go get you some club soda,” Karen offered from behind her.
“Maybe we should just wait a minute,” Viv said. She, Karen, and Betsy all drew up short.
Tina, however, had already climbed into Betsy’s Saab. “I just want to go home,” she murmured quietly. “Please, let’s go home.”
She closed her eyes as her head fell back against the seat. With her eyes closed, her head felt better. Her hands settled upon her stomach. The music faded away. Tina let herself drift off to desperately needed sleep.
It seemed to her that they had no sooner left the parking lot than she was awakened by a savage jerk.
“What the—” Her head popped up. The car lurched again and she grabbed the dash.
“Back tire,” Betsy said in disgust. “I think I got a flat.”
The car lurched right and that was enough for Tina. “Betsy,” she said tightly. “Pull over.
Now!
”
“Got it!” Betsy jerked the car onto the right-hand shoulder of the road. Tina fumbled with the clasp of her seat belt, then fumbled with the door. She got out of the car and sprinted down the embankment into the nearby woods. She got her head down just in time.
Oh, this was not fun. Not fun at all. She heaved up two cranberry and tonics, then the pasta she’d had for dinner, then anything else she’d ever eaten for the last twenty years. She stood there, hands braced upon her thighs as she dry-heaved.
I’m going to die, she thought. I was bad and now I’m being punished and my mom was right all along. There is no way in the world I’m going to be able to take this. Oh God, I want to go home.
Maybe she cried. Maybe she was just sweating harder. With her head between her knees, it was hard to be sure.
But slowly her stomach relented. The cramping eased, the worst of the nausea passed. She staggered upright, put her face up to the sky, and thought she’d kill for an ice-cold shower right about now. No such luck. They were in the middle of nowhere outside of Fredericksburg. She’d just have to wait.
She sighed. And then for the first time, she heard the noise. A non-Betsy noise. A non-girls-out-on-the-town noise. It sounded high, short, metallic. Like the slide of a rifle, ratcheting back.
Tina slowly turned toward the road. In the hot, humid dark, she was no longer alone.
Kimberly never even heard a noise. She was an FBI trainee, for God’s sake. A woman experienced with crime and paranoid to boot. She still never heard a thing.
She stood alone at the Academy’s outdoor firing range, surrounded by 385 acres of darkness with only a small Mag flashlight. In her hands, she held an empty shotgun.
It was late. The new agents, the Marines, hell, even the National Academy “students” had long since gone to bed. The stadium lights were extinguished. The distant bank of towering trees formed an ominous barrier between her and civilization. Then there were the giant steel sidewalls, designed to segregate the various firing ranges while stopping high-velocity bullets.
No lights. No sounds. Just the unnatural hush of a night so hot and humid not even the squirrels stirred from their trees.
She was tired. That was her best excuse. She’d run, she’d pumped iron, she’d walked, she’d studied, then she’d downed three gallons of water and two PowerBars and headed out here. Her legs were shaky. Her arm muscles trembled with fatigue.
She hefted the empty shotgun to her shoulder, and went through the rhythms of firing over and over again.
Place butt firmly against right shoulder to absorb the recoil. Plant feet hip-width apart, loose in the knees. Lean slightly forward into the shot. At the last minute, as your right finger squeezes the trigger, pull forward with your left hand as if the gun were a broom handle you were trying to tear in half. Hope against hope you don’t fall once more on your ass. Or smash your shoulder. Or shatter your cheek.
Live ammunition was limited to supervised drills, so Kimberly had no real way of
“Maybe we should just wait a minute,” Viv said. She, Karen, and Betsy all drew up short.
Tina, however, had already climbed into Betsy’s Saab. “I just want to go home,” she murmured quietly. “Please, let’s go home.”
She closed her eyes as her head fell back against the seat. With her eyes closed, her head felt better. Her hands settled upon her stomach. The music faded away. Tina let herself drift off to desperately needed sleep.
It seemed to her that they had no sooner left the parking lot than she was awakened by a savage jerk.
“What the—” Her head popped up. The car lurched again and she grabbed the dash.
“Back tire,” Betsy said in disgust. “I think I got a flat.”
The car lurched right and that was enough for Tina. “Betsy,” she said tightly. “Pull over.
Now!
”
“Got it!” Betsy jerked the car onto the right-hand shoulder of the road. Tina fumbled with the clasp of her seat belt, then fumbled with the door. She got out of the car and sprinted down the embankment into the nearby woods. She got her head down just in time.
Oh, this was not fun. Not fun at all. She heaved up two cranberry and tonics, then the pasta she’d had for dinner, then anything else she’d ever eaten for the last twenty years. She stood there, hands braced upon her thighs as she dry-heaved.
I’m going to die, she thought. I was bad and now I’m being punished and my mom was right all along. There is no way in the world I’m going to be able to take this. Oh God, I want to go home.
Maybe she cried. Maybe she was just sweating harder. With her head between her knees, it was hard to be sure.
But slowly her stomach relented. The cramping eased, the worst of the nausea passed. She staggered upright, put her face up to the sky, and thought she’d kill for an ice-cold shower right about now. No such luck. They were in the middle of nowhere outside of Fredericksburg. She’d just have to wait.
She sighed. And then for the first time, she heard the noise. A non-Betsy noise. A non-girls-out-on-the-town noise. It sounded high, short, metallic. Like the slide of a rifle, ratcheting back.
Tina slowly turned toward the road. In the hot, humid dark, she was no longer alone.
Kimberly never even heard a noise. She was an FBI trainee, for God’s sake. A woman experienced with crime and paranoid to boot. She still never heard a thing.
She stood alone at the Academy’s outdoor firing range, surrounded by 385 acres of darkness with only a small Mag flashlight. In her hands, she held an empty shotgun.
It was late. The new agents, the Marines, hell, even the National Academy “students” had long since gone to bed. The stadium lights were extinguished. The distant bank of towering trees formed an ominous barrier between her and civilization. Then there were the giant steel sidewalls, designed to segregate the various firing ranges while stopping high-velocity bullets.
No lights. No sounds. Just the unnatural hush of a night so hot and humid not even the squirrels stirred from their trees.
She was tired. That was her best excuse. She’d run, she’d pumped iron, she’d walked, she’d studied, then she’d downed three gallons of water and two PowerBars and headed out here. Her legs were shaky. Her arm muscles trembled with fatigue.
She hefted the empty shotgun to her shoulder, and went through the rhythms of firing over and over again.
Place butt firmly against right shoulder to absorb the recoil. Plant feet hip-width apart, loose in the knees. Lean slightly forward into the shot. At the last minute, as your right finger squeezes the trigger, pull forward with your left hand as if the gun were a broom handle you were trying to tear in half. Hope against hope you don’t fall once more on your ass. Or smash your shoulder. Or shatter your cheek.
Live ammunition was limited to supervised drills, so Kimberly had no real way of
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