by KG MacGregor
“You load up and I’ll stick up a couple of targets,” he said as they reached the pistol range.
While stocking the spare clips for the Beretta, she noted the differential in price for cartridges. “See, here’s another thing. This ammo for the SIG runs ten bucks higher.”
“You’re gonna pay more to hit the target, Cap’n. It’s just a fact. Now if all you want is to get close, maybe pop Paper Man in the chest once every five or ten shots and get all excited about it, get the Beretta.” He opened a sleek black case holding the SIG and a pair of clips. It was indeed a sweet-looking gun, a brushed gray finish on the frame and slide, with a checkered grip. “They don’t make a better sight on a semiauto. Oh, and the trigger’s adjustable.”
She felt its weight in her hand, compact and balanced, not as clunky as the M9. “I’ll give it a try but I’m not promising anything.”
“Then do me a favor. Shoot the Beretta first.” He pressed the grip into her hand, not bothering with the showman’s presentation. “Clip’s already loaded. Gimme three body shots.”
She hadn’t fired a gun since Dahaneh, but that didn’t matter. Her Marine Corps training came back instantly as she assumed the stance, placing her left foot forward and bending slightly at the waist. There was a stark difference in which muscles came into play as she raised her left arm to steady her grip, an unnatural feel. With her head cocked, she closed one eye and lined the sights at the chest of the paper target Wes had hung on a hook against a hay bale. Focusing only on the front sight, she squeezed off three shots in rapid succession.
“Congratulations, Redeker. You managed to hit the bullet box.”
As she lowered her gun, she peered ahead and saw the target untouched. “Damn.”
“S’okay. You went high and left. What does that tell you?”
Basically it meant her wrist had probably cocked on ejection because her left hand wasn’t strong enough to hold the right one firm. “Let me try again.” This time she concentrated on locking her right wrist so it wouldn’t flail. Three more shots.
“That’s better. You caught him in the shoulder, but in combat we still call that a dead Marine.”
His words were jarring, prompting an unwelcome vision of Whitney Laird lying just inside the doorway of the small hut, bleeding out. As a wave of rage overtook her, Zann raised the gun again and emptied the clip.
“Pair of deuces,” he said drolly, an apparent reference to two shots that managed to hit the edge of the silhouette.
She knew better than to come out to a pistol range and fire without discipline. That’s what guys like Rocky did, all the while imagining they were Dirty Harry. “This is ridiculous. I’ve got no business out here if I can’t even hold a damn gun.”
“Nah, you’re all right. Just a little rusty is all. You’re gonna love it when you get back into it.”
She wasn’t looking to love it. What mattered was reclaiming what Hamza had taken from her and making sure she never gave up on herself again. From the moment his bullet ripped through her arm, she’d accepted her weakness as if it were a proud memento of heroism. How sick was that? She’d made it her excuse for all the things she couldn’t be—a Marine, a police officer, a lousy senior inspector. In the eyes of the Marine Corps, it even absolved her from killing Whit. But not for Vanessa…and not for Zann either now that she knew what her weakness had cost. A real hero fought through pain and weakness. A real hero triumphed.
“Yo.” Wes waved his hand in front of her eyes, breaking her stare. “How about you humor me now and give this Legion a try? Swear to God, if it doesn’t make you want to take it home and make love to it all night, I’ll shut the fuck up and sell you the Beretta for five hundred bucks.”
She studied the weight and balance again, even transferring it to her left hand to feel its stubbly grip with the three fingers that still produced sensation. “That’s a pretty good deal, Wes. I might have to fake it for that.”
“You won’t be able to. I’m telling you, the SIG’s gonna steal your heart. Seventeen-rounder. Now gimme three.”
The sight gave her a sharper view of the target, and its bright green color made it easier to focus. Concentrating again on holding her right wrist firm and the rest of her body in a state of fixed calm, she pulled back on the trigger once…twice…a third time, with a steady beat in between.
“Now that’s what I call shooting, Cap’n. See what I mean about marrying this gun?”
All three shots had landed inside the body, with one finding dead center in the chest.
“That was luck.” She aimed again and rang out three more, all of which belted the target with a thump. A smile she couldn’t control spread across her face.
“I accept cash or personal check.”
“Jesus, I honestly didn’t know a gun could make that much difference.” What if she’d been carrying one of these when Hamza came through the door? He never would have gotten off a shot.
“The SIG’s no ordinary gun. I wouldn’t carry anything else.”
She gestured toward his truck, shaking off her thoughts of Dahaneh. “So how come you have all these? What are you, an arms dealer or something?”
“Call me a collector. One of the reasons I jumped on this transfer was how easy it is to buy and sell in Vermont.” The state had virtually no restrictions on gun ownership, and actually prohibited government entities from interfering with a sale or requiring registration. Practically anyone who wanted to carry a gun could do so with no permit required.
She took a long, last look at the SIG and handed it back. “I can’t afford it, at least not today. But I’ll give you five hundred right now and another five at the first of the month when I get my check. You keep the gun till it’s paid for.”
