“Mr. and Mrs. Villanueva,” she said as she extended her hand to the teary older couple sitting on the edge of the bed. “I am so, so happy to meet you.”
Later that same day…
“Again!”
Sucking in a deep breath, McKenna narrowed down on the target Alex had just sent down range to the thousand-yard line. Damn, he really thinks I can hit that tiny little red circle from here? Steadying her trembling arm while relaxing her grip—less recoil that way—she closed her left eye and—
“Both eyes open!” her personal drill sergeant barked, reminding her yet again that snipers didn’t flinch when their rounds fired. Apparently, they weren’t supposed to close one eye to narrow down on their target, either. Situational awareness. It was all about situational awareness, and a decent shooter needed both eyes open for that.
Sniffing at Alex’s continual badgering, McKenna straightened her spine and sucked it up. It was no wonder Beau cursed like he did. She too felt an f-bomb waiting to explode off her tongue. McKenna rolled one shoulder, not perturbed with Alex but also not quite sure she could ever perform to his high standards. The man was an intimidating beast of a teacher.
“Easy,” Alex ordered from where he stood a few feet to her right and to her rear where no expelled shells could hit him. Not that one would dare. He was made of stern, intimidating stone. Even if an empty shell did strike him, it’d probably turn to dust.
‘I can do this,’ she thought as gently, but with calculated precision, she squeezed the trigger—just like he’d told her—and, whew! Killed that target, dead center. The darn thing barely fluttered, and she was thankful she didn’t have to calculate distance and windage. Yet.
“Again,” he ordered crisply.
“As you wish,” McKenna whispered as she obeyed and squeezed the trigger of her very own precision-crafted SIG Saur Mosquito. Okay, so it was only a .22 LR, and ten percent smaller than its big brother, the P226, which Alex fully intended her to shoot. But this weapon was more than enough for now, and to be honest, it frightened her when he’d first placed it in her hand—loaded—and told her it was hers.
When she’d told Alex she didn’t want it, that she was afraid of it, that guns killed people, he’d sharply cut her off with a curt, exasperated, “No, they don’t. Get that through your head right now. Guns are tools like matches, axes, steak knives, and cars. Yes, they can all be used to kill people, but it’s the idiot behind them that does the killing. You can ban all the weapons in the world, and a murderer will still find a way to end a life.”
Well, alrighty then. McKenna honestly hadn’t considered that perspective.
“Empty the entire clip this time,” he barked. “Stop holding back. Don’t be afraid of your firearm. Chin up, not down. Look your target in the eye.”
McKenna did, though every round she fired didn’t quite strike the bulls-eye. A couple had the nerve to go wide, darn them. Swallowing hard, she ejected the magazine and laid the pistol on its side on her shooting stand, barrel pointed down range, before she turned to Alex and asked, “How was that?” Pretty darn good if I do say so myself.
He stood with his legs spread, his back erect, and a rangefinder lifted to his eyes. “You missed three out of ten,” he said without so much as a glance her way. “You can do better. Stop over-compensating. Load up. Do it again.”
Honestly, the man cut her no slack, but if this was how Beau became an expert sniper, so be it. She reloaded the magazines she’d just emptied, then set two aside while she slapped one home. Took a deep breath. Maintained correct posture. Cupped her left hand under her right so both cradled the SIG’s grip. Bit her lip because, damn, Alex was intimidating the hell out of her! Looked that damned bulls-eye in the—eye. Lined up the target just beyond the reticle, then…
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. She did it until the magazines she’d just reloaded were empty, then she did it all over again. After an hour of reloading and killing every target Alex sent down range, McKenna finally grew more confident. Not cocky, but more certain of herself and the extremely lethal firearm in her hands.
The pistol itself wasn’t hard to shoot or scary once she’d practiced enough. Over and over, she ejected spent magazines, cleared the occasional jammed round, and trained her wandering index finger to stay clear of the trigger until she’d sighted in and was ready to blast another bulls-eye.
