Ah, shit. “Sorry,” was all she could say when the rush of embarrassment hit her. She groaned and wanted to drop her head into the plate of remaining syrup when she thought about how Grandma would react when she watched the tape this morning. “We’ll stop watching your house. It’s not necessary now that we know who you are.”
He rested the fork on his plate and eased back in his chair. “I appreciate that. It’ll make things easier. Communication with the team, for starters.” He smiled into his plate. “My workout routine, for another.”
She grimaced as her face heated. And it wasn’t because his house was about a thousand degrees.
They again fell into comfortable silence, munching on their pancakes. But silence—no matter how pleasant—was something Sam never could tolerate.
“So when did you join the DEA?”
“Five years ago.”
“What did you do before that?”
“Military for ten years.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugged. “Can’t complain. I got to see the world while busting bad guys. How about you? You like working for the City Police?”
She mirrored his shrug. “Not my dream job. But I can’t complain.”
“Really?” He set his fork on the table and clasped his hands in front of him, leaning toward her. “What’s your dream job?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced away, staring at the butcher-block counter.
“Oh, come on. I’ve seen you high. That makes us friends. And friends talk about this kind of stuff.” He gave her an adorable lopsided grin.
She waited, deciding what she’d lose by revealing her secret, and then just said it. “I want to be a cop.”
“Then you should do it.” Simple and matter of fact. Easy for him to say.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
How could she admit her problem to someone like him? Someone so competent. She took a deep, encouraging breath and then squared her shoulders. “I’ve taken the police exam six times, and I can’t pass it.”
“What?” He coughed twice and then cleared his throat. “Is there a certain part that gives you the most trouble?”
“Shooting,” she admitted. She traced her fork through the syrup. “I ace the written and physical parts every time, but I can’t hit the target to save my life.”
Just as she started to regret telling him, Ash surprised her by saying, “Easy to fix.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve worked with experts, and it hasn’t helped. Actually, I think I’m getting worse.”
“You just haven’t had the right teacher.” He offered a wide smile, showing almost all his teeth. “How’s tomorrow?”
“Really? I don’t know if—”
“Come on, Samantha. You’ve proven yourself more than capable.”
“But—”
“I could use the practice. Plus, I owe you for saving my life last night.”
She glanced down at the oak table. Would it be worth the disappointment? She’d miss. She always did. And it would ruin the rest of her day.
But what if she didn’t?
That question hung in the air. A rushing river of emotions coursed through her body, before he added, “It’s the least I can do.”
…
See if anyone’s acting suspicious.
It was still hard to believe that any member of the BPD would work for a man like Viktor Heinrich. Especially since most of them knew her father had disappeared. But more because she couldn’t understand why anyone would willingly betray his brothers and sisters of the badge. His family.
She breezed down the hallway, past Major Fowler’s office, keeping her eyes straight ahead and feet moving. Her eyes slanted to the side, catching Fowler hunched over behind his desk. She kept going. It wasn’t that she wasn’t allowed in other parts of the precinct, it was that she had no reason to be anywhere but her desk. Her job was simple: sit at the front, answer phones, and log in reports for the major. Nothing that used much brainpower.
She fisted her hands at her sides and picked up the pace. If this little covert assignment would help her find Dad and clear his name, then she’d do it and a hell of a lot more.
The end of the hallway opened into a wide room, desks lined along the walls, beneath windows with large, white slatted blinds. The clamor of phones, footsteps, and chatter filled her ears.
Throwing back her shoulders, she stepped into the room and acted as though she belonged. She scanned the left side of the room, then the right.
She walked the length of the left row of desks, glancing down occasionally to observe what everyone was working on. She peered at the papers on Detective Voight’s desk. His dark head was tipped forward, his forehead propped against his hand. He must have sensed her, because his head snapped up, revealing suspicion-filled eyes and a creased forehead.
“What do you want, Harper?” The sleeves of his white dress shirt were cuffed, revealing his thick forearms, which he used to cover most of the report.
She shrugged. “Just checking on something for the Major.”
He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Well, check on it somewhere else. Some of us have real police work to do.”
She ignored the jibe and gave him a brave smile. “Sure, Voight. We’ve all got important things to do.”
He harrumphed and dropped his head forward, ignoring her.
She continued up the lane to Detective Branham’s desk, her cautious footsteps in contradiction with her racing heart. Not that she thought anyone around here would have incriminating information in plain sight, but she could hope.
She sidled up to his workstation and placed her hand on the back of his vacant chair, then leaned in. She retrieved a pen and notepad from the corner of the desk and acted like she was leaving him a note, while gazing across the surface.
A frame with a picture of his wife and kids. A crapload of No. 2 pencils in a mug. And a bunch of standard reports in an orderly stack.
With a finger, she nudged one paper after the other to see what lay beneath each layer. Still standard reports, damn it.
But something caught her attention. Chatter from two detectives in front of her. One was a female she didn’t recognize, the other was a veteran cop from her dad’s days. Marcus Lyons. She caught him saying “Heinrich” and then some mumbling about “drug testing.”
