jake and his parents. I halted, blinked, and rubbed my eyes to confirm my head wasn’t playing tricks on me.
Nothing changed.
“Huh. What are they doing here?”
“Who? Oh, the folks with the white coats?”
I pointed at Jake. “My partner.” I turned my finger to his parents. “Parents of the partner.”
“Ah, there’s the owner of the Glock.”
“What?” I shrieked, which captured everyone’s attention. Instead of answering me, Lieutenant Wilhelm headed for the table, leaving me to stand around like an idiot or follow. “Well, shit.”
I should have known; Glocks were the gun of choice for the FBI. Lieutenant Wilhelm offered the weapon and its holster to Pauline Thomas, who took it with a smile.
My mother-in-law owned the gun I wanted, and for a long moment, I contemplated how to get it out of her hands and into mine. Sighing my resignation, I strolled over.
Jake rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing as he inspected me from head to toe. “You’re shaking.”
While exhaustion played a big part in how much I trembled, so did the rush of handling more high-powered machinery in an afternoon than the FBI had let me operate in the entirety of my career. “Machine gun,” I blurted. “Rocket launcher.”
Jake’s eyes widened, and he jerked in Lieutenant Wilhelm’s direction. “You let her use a rocket launcher?”
“A little one, and we fired it with blanks.”
“Is there such a thing as a little rocket launcher?” Jake boomed.
“Jake.” I grabbed his arm and tugged. “Jake, it was beautiful.”
“They said I could let her fire anything I thought she could handle,” Lieutenant Wilhelm countered, pointing at the three doctors.
“I didn’t think to ask if they had rocket launchers,” Melissa admitted. “I said no vehicles. Maybe I should have been more specific.”
The psychologist didn’t seem very concerned by her oversight.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Pauline asked.
I sighed happily, closed my eyes, and savored the sore ache of muscles I had neglected for too long. I hurt, but I was free of the sling, I could use my right arm, and I could think without painkillers fogging my head.
“Karma?” Jake rested his hand on my left shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“You didn’t come back to the hotel. I was worried.”
“Machine gun,” I told my partner. Did I really need to give more of an explanation?
“Why are you at a firing range?”
“You didn’t ask that before you came here?” I peeked through my lashes and tilted my head to stare up at my partner. “Dr. Sampson required me to qualify with my left hand.”
“Did you?”
I opened my eyes wide and stared at him. “You doubt me?”
“You’re right handed.”
I clacked my teeth. “I’m not speaking to you.” I sat beside my psychologist and crossed my arms over my chest. The movement hurt, but my relief at having the freedom to do so outweighed the pain.
Jake followed me without letting me go. I wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, but I enjoyed his touch.
“Do you think I’d let her handle a rocket launcher if she didn’t qualify?” Lieutenant Wilhelm asked, his tone incredulous. “Of course she qualified. Her aim leaves a lot to be desired with the rocket launcher, though.”
“You’re supposed to aim them?” I blurted, staring at the man, widening my eyes to feign astonishment.
“If you defect, I promise you can fire the rocket launcher some more. Look on the bright side, you have a hell of a throw with your left hand, lady. You got some great distance with the grenades.”
I couldn’t help myself; I smiled. “Those were so satisfying.”
“Grenades?” Jake boomed. “Are you insane?”
“You’re not allowed to defect,” Jake’s mother informed me.
“Why do people keep telling me that?” I turned an accusatory glare at my three doctors. “You bring me to heaven and tell me I can’t stay? That’s mean.”
“Grenades?” Jake’s grip on my shoulder tightened.
“They’re about this big,” I said, using both hands to create the rough shape and size of a grenade. “When you pull the pin out and throw it, it explodes. The ones we were using made loud bangs and a bright flash.”
“I know what a grenade is,” Jake growled.
“Then why ask me?” I wrinkled my nose at him. To distract him, I showed him my right arm. “Look, Jake! No sling. I’m free.”
“You’re pale and shaking.”
“It hurts like fucking hell, but I’m free, Jake. No more sling!” Euphoria at having a functional arm had me shifting my weight in my seat. “Jake, look. No sling.”
“Jesus, what did you give her this time? So help me, if you gave her Demerol again…”
“For safety reasons, the painkillers were out of her system before we brought her onto the range. We confirmed residual quantities through blood testing before we left the hospital,” Mr. Dr. Sampson reported. “I’m rather intrigued by her response to the lack of medication.”
Mrs. Dr. Sampson grabbed my sling, which was lying on the table. “You should put the sling back—”
Ducking from beneath Jake’s hand, I bolted out of my chair and headed for the door, determined to escape having to wear the confining sling ever again.
I managed to evade Jake long enough to get outside before he caught up with me, tossed me over his shoulder, and carried me back to the cafeteria. I whimpered my protests between pants, ineffectively beating at his back.
“Put me down!”
“So you can run again? I don’t think so.” Jake secured his grip on me, one hand holding the back of my knees while the other gripped the back of my shirt. “What has gotten into you?”
I went limp over his shoulder. “I don’t want to wear the sling.”
“Your shoulder hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t you start with your damned logic, Jake. I’ve been wearing that thing for weeks.”
“You’ve also spent most of those two weeks either unconscious, in a drugged stupor, or trying to kill everyone around you, thanks to them testing painkillers so you wouldn’t become addicted to morphine. Strapping my wife to the bed so she doesn’t
commit homicide is not one of my favorite activities.”
“If I don’t remember it, it doesn’t count.”
Jake sighed, leaning his head against me. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Don’t let them put me back in the sling. It’s impossible to get off without help,” I whispered.
“If the doctors say you wear the sling, you’re wearing the sling, Karma.”
“I refuse.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“That’s unfair. It’s my shoulder. I should be able to decide for myself if I wear the sling or not.”
Jake carried me through the cafeteria, lowered me from his shoulder, and placed me on a chair, both of his big hands on my shoulders, pressing down hard.
It hurt like hell. Recognizing his tactic for what it was, I forced my sweetest smile despite the blood draining out of my face from the pain stabbing through my right shoulder.
Jake gave a little squeeze.
“You bastard,” I hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to keep my smile fixed in place.
“Please forgive my partner,” Jake said in his sweetest voice. “She seems to have an abundance of energy right now.”
Clearing her throat, Jake’s mother pulled her Glock out of its holster and systematically disassembled it, spreading the pieces across the table to examine each one in turn. I licked my lips and watched the woman’s every move.
“Agent Thomas?”
I canted my head to listen to my psychologist. Jake replied, “Yes?”
“Just testing to see if she has come to terms with her marriage,” Melissa replied. “I’m a little concerned with her interest in Mrs. Thomas, however.”
Jake leaned over, pressing his cheek to mine. “Until she has a weapon of her own, I’m pretty sure anyone carrying a firearm is going to be the subject of her interest. I may have had access to a gun for over a week—”
I sighed at the unfairness of it all, although I did understand.
“I haven’t been carrying it, Karma. I specifically refused until you qualified and had your own firearm. What am I going to do with a gun in our room?”
“Shoot anyone who comes near me while I’m recovering.”