But McKenna also learned another gun safety rule. Backstops were extremely important and a vital consideration she’d never, well, considered. But every single discharged round went somewhere, and if that somewhere was into a neighbor’s house or yard or, heaven forbid, his head—yeah. Not good. A thoughtless shooter could unintentionally kill someone. A child. Or a dog. It happened every day, and she didn’t want to ever be that careless person.
“Rules of engagement, McKenna,” Alex had explained. “A good sniper never forgets precisely where he is, where his target stands, or what’s behind that target. We don’t kill innocent people just to ‘get our man,’ and we don’t shoot into crowds like those idiots on TV.” He’d layered sarcasm aplenty on those last words. “That’s not who we are or how we work. We’re not trained killers or assassins. We’re honorable men and women who’ve stepped up to do a dirty job no one else has the balls for. At the close of every day, we sleep well because we’ve done our best, and the world’s safer because of us.”
“Understood,” she’d told him as she drilled the final paper target—a zombie rat—right through its one, bright red eye. There, take that.
“Good enough,” Alex growled. “Put your gear away. Now you’ll learn how to disassemble and clean your pistol. A clean weapon is a safe weapon. If you take care of it, it’ll take care of you.”
“Good enough, nothing. I did damned good today,” she shot back at him as she ejected the magazine, racked the slide to ensure all cartridges were accounted for, slid the trigger guard through the open breach, and replaced her now empty firearm in its protective storage case. Just like she’d been taught.
He canted his head, a gentler light in those silvery blues. “For a novice, yes. You did okay. For self-defense, no. Tomorrow you upgrade to the type of weapon I carry, a P226. It’s heavier and has full take down power. At the end of the day, you’ll be—”
“What caliber?” she snapped. Hey, if he could dish it out, so could she.
“Semi-auto, 9mm Luger,” he snapped right back. “It weighs in empty at thirty-four point four ounces. The weapon you fired today is based on the P226, which is why you started with a Mosquito. I babied you. I wanted you to get the feel of the weapon you’re going to carry the rest of your life. It’s important to make your pistol part of you. It’s not a baseball bat. It’s not a piano. And it’s not something to play with. The second you wrap your fingers around the grip, it’s your soul and your heart on the line every time you squeeze that trigger. Understood?”
Humbled at his fervor, McKenna nodded, sorry she’d poked him when she should’ve been serious. Man, the guy was a beast when it came to gun safety.
“You want pink?”
She blinked, not sure what he meant by that offhanded and extremely sarcastic question. “Excuse me, pink what?”
“Your weapon. Would you prefer a pink one?”
Why did she feel like this was a test question? “Why would I want a pink gun?” That sounded like Alex thought she was an airheaded Barbie doll who wanted a pretty toy instead of a deadly firearm for self-protection.
“So that’s a no?”
“Of course that’s a no. Little kids don’t need the mixed signals that kind of weapon would surely send. Guns have killed enough children, damn it. They’re not toys to play with, so why make them cute and pink?”
His eyes narrowed as if she’d finally said something he respected. “Just asking. Now let’s clean that weapon of yours.”
She followed Beau’s testy lord and master off the indoor range to his monster-sized black GMC pickup, her weapon stored
and her gun case in hand.
“Your place or mine?” Alex asked as he hit the ignition, and his diesel-powered vehicle rumbled and rattled to life.
“For?” she asked as she tucked her gear behind the passenger seat and climbed aboard.
“I never clean my weapons here. It’s easier at home. Less equipment to haul.”
That made sense. “I’m staying at China and Maverick’s for now,” McKenna admitted as she buckled her seatbelt.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I couldn’t go back to my place, and China offered, so yes. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Alex performed a careful K-turn and cranked the wheel, headed for the freeway. “Does Beau know I’m teaching you to shoot?”
“He knows I wanted to learn, but with him in the hospital, I didn’t want to wait any longer.”
“Good decision,” Alex replied, his tone still gruff but with a hint of admiration seeping into it. “People need to be able to rely on themselves. Glad you’re staying with the Carsons. I hear you’ve got a pet.”
That made McKenna smile. “One of Kyrie’s motherless kittens, yes.”