“Aw, no way. I know you’re good for it. Pay me when you see me.”
It was way more than she’d planned to spend, not just for the gun but for the ammo. If she came out here a couple of times a week and got off a hundred rounds of practice, that was two hundred a month in cartridges, and one-sixty in range fees. An expensive hobby, money she and Marleigh would miss in their renovation fund. It wasn’t fair to spend that much without talking it over.
Except Marleigh would say no, not because it was expensive but because she hated guns. And that wasn’t fair either. Zann had every right to hold back some of her own money for things she wanted to do. Her Marine Corps pension was all hers, eight hundred a month. She’d earned that before she and Marleigh ever met. Spending it now to learn how to shoot again felt like a reasonable expense…even as she knew keeping secrets from her wife wasn’t reasonable at all.
* * *
Marleigh drew a deep relaxing breath and centered her attention on the fingertips and lips that gently teased her breast. This was Zann’s signature lovemaking style, easing her back down as their passion ebbed as if she couldn’t bring herself to let go. Precious moments like this defined their love.
There was no better bookend to a day that had gotten off to a difficult start. Though Zann still hadn’t opened up about where she’d gone that morning or with whom, at least she’d come home in a lighter mood. After spreading the gravel, she’d playfully pushed Marleigh around the yard in the wheelbarrow and even labored in the kitchen over an Internet recipe for French toast. An odd dinner choice, but a clear sign she was feeling guilty about storming off at breakfast.
“I love you so much, Captain Zann,” she murmured, feeling her eyes grow heavy with sleep.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Zann continued her tender caress. “About this morning, I mean. I met up with Wes, no big deal. I was a jerk not to tell you where I was going. There was no good reason other than me being stubborn. It’s just…I’ve been thinking you were right, that I ought to do more stuff with my friends. I let myself get in a rut, going to work every day and coming home. You and Bridget hang out all the time. It would be good for me to have my own friends too.”
“Of course it would if that’s what you want.” She struggled a
gainst the weight to sit up. “But I never meant for you to feel like I was pushing you out of the house or making you do things you didn’t want to do. I only encouraged you about the veterans group because I thought you might like meeting some other people around here who went through some of the same stuff you did.”
“I know and you were right. And now that I’ve made some friends…” She let the thought dangle so long, it became obvious she was struggling to justify her secrecy and irritation. “It’s really stupid that I got so agitated this morning because it’s nothing. It’s hard sometimes to figure out what I’m allowed to say to other people, even you. Take Wes Jackson, for instance. He’s a good guy, Eighty-Second Airborne. Like me, he’s seen a lot of action, so we hit it off pretty good. But I shouldn’t be the one telling his stories, just like I don’t want him telling mine to his friends.”
“That’s fine. Maybe you’ll bring him around one of these days and he can tell me himself.” As soon as she said it, she worried Zann would get annoyed again that she was asking to be let inside their inner circle. “But only if you want me to meet him. I’m not saying you need to.”
“Hmm…he’s kind of an acquired taste. Rubbed me the wrong way at first, but I like him now. I might even go so far as to call him my best friend.”
“Honey, that’s great.” It was an understatement to say she felt inadequate to fully engage with Zann over her time in Afghanistan. Obviously there were things Zann held back to protect her from the brutality of war, from the horror of how it felt to see people killed or to take another life. “I always thought it would be good if you could talk to somebody who could relate to what you went through.”
Zann relaxed and rested her head across Marleigh’s chest as she lay back down. “Would it be all right if I hung out with him on the weekends? Not all the time. Just maybe like today, a few hours on Saturday morning. Then you and I would have the rest of the day to ourselves.”
“Of course.” Even as she agreed, she admitted to herself the disappointment of losing a lazy morning in bed or a possible breakfast run to Rosie’s. They’d have to make up for it on Sundays. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” Zann whispered, once again nuzzling her breast.
“Don’t get mad, please. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on. Okay?”
Zann responded with the slightest tension, one Marleigh might not have even noticed had she not been looking for it. “You want to know why I’ve been such a jerk lately.”
“Kinda. Not really about you being a jerk, but it’s obvious something’s been eating at you for a while. I was wondering if maybe it had to do with Rocky. You never told me what you did, how you got him to leave. Did you get some of your friends to beat him up?”
“No! Jesus, people go to jail for that kind of stuff, Marleigh. Do you really think I’d risk something like that?”
Part of her felt guilty even for asking, but it bothered her more that she was uncertain. Zann’s secrecy had done that. “I didn’t want to think that, but I thought it was weird you never told me exactly what happened. We’ve always been able to talk about everything before. I figured whatever it was, it bothered you enough that you couldn’t tell me.”
Zann sighed deeply and rolled onto her back with her hands behind her head. “Marleigh, I’m not going to come home and brag about bullying a guy till he nearly wet his pants. That’s what I did and it’s not something I’m proud of. But guys like Rocky, they think it makes them tough that they keep their woman in line. Real men though, men like my vet friends…they stand up for women who need it. And that’s what I told him, that the guys in Colfax weren’t going to put up with him beating on Bridget like that. I said some friends of mine were already spreading the word around town, that he’d better not show his face anymore or somebody was going to call him out.”
