Ro was amazed at the system. It seemed damn near impossible to get in without being detected. The thought allayed her lingering concern about the creepy trio finding a way to get to her—or Lia, the woman they’d rescued.
When Travis relieved Graham of his shift, Ro requested that Graham take her to the clinic so she could check on her. While stitching her up earlier in the day, Beau had guardedly answered Ro’s questions about her.
All they knew was her name, as the woman hadn’t spoken since she’d arrived. No, Ro couldn’t try to talk to her, because they were keeping her sedated. When she’d first woken, she’d panicked, and Beau was afraid she’d hurt herself worse. He was planning to reduce the sedative and promised to let Rowan try to talk to her when she woke up. He’d already intended to have Allison present, hoping that seeing a woman, rather than big, hulking men, would help her stay calm this time.
Graham radioed Beau, and Beau said they weren’t quite ready. “Give me an hour, and check back.”
With an hour to kill, Graham insisted that Ro demonstrate exactly how rusty her skills were with a gun.
“You have a shooting range? Seriously?” Why Ro sounded so shocked, Graham wasn’t entirely certain.
“We have to stay sharp, and some of the hunters like to target shoot when they’re not out slaying bucks. This building is reinforced and soundproofed. It doubles as a safe room.”
“What else are you hiding here? As soon as I think I’ve got this place figured out, you throw something like this at me.” She turned to face him after he settled her on a stool. “You going to share the rest of your secrets?”
Graham smiled at the attitude she couldn’t help but radiate. She was a spitfire. And something about her fired his blood like no woman before. He held out the M4 he’d grabbed from the armory.
“You hit the target … I’ll answer a question.”
Ro accepted the assault rifle and held out her hand. “Magazine?”
Graham held one out, and she tried to tug it from his grip. “But every time you miss, you owe me something I want.”
Ro’s gaze narrowed, and she slid the magazine into place without breaking his stare, flipped off the safety, and chambered a round.
Graham glanced to make sure she’d left it on the single-round setting rather than the three-round burst.
“I got this, Conan. I’m not shooting three at a time.”
Well, fuck. This might not go as planned, Graham thought.
“And why do you know that?” he asked, grabbing a paper target.
“No answers unless I miss. Target?”
Graham had just clipped the target to the pulley system. He’d initially thought to keep it closer, but instead he cranked it all the way to the end of the lane.
She raised her eyebrows as if to say “Oh, really? This is how we’re going to play?”
Graham settled ear protection over her ears and slid safety glasses onto her face before donning his own. She gave him a nod and then raised the rifle. Pausing for only a fraction of a second, she squeezed the trigger.
Graham counted. Fifteen shots. Only one was outside of the red center circle of the target. Graham suspected she’d been trying to eliminate every sliver of red on the paper and gone wide. She lowered the rifle and jerked her head toward the target. “Since I owe you one answer: my dad felt it was important for his daughters to know their way around every gun in his arsenal. The M4 was always my favorite. Erica preferred the bolt action .308.”
Graham reached for the crank and pulled the target in. He laid the remains on the counter in front of Rowan, quite sure his cock jerking to life was a completely inappropriate reaction, but he couldn’t help it. The woman was sexy as fuck. Casually gripping a rifle perched on a stool in too big sweats and a too big hoody; she was lethal. Graham suppressed his grin and reached for his sidearm. He pulled the M1911 .45 ACP out of its holster and ejected the magazine and the round in the chamber. He slid the extra bullet into his pocket, and held out the unloaded pistol and magazine to her.
“This might be more of a challenge.” She reached out to pick them up, and he pulled his hands back. “You sure you can handle it? It’s a big gun for a little girl.”
“Seriously? Did you just see me kill your little target? I can handle the kick, Conan.”
“Okay. Have at it then.”
She grasped the pistol and inspected it before checking the clip, sliding it in, flipping off the safety, and chambering a round. She did it all in one smooth, fluid motion. Like her hands had done that very action a thousand times before. Like it was muscle memory. Who the hell was this girl who carried a MOLLE backpack, handled firearms with ease, and responded to him and Zach like she’d been custom made for them? Kryptonite. Fucking kryptonite.
She flipped the safety back on and looked up at him expectantly.