The female said something low Sam didn’t catch, then asked Lyons if he knew where.
Sam tilted her head, trying to listen. She kept her eyes down as she scribbled a few circles and squiggly lines on the paper.
“Yeah,” he said. “Or at least I think so. Some place in Upper Marlboro. Still trying to find out where. The dicks from the DEA aren’t giving me much. Something about us compromising their investigation or some shit.”
DEA? Ash’s team?
She leaned straight-armed on Branham’s desk with her ear pointed at the pair.
The female scoffed and thrust a hand into her pants pocket. “What about—?”
“Harper!”
Sam shot upright and spun toward the voice.
Captain McGrath stood behind her with a scowl on his tanned face. He wore a navy suit with a white shirt and dark-print tie. The jacket was unbuttoned and held open by his hands braced on his hips. “What the hell are you doing back here?”
She twisted to glance around. Heads lifted from their desks and looked at her. So she crossed the room and stopped about a foot from the captain. Her voice was low when she responded. “I’m just checking on something for Major Fowler. No biggie.”
His brown eyes creased in the corner as doubt filled his expression. “Checking on what? He didn’t tell me he needed anything.”
“He didn’t want to bother you.” She sliced a hand through the air. “It’s no big deal, really. I’ll just be on my way.”
She managed one step before his hand clamped on her upper arm. She looked into McGrath’s direct gaze and gave it right back. He wasn’t going to inti
midate her.
His face lowered so his nose rested an inch from hers. “Get the hell out of my unit,” he said in a low voice. “You’re distracting my team. Next time Fowler needs something, you can pick up the phone and ask me directly.”
Yanking her arm from his grip, she scrunched her expression. “We’re all on the same team here, McGrath.”
One dark eyebrow lifted into his salt-and-pepper hair. “Not from what I heard,” he said.
When she gasped, a tiny smile played at one corner of his mouth. “Back to work, Harper.” His long finger pointed to the hallway. “That way.”
She tried to act casual so McGrath wouldn’t have the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to her. Putting one foot in front of the other, she smiled and offered a wave to her coworkers as she passed.
Her plan had been to visit CID—Criminal Investigative Division—next. But, the rest of the day was spent answering calls, dispatching units, and reviewing reports for Major Fowler. McGrath must have said something to Lou about her visit to his unit, because every time Sam got up from her desk to see what else she could learn about Heinrich, Lou popped his head into the hallway to ask where she was headed. There were only so many times she could say the bathroom before Lou had suggested Sam leave work early because of “the serious digestive issues” she must have been experiencing.
It sucked because she wanted to find out more about Heinrich, her father, and the drugs, but the early release allowed her to get home, eat, change into a pair of comfy clothes before meeting Ash at the shooting range. She wasn’t giving up on her assignment. Not yet. Her coworkers knew more, and she was going to get them to talk.
Chapter Fifteen
“So the first thing to remember when shooting a handgun is how to grip it,” Ash spoke. He stood against her back, the heat of her body scorching through her thin cotton top. He didn’t need to stand this close. If this had been Calder, Tyke, or Reese, he definitely would’ve kept his distance. But it was Sam. He needed to be close to her. Needed to know she was safe and within his grasp if shit went haywire.
It drove him crazy how quickly she’d gotten under his skin. Her irrational way of jumping into everything without thinking was dangerous. And exactly what he didn’t need given his track record. But damn if he could stay away from her.
His thigh brushed hers. He worked to steady his breathing. Getting an erection right now wouldn’t help either of them.
“Most people grab a gun and squeeze the life out of it.” He held his own in front of her, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. “This is wrong. And you should always use point index.” He stretched his index finger along the frame of the gun. “Never put your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot.”
“Got it.” She nudged his body away as she positioned herself in modified weaver stance—one foot in front of the other, her dominant arm straight, other arm bent and her weight forward. “I’ve heard all this before.”
He laughed, taken aback by her snappy response. He pressed the button to send the target to the back wall, about seventy-five feet away. “Okay, Ace, show me what you’ve got, then.” He stepped back, readjusting the cover on his ears. “Whenever you’re ready,” he shouted.
As she’d said, she stood in perfect form. He couldn’t find fault in anything she did prior to pulling the trigger.
The after was the problem.
Once she’d emptied the bullets from her magazine, he stepped next to her.
He brought the target forward, and they both focused on the body pictured.
Her face said it all—eyes creased and lips pulled down in the corners. Her shoulders had lowered almost to her waist. “See. I told you.” She turned away as if she couldn’t bear to look at the disgrace.
He’d never seen anything like this in all his years in the military or with the agency. He’d seen people who were horrible shots, missing their targets by miles. But this, he couldn’t understand.
He slid an ear free of the cover and waited for her to do the same. Constructive criticism was always best. How to make what she did a positive… “This is definitely a first for me.” He scratched his head. “Uh, you did technically hit the target. If he was human, he wouldn’t be happy. And if he had a gun, he wouldn’t be able to use it against you.”
