Although hisjie'vanstatus seemed murkier since Wolf’s thawing.
“This place is huge,” Gracie said, her eyes shining with awe as she followed him to the first shooting station.
O’Neill set the MK22 and the Glock, along with the extra magazines, on the counter running along the front of the station.
“Remember to always point your weapon down, when it’s not in use,” he said as he removed a steel, body shaped target from a hook on the Plexiglas that separated the stations. He attached it to the target holder and ran it down the range to the fifty-yard marker.
Gracie nodded solemnly. “Which gun should I start with?”
O’Neill nodded toward the rifle. “The MK22. Remember, always do a weapons check before using any gun. Treat each weapon as though it’s loaded. While doing a check, point the weapon in a safe direction in case of discharge.” As he went through each safety precaution, he demonstrated the action on the MK22. “If the weapon has a magazine inserted, remove it and check the chamber for ammunition. Check the empty barrel and magazine for any obstructions that could cause a misfire. If the weapon has a safety, engage it.” He showed her where the safety was on the MK22.
After demonstrating the safety protocols, he inserted the magazine back into the magazine well and set the weapon down on the counter.
Stepping back, he turned to her. “Your turn.”
Moving into place in front of the rifle, she picked the weapon up with confidence, checked that the safety was on and methodically went through the steps he’d listed. After completing the last step, she reinserted the magazine, rechecked the safety, and set the rifle back down.
“Good.” O’Neill stepped back up to the counter and grabbed two pairs of earmuffs. He handed one to her. “Always wear ear protection when you’re on the range.” Since she’d already used this particular rifle, he didn’t bother to give her a rundown on shooting practices. He’d correct any mistakes after he’d seen her shoot. “Target center mass.”
“What’s center mass?” Gracie asked, her fingers hovering over the rifle.
“Chest and upper abdomen. It’s the area most likely to neutralize a threat.”
“Right.” Gracie pulled on the earmuffs and picked up the MK22.
O’Neill stepped back, putting on his earmuffs.
It surprised him how easily she flowed into a shooter’s stance—left foot slightly behind the right, knees bent, shoulders square to the target with a light lean-in. She’d even fallen into a weaver’s stance for rifle shooting. Her right arm extended with the elbow out. Her left arm bent at the elbow and tucked up against her side. She took a slow, steady breath, relaxed her muscles, leaned toward the target, then gently squeezed the trigger.
Christ, she looked like she’d been shooting for years.
After she’d spent the magazine, she ejected it from the magazine well, triggered the safety, and placed the rifle back on the counter, barrel facing down-range.
She learned quickly.
When he reeled the metal target back in, he wasn’t surprised to find a cluster of holes in the center of the target’s chest. He counted ten. There were ten rounds in the magazine.
“Your placement was perfect. How often did you shoot with Daniel?” There was no fucking way this target had come from a novice. No fucking way.
“Just the once. But we took turns for hours.”
He turned his attention from the target to her face. She looked pleased with herself. As she should.
“Did you beat him? Your brother, I mean. During your target practice competition?”
Because there was no doubt that a major competition had sprung up between the pair. If her shooting had been as extraordinary back then as it was now, no competitive young warrior would have let it stand unchallenged.
“Yeah…” Her voice went faraway and quietly sad. “My shots hit the bullseye every time. His hit the target, but not the bullseye, not every time.” She paused and her voice went hollow. “He called me a freak.”
O’Neill’s chest tightened. Muriel had mentioned Gracie didn’t have any friends and the only person she had been close to had been her twin. Daniel’s taunt must have stung.
“Didn’t like to lose, did he?” he asked, keeping his tone light, so as not to darken the mood even further. He hit the button to zoom the target back down the line.
“No. He hated it. He was so competitive—in sports, in school, in shooting, in everything.” At least the hollowness had left her voice.
O’Neill processed that, soaking in this additional information about the son he’d never known. All those months of being within touching distance, and he’d never gotten to know him at all. His throat tight, he shook the regrets away. It was too late to develop a relationship with Daniel, but his daughter was right beside him.
He still had a chance to connect with her.
