Two of a Kind (Fool's Gold #11)

Angel patted one of the larger trees. “The trunks tend to have a flat side. We could set up targets.”


“No shooting in the forest,” Consuelo snapped. “Do you want to get someone killed? We’ll have a special shooting range on one side or the other of the warehouse. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Angel stared at her. “What?”

“Tell him,” Consuelo demanded, pointing at Angel. “Tell him he’s an idiot.”

“You’re an idiot,” Gideon obliged.

Angel glared at him. “Hey, what’s with taking her side? We’re friends. You just met her.”

“I like her better.”

Consuelo grinned. “Likewise,” she told him.

Angel snorted in disgust and stalked away.

Gideon chuckled, remembering that this was what it was like in the field. Sure there was danger and stress, but in the downtimes there was fun. Life had to be lived all the more because it could end at any second.

Consuelo was short, but she was strong and moved as if she knew what she was doing. Ford had introduced him, saying she would be teaching hand-to-hand and street fighting, along with a few tactical classes. Gideon would guess she knew ways to kill a man that would make the hardiest of souls shudder.

More important to him, he knew Consuelo was one of the few people Felicia considered a friend. As he had suddenly found himself wanting to look out for the beautiful redhead, he was inclined to side with Consuelo.

Ford slid to the ground and stepped away from the rope. “What’s the course?” he asked.

Gideon pointed to the west. “Easy two-mile jog to the edge of the vineyard, head north for another mile. Targets are set up. Shoot at a hundred feet. Center target and bottom left.” He looked to his left and right. “Do you two want to try? I dropped something along the way. One of you could bring it back.” Angel and Ford nodded with gleams in their eyes. Gideon paused. “Okay, go.”

Angel and Ford took off at a run.

“What happened to the easy jog?” Consuelo asked.

“You ever see them do something the easy way?”

“Good point.” She sighed. “I hope Ford wins. The loser will cook for a week, and Angel’s better in the kitchen.” She glanced at him. “I’m Felicia’s friend.”

He met her dark gaze. “I heard.”

“What are the odds of her getting out of this with her heart in one piece?”

“She hasn’t decided if we’re dating yet.”

Which didn’t answer the question, but he should get points for trying.

Consuelo raised her eyebrows. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said. “I want her to be happy.”

“With you?”

“No,” he admitted. “Not with me.” At one time, maybe. But not for a while now. Ignoring the fact that he didn’t have the skill set, he wasn’t interested in belonging. In caring. He liked living on the edges, pretending he fit in when he knew better. It was easier. Safer. Comforting.

“You tell her?”

“In many ways.”

“Is she going to listen?”

“Do women ever?”

He half expected that to earn him a quick flip over her shoulder with a hard landing, followed by her boot on his throat. Or at least the attempt. He knew the counter moves, but it had been a while. He might work out regularly, but he didn’t spar with anyone.

“Women usually hear what they want to hear,” Consuelo said grudgingly. “Felicia might be smarter than most, but she’s no different when it comes to reading men.”

Part of that was a lack of experience, Gideon thought. Felicia had missed out on what most women her age took for granted. She’d never dated. He might not be able to give her a picket fence—despite her claim it made for lousy containment—but he could let her practice on him. Let her figure it out with a guy who only wanted the best for her. As long as they both remembered his limitations.

In the distance they heard two quick gunshots. Nearly fifteen seconds later, another set echoed off the mountains.

“What did you leave for them to find?” Consuelo asked.

Gideon grinned. “A thumb drive.”

“Damn,” she muttered. “I really hope Ford wins.”

* * *

FELICIA COULDN’T GET comfortable in Pia’s office. This was her third day and she still felt like an interloper. In her head she understood that the space didn’t belong to anyone. Technically someone could own a building or a house, but this was different. She’d been given the keys to the office. The issue wasn’t her right to turn the lock—it was what happened when she stepped inside.

The office itself was small. Not much more than a desk, a few chairs and a lot of filing cabinets. The large dry erase board listed all the festivals, and under each festival was a to-do list. The remaining free wall space was taken up by posters of various events.