“I shot off his fingers!” She threw her hands up in the air. “His fingers! All that big, open space of his chest and I shot his fingers.”
Ash wasn’t sure he’d be able to shoot off someone’s fingers if he tried. With his sniper rifle and plenty of time, yeah. But not with a handgun. “It’s pretty remarkable, actually.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not. I’m a disgrace. I don’t deserve to be a cop.”
“You’ll get better. We just need to work on it.”
“Better? I’m not getting any better. I’m getting worse!”
“Do you know how many people in the world can make that shot? A small handful.” She scowled, and he rushed to say, “No pun intended. And most of them could only do it once. You did it”—he glanced at the paper to count—“nine times. Really, it’s impressive.” He wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. What she’d done was quite a feat. His body simmered with desire at the thought of this woman making such an impossible shot. Repeatedly. “Can you do it again?”
At her sad blue eyes and jutted bottom lip, he changed his approach.
“Want me to show you? I guarantee I won’t be able to do what you just did.” Without waiting for her answer, he sent the target to the back wall and placed the cover over his open ear.
“You better not miss on purpose,” she said behind him.
Ha. Fat chance. He didn’t do anything unless it was all the way. Just because she pouted, didn’t mean he’d give in.
Peering through his back sights, he concentrated on the appendages at the target’s right side. He took a deep breath, relaxing his body as he’d been trained.
POP. POP. POP. POP. POP.
“Shit,” he said under his breath, knowing he didn’t even nick the target.
Pulling it forward, he saw he’d managed to clip the target’s pinky finger once. The rest of the bullets hit wide right.
He turned toward her with a look that said, see?
“Shooting someone’s fingers isn’t something to brag about,” she said. “I bet if you wanted, you could hit him square in the head, neck, and chest without even blinking.”
She was right, but he wasn’t going to show her.
“Okay, let’s try a shorter distance.” He held the button down just long enough to send the target back about ten feet. There’s no way she’d miss from this distance. She wouldn’t even have to aim.
She glanced down at the pistol in her hand and back up at him.
“Humor me,” he said.
She hesitated. “Fine.”
Gripping the gun, she raised it. Her shoulders lifted as she inhaled and then exhaled long and slow.
The shot went about six inches wide of the target’s throat.
Shaking her head and looking at the ceiling, she said, “I can’t even do point shooting.” She signaled with the gun at the target—a picture of a man holding a revolver in one hand and the other at his side. “He’s only a few feet away for crying out loud.”
“Maybe we’re going about this all wrong,” he said.
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you obviously know how to shoot. Your form is perfect. Maybe it’s not so much mechanical as it is mental.”
Holy shit. For once, she didn’t comment. Her lips remained in a tight line as she thought over his logic.
“What do you think about before you pull the trigger?” As a sniper, he’d learned more than enough about mental toughness. Sitting alone with only your spotter, sometimes for days, with nothing to do but watch your target. It could make a lesser person crumble from boredom. The key was to keep one’s mind clear and ready at all times. Calm breaths and a slow pulse was a
sure-fire way to coax the bullet into doing what you wanted.
When she paused a moment longer, he knew she was holding something back. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do. Samantha, this is important. Shooting is instinctual. Like baseball pitchers throwing a fastball. After so much practice, they tell their brain to do it and it obeys. They don’t over analyze; they don’t change their tactics. They just throw. You have to train your brain to listen. Block out everything and do it. Eventually it becomes habit.”
“I can’t.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “You can. You need to—”
She pulled away on contact, rolling her shoulders from him. “I can’t! I’ve tried. Okay? It doesn’t work. Holding this metal in my hand is terrifying. Yeah, I said it. Terrifying. I want to be a cop, and I’m afraid of guns. It’s ridiculous. Why do you think I was armed with things like pepper spray and an air horn? Huh? You don’t have to be accurate with those, do ya?”
Shit. “I see.” Because really, what else could he have said? He blinked a couple times, but nothing ingenious came to mind.
She slammed the gun onto the counter and turned her back on it. “Most of the time I squeeze my eyes closed and just hope I hit the stupid target.” She peered over her shoulder at him. “Tell me how safe that is. Who would want to be my partner if they found that out?”
No way was he letting her give up.
He sent the target toward the back wall. “You can do it.” He cupped her shoulders and lowered his face to look her in the eyes. “And you will. You can beat this. It’s fear, and it’s restricting, but that doesn’t mean it’s debilitating.”
She reluctantly allowed him to nudge her shoulders around.
When she faced the target, he slid his hand down her arm, a jolt of energy erupting from the contact. Calm down. His right hand covered hers, forcing her to pick up the gun and aim. He slid the cover from her other ear so he could talk to her softly.
“Clear your mind,” he whispered into her ear. Her breaths were short and loud, and her hand shook the tiniest bit beneath his hold. He slid his left hand up the length of her side, slowly as not to startle her, resting it over her heart. “Sam, calm down. Your heart’s racing. You have to relax.” So did he. It took effort to keep his hand pinned against her heart when all it wanted to do was travel two inches lower to those receptive breasts.
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