“Now that the rest of your aunts are in jail, I’ve got a proposal for you. But I want you to think about it before you give me an answer.”
She cocked her head, wondering what this formidable powerbroker could ever want with a pediatrician. “And that is?”
He shot her a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. “I want you to work for me. Libby Houston’s got her own practice now, and Harley’s wife Judy is always ready to lend a hand when one of the guys gets hurt. But I need someone on staff. Every day. Interested?”
Harley’s wife, Judy Mortimer was more than a good sport. A dynamic bundle of redheaded energy, McKenna knew plenty about the emergency room triage nurse. Judy ran a tight ship at the hospital, and she also had a way of running The TEAM whenever they gathered for picnics, dinners, or events as simple as one of the baby’s baptisms. The woman was a strong enough alpha that she gave Alex a run for his money.
“That depends,” McKenna murmured. “Is Beau still employed with you?” Because if you fire him, I’ll never work for you.
Alex nodded, his eyes on the hectic traffic. “Sure, why wouldn’t he be?”
“Just curious,” McKenna answered. “Do you have extra space in your building for a doctor’s office? An exam room or two? X-ray equipment? Things like that?”
He nodded. “Your office and exam rooms would be in the lower level alongside the gym and Zack’s PT area.”
“He handles physical therapy?” That was a surprise.
“Sports medicine,” Alex clarified. “It’s a sideline. He and David Tao keep us in shape.”
That explained The TEAM’s incredible physiques. “Let me think about it. I’d really like to talk with Beau before I commit.”
A smile creased Alex’s lip. “Then you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“I’ve recommended Beau for the Medal of Honor.”
Her jaw dropped. “Really?”
She’d never seen this side of Alex. He looked positively—sweet. “I’m not saying he’ll get it, and to be honest, it’s a long, drawn-out approval process. We won’t know for years, but I’ve spoken with his state senator and his previous CO, and…” The truck accelerated onto the interstate. “They’re both solidly behind the idea.”
“Why are you doing all this?” McKenna had to know.
Alex shot her a stern look. “Because I take care of my people.”
Which wasn’t precisely true. Alex didn’t just take care of his people. He took care of the world.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Finally. Home again.
“You want anything before we scram?” Connor asked. “Another bottled water? Pizza? I could call in an order for you?”
“Nah,” Beau replied as he perched gingerly on the edge of his recliner. He’d dressed in the clean clothes Connor had been good enough to retrieve from his apartment for the ride home. A pair of old ragged jeans, an OD Army t-shirt, and boots. But the walk from Connor’s SUV on the front curb to this modest living room was longer than Beau remembered.
Both Connor and Izza were in their TEAM apparel, simple black polos with the gold TEAM logo high on the left of their chest. Black work boots and jeans. Their ever-present gear bags, backpacks, and holsters. Beau’s severed finger was now successfully healing, but the recent wound in his back still hurt like a mother. Stubbornly, he’d refused the pain meds the hospital wanted to send home with him. The plethora of side effects those kinds of meds came with wasn’t worth the trouble.
“Man, you like white or what?” Connor asked as he scanned Beau’s apartment with its solid white walls, carpet, and furniture. “Feels like winter wonderland in here.”
“Yeah. White. It’s clean,” Beau replied. And it’s pure. Just the way I like it.
After living in the sewers and tunnels and streets of Las Vegas most of his childhood, white soothed his ragged nerves at the end of the day. It wasn’t just clean, it was untouched. Undefiled. Like Superman’s fortress of solitude, this apartment was more chapel than combat zone. And Beau intended to keep it that way.
“This place reminds me of a temple,” Izza said quietly, her big, brown eyes extra wide as she took in the only decoration on the walls, the simple gold-framed painting of Jesus H. Christ hanging beside the gun safe in the mostly empty dining room. The one of Him with a cream-colored robe pulled over His head and shoulders. The one with Him smiling, like He knew precisely who you were, but He liked you anyway. “You Catholic?”
He shook his head at his one and only Latino girlfriend. “Nah, but I know a guy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She jerked her head at the picture behind her, asking without words. Him?