It made sense that having people find out would be humiliating for a cocky prick like Rocky, especially if it meant someone bigger and stronger might rearrange his face. As far as Marleigh was concerned, there was nothing dishonorable about Zann putting an abusive husband in his place, no matter how she did it. She hadn’t crossed a line and therefore had done nothing that ought to keep her up at night.
The problem then…if her angst and restlessness had nothing to do with Rocky, what else could it be? She wasn’t sleeping well, and she’d been moodier, quicker to rile. There was the trip to Bethesda about that time. They’d examined her arm and certified her for whatever care might be necessary down the road. Nothing unusual, nothing unexpected.
That left only the veterans group. The timing made it plausible as a source of concern, and the people and their stories obviously meant a lot to her. It would be just like Zann to take on their problems as if they were her own. That’s what the officer in charge would do, especially if that officer was someone as noble and self-sacrificing as Zann.
The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Hearing about other soldiers’ difficulties adjusting to life after the military had triggered this uneasiness, and it would probably have to run its course. In the meantime, she was in no position to help.
Chapter Fifteen
“Zann, you need to calm down. What did you think you were going to do to that kid? Punch him in the face?” Marleigh barreled through the front door and threw her shoulder bag on the dining table. She’d never seen Zann so angry, so out of control. “It was just a stupid prank.”
She’d been pulling up to the house from work when a carload of teenage boys drove by and threw a brick at their mailbox, smashing it and knocking it off its post. Zann peeled out after them in her Jeep and yanked the boy from the driver’s seat at a stoplight. Thankfully, Marleigh had gotten there just in time to pull her off, and then stood defiantly in the road until Zann got back in her car and turned for home.
“What in the world has gotten into you? Since when do you go off on somebody like that? A kid, for Christ’s sake!”
Zann pushed by her into the bedroom without a word, clearly absorbed in her anger and unconcerned over a near disastrous incident. It was more than just the kids that had gotten under her skin lately. She’d been agitated for a couple of days for reasons Marleigh couldn’t fathom.
Ten minutes of cold silence followed, enough time for both of them to cool off, Marleigh thought. “I’m still out here if you want to talk. Come on…whatever this is, we can deal with it.”
Not even a grunt.
Resigned to make the first move, she slapped the sofa as she stood and pushed open the door to the bedroom. Zann was rolling up a T-shirt to stuff in her backpack. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Zann froze but didn’t look up. “There’s something I need to do.”
“I’ll say. You need to tell me what’s going on. You’ve been moping around here since Wednesday with a fuse the size of a hangnail. No matter what I say, you either ignore me or act like you’re going to bite my head off. So I’ll ask you again, what the hell is going on?”
“It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, that’s a relief!” She made no effort to cover her sarcasm. “I feel all better now. You know, for a minute there I finally understood what Bridget must have felt like, always tiptoeing around on eggshells because she was afraid of doing something to piss Rocky off.”
“Jesus, Marleigh. You know I’d never hurt you like that.”
“You mean because you haven’t knocked me around? I’ve got news for you—there’s such a thing as emotional abuse too.”
She slammed the door and stormed back to the other room. This was the same tired bullshit they went through a month ago when Zann had sulked around and gone off with her veteran friends without telling her where or why. Her own wife didn’t trust her enough to let her in.
Fuming as she paced the hall, she was tempted to get in her car and drive off, giving Zann a taste of her own medicine. That would accomplish exactly nothing except to make a bad situation worse. She couldn’t stand a
nother show of indifference. There had to be a way to crack this iron shell.
Zann emerged from the bedroom jangling her keys and carrying a backpack.
“Please don’t go back out again. Talk to me. Help me understand what’s gotten you so riled up. This isn’t the Zann Redeker I know.”
“Marleigh, there’s something I have to do. You have every right to be upset. It’s just…I’m in a bad place right now. I fucked something up and I have to fix it.” Her manner had shifted from sullen to methodical, and her unfaltering march to the door made it clear her mind was made up.
“What did you do?”
Zann groaned with undisguised impatience. For a second it looked as if she might come clean, but then she shook her head. “I’m really sorry.”
“Great, at least you’re sorry.” She bit her lip, frustrated that she too was losing patience. “Any idea what time you’ll be back?”
“I’m not sure. Two days…maybe three. I don’t have to be back at work till Monday.”
“Days?” Barely conscious of how her feet got her there, she positioned herself between Zann and the door. “You’re leaving for days and I don’t even get to know where or why?”
“I can’t talk about this. Not now. I just know I have to take care of it or it’ll eat me up from the inside out.”
“So you’re going to let it eat me up instead. See, the way I look at it is you can talk about it—you just won’t. And I’m supposed to be okay with that?” She deserved better than this, and it was clear she wouldn’t get an answer unless she demanded it. “For all I know you’re running off to meet another woman. Is that it? You’ve got a girlfriend on the side who snaps her fingers and you—”