Page 93 of Precious Legacy
I lean forward, running my nose along hers, just like we did when we were kids. “I’ve already told you, Presh. I’m not going anywhere.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Twenty bucks says I miss,” Savannah laughs.
I clip the magazine into my gun, pulling the slide back and repositioning my aim. “You do realize you’re betting against yourself?”
She shrugs back, aiming her gun at the target ahead of us. “It’s better to keep the bar low,” she comments. I watch her for a moment, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly. Then she pulls the trigger, the loud fire of the gun muffled through our ear protection. Of course, she misses as predicted, hitting the shoulder of the man outlined on the target. She turns to me with a less than surprised look on her face. “That way, you don’t get disappointed.”
I fire off a round, hitting my target where the head is. “That’s a real morbid way of looking at things.”
“Says the woman who can kill a man blindfolded,” she scoffs.
I laugh at her comment as I slide the safety on. Only half of what she said is correct; I could definitely kill a man if I set my mind to it. I’ve never had to, but I’ve prepared myself for when the time ever comes. Doing it blindfolded though? That’s a stretch.
“You’re a drama queen,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She doesn’t deny it as she fires off a few more rounds at the target. We’re only two months into our training, and considering the girl has never fired a gun before joining the academy, she’s not doing terribly. I have a good few years’ practice on her, so I know it takes time to perfect. You’ve either got the skill, or you haven’t. Unfortunately, this is the one class where Savannah is failing. She’s ranked last—not just in the class, but the entire intake. Everything else, she excels in. First Response, Emergency Vehicle operations, she can even recite the Radio Codes off by heart. But weapons handling… not her forte.
The problem is, she’s doing everything right. Her stance is perfect, her preparation is faultless, but it’s like as soon as she pulls the trigger, something gets in the way of the damn bullet.
Then I notice it. It’s subtle at first, but as each round pops off, I hone in on it. “How did your dad get injured again?” I ask.
She flicks the safety on her gun and rests it on the shelf in front us before turning to me. “Shot on duty.”
I step towards her, picking up her firearm and handing it back to her. My instincts are telling me it’s fear holding her back. Like me, she’s never had to kill anyone, much less aim a gun at somebody. Where I learned for my own protection, refusing to allow misogyny pave my path, Savannah has always had a guiltless life.
“Who do you picture when you’re pulling the trigger?” I inquire.
She shrugs nonchalantly, like I didn’t just pinpoint the one thing that could be holding her back. My guess is she’s imagining her dad, but I know better than to assume.
“I always picture the people I hate,” I explain. “People that I wish I could hurt.”
“Long list then, huh?”
I chuckle back at her, stepping sideways so I don’t get the recoil. “But it works.”
Huffing, Savannah clicks the safety off and repositions her arms. “The guy who did it is dead,” she tells me. “I’ve got no one else to focus on.”
“What about Prescott?” I suggest.
“Ooh, good one!” She takes a deep breath once more, exhaling so slowly you can barely hear it. Every second, it feels like she’s redefining the target, molding it into the perfect image of Prescott. Then she squeezes the trigger, and I watch as the bullet hits the target square in the head.
She squeals out loud, the sound echoing down the aisle. I have to say, I’m impressed. We could call it a fluke, but I’m not about to diminish her success. It’s the first time she’s actually hit the target where she was aiming.
“Looks like he’s a dead man,” she says with the widest grin.
We spend the rest of the day at the range with the instructors pacing up and down behind us, drilling us on safety and the importance of keeping our weapons clean. We run through drills, marksmanship, and protocols until it becomes natural. I can’t help but shudder every time one of the instructors passes by me. It’s like I’m always being watched—and not in the way I like.
Yeah, sometimes I like the way Roman always keeps a watchful eye.
By the time we’re packing up and leaving, I feel uneasy, and not from the eyes I feel branding me every time I turn around, but because Savannah picked up on a rumor that has me on edge.
“Maybe your boyfriend got ahold of him,” Savannah whispers as we leave the range. I hate that her thoughts go there, but she’s right. It’s very possible Roman has something to do with Prescott’s recent disappearance.
It’s been almost a week since the guy had me tasting my own blood, and I haven’t seen him since. We’ve had replacement instructors for the defense tactics lesson, which wouldn’t be suspicious in any other circumstance, but the fact I told Roman about what happened between us makes me believe he had something to do with it.
I know how ridiculous that sounds— because no way would The Five get involved with anything like that, right? Then again, Roman Genovese has no boundaries, especially when it comes to me.