“Yeah,” Beau admitted quietly. Him. He was by far no example of the Lord’s best work, but Beau knew what he felt the few times he’d prayed. He’d been a believer in the Man Upstairs since he’d popped in on that Army chaplain years ago. Not that for the life of him that he could recall why he’d made that singular visit, but yeah. Sinners and saints and all that stuff.
Beau knew now why Connor loved Izza. These two kids were a study in walking, talking romance. Everything they did, they seemed to do in sync and in perfect rhythm. Like they were made for each other. Izza was every bit the covert operator Connor was, but she came with feminine intuition and other womanly benefits men just didn’t have.
Once she decided she liked you, you became family, and she stepped up to take care of you. Like right damned now. Since the moment Beau manned up and apologized for being an ass, Izza had wholeheartedly adopted him. Not only had she and Connor brought him home from the hospital, but Connor said she’d filled Beau’s refrigerator with ready-to-heat containers of enchiladas, tamales, and this fantastic Spanish rice you had to taste to believe. His mouth salivated thinking about it. She’d sneaked some into the hospital for him, and yes, it was that good.
That simple kindness all by itself humbled Beau. Husbands with wives were lucky SOBs. They didn’t realize the power of a home cooked meal.
Izza cocked her head, her bouncing ponytail lying still on her back. “You’re a good guy, you know that, Jennings?”
“No, I’m not.”
Snorting—Izza’s very masculine way of proving she was always right—she leveled her fist and punched his bicep a good one. “Wise up, asshole. If I say you’re good, you’re good enough.”
“If you say so.” Beau grimaced, feigning that she’d actually hurt him, when there was no way in hell a tiny thing like her could. Being good enough for Izza was a big deal, but it felt odd verbally sparring with the woman he’d once believed he’d had no use for. Izza was something else. Totally devoted to that blonde, surfer-boy sniper waiting at the door for her, the one with an I-am-so-whipped grin on his tanned face, she’d still made room in her familia for a guy like—me.
Connor o
pened the door, his boot tapping impatiently. “Time to go, babe. The kids are waiting.”
And that was another thing. These two special operators had children! Yeah. Deep in the corner of his shriveled heart, Beau hated them because, well, they had everything he wanted.
“See ya later, Unco Bo-Bo,” Izza said airily as she headed for the door.
Yeah. He was never going to live that one down.
“Be smart for a change,” she taunted. “Do what the doc said. Get some rest.”
“Call if you need anything,” Connor ordered, stabbing his index finger at Beau in warning. “I mean anything. You’re not far from Mark and Libby’s new place, and Taylor’s just fifteen minutes in the other direction. We live just as close, so don’t be shy. Got it?”
“Trust me, he’s not shy,” McKenna said as she peered around the doorframe, the sparkle in her pretty green eyes the best part of Beau’s day.
His heart climbed up his throat and damned near choked him. How had she known where he lived? But mostly—Damn, what a sight.
Izza jerked her chin at Beau. “Hey, McKenna. You showed up just in time. Want to explain to this bad boy how recuperation works? You know, that whole rest, rest, and more rest concept we can’t seem to get through his hard head?”
“Army guys,” Connor chuffed. “Come on, Izza. CMIR. CMIR.”
Beau hadn’t heard that acronym before, but whatever secret code these two shared, it got Izza’s attention. That cocky little street fighter blushed.
“Only for you, babe,” she said as, without a backward glance, the door closed on her and Connor. Beau was pretty sure he heard giggling and an ass getting slapped out there in the hall, though there was no way to know if that ass belonged to Izza or Connor.
“Damn, those two have it bad for each other,” McKenna moaned. “Have you noticed that about your team, Agent Jennings?”
Oh, now she’s getting formal with me. “Come here,” Beau told her.
She stood across the room from him with her hands cupping her very curvaceous hips. “I mean, really? Alex and Kelsey can barely keep their hands off each other when they think no one is looking, and have you seen Zack and Mei Lennox when they’re together?” She rolled her eyes and fanned herself. “Talk about hot, hot, hot. Those two can burn an ice factory down.”
Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18) Page 37