Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
I pulled into a spot and killed the engine.
She looked around, stared at the steel fence and the barbed wire on top. “It looks like a prison.”
“It used to be a prison.” A prison where girls were kept like chickens in a coop. I got out of the car first, and then she followed, wearing a thick coat that was zipped up to her chin because it was a cold morning.
I pounded on the rusty door then looked up into the camera in the corner.
Fleur stayed behind me, arms crossed over her chest.
The bolts and locks turned, and then the door opened. The guy nodded at me, clearly knowing who I was even though I couldn’t remember his name.
“Come on, sweetheart.” I walked in first, seeing the guys working at the tables, measuring the product before placing it into their airtight containers to maintain the quality. None of them looked up from their work.
Fleur came to my side and surveyed the scene, wearing her best poker face.
I nodded to the opposite side of the room. “This way.” I crossed into the other area where a long table was set up, where I usually sat with Luca when we crunched numbers. Guns, ammunition, and magazines were mounted on the walls.
She stood there, arms crossed over her chest, and she swept her eyes across the display of weapons.
“That room used to be full of underage girls working fourteen-hour days.”
Her eyes came back to me. “Why are we here?”
I walked to the wall and grabbed a couple guns, a Glock, a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. I came back to the table and laid them out, along with the clips and the bullets. “Need to teach you a couple things.”
She stared at the guns for a long second before she looked at me, eyebrows raised. “I don’t understand.”
“If you’re going to be my girl, you need to know this stuff.”
“Why?” Her eyes hardened in fear.
I recognized the unease that traveled across her face, the way her entire body clenched before it tried to become as small as possible. She wasn’t the kind of woman to wear her trepidation on her sleeve—she had too much pride for that, but I could see it as clear as day. “I’ll always protect you, sweetheart. But you should know how to protect yourself if you ever need to.”
Her eyes flicked away, and she swallowed. “I’ve never touched a gun before.”
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
“I just hope I don’t shoot myself in the foot or something.”
“Give yourself more credit.” I lifted the Glock and displayed it to her before I showed her the chamber. Then I grabbed the bullets and loaded them into the clip. “Bullets go here. Here’s the safety.” I clicked it so it was on then I emptied the bullets and returned them to the table. “Now you try.”
She stared at me for a second before she grabbed the gun like it was a grenade then opened the clip. When she picked up the bullets off the table, she pointed the tip of the barrel at herself because she wasn’t paying attention.
I redirected it forward. “Never point the gun at yourself.”
“But there are no bullets.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She kept the gun pointed forward before she dropped the bullets into the clip and closed the weapon. “Safety is still on?”
I clicked it and unclicked it, showing her the difference. “Alright, put it down.”
She put it down, facing away from us.
I walked her through the other guns, showing her how to load them and unload them and make sure the safety was on. “The shotgun can only hold two bullets—but they count. Shoot someone at close range, and they’re done.” I showed her the rifle. “Use this if you have many opponents. This is a little different because it uses a magazine rather than bullets.” I showed her how to add a magazine and take it away. “A Glock is good to have in your purse or in your nightstand, easy to carry if you’ve got one target. But if you’re ever under threat, always go for one of these two.”
“Do—do you think I’ll be under threat?”
“No.” I put the rifle on the table. “But like my father always said—be prepared.” I cocked the shotgun and returned it to the table. “Let’s start with the Glock.”
“Start what with the Glock?”
“Target practice.”
“You want me to fire this?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…”
“Sweetheart, you’ve got this.”
She stared at the gun before she picked it off the table. She kept it pointed to the floor like I taught her, but she looked awkward holding it.
I pulled the strap of the rifle over my shoulder, tucked the pistol into the back of my jeans, and gripped the shotgun before I headed to the back door.
Fleur followed me, and we stepped out into the cold, under the overcast sky.
Targets were mounted to the steel fence, practice for the guys when they had nothing else to do. I set the shotgun on the old, rickety picnic table there, where the guys smoked their cigars and played a round of cards when it got too stuffy inside. I set the rifle beside it and turned back to her.