Objective (Bloodlines #2)(21)

Bentley talked about making sure the guns felt comfortable in my hands. He made me hold them, walk around with them in my hand, to adjust, he said. I looked at the targets; I hadn’t done badly, but I’d not hit that little cross in the middle. Perfectionism gets the better of me so I fire two extra bullets in an attempt to hit it. I catch the white ring around it on my final shot, which apparently counts if you’re scoring in competition. Four handguns, eight bullets, one technical bullseye.

One of the guns is apparently the same type that European police use – a ‘Glock’. It is all black, weighty and really requires a lot of pressure on the trigger. These guns are designed to take people down, but they are also designed not to go off accidentally. I think that sort of scares me the most. That you really have to make that effort to shoot someone. That someone holding that gun would really have to pull hard, knowingly pull hard on a trigger, and want to shoot. I know that feeling. I know how to be that person. I know that everyone out there has that person living in them, somewhere dark and hidden. Most people never find cause to have that person emerge in them. I did and once it’s out, I’m not sure how to put that person back in the dark hole they came from, or that I want to. This is the same type of gun I raised with trembling hands that horrible day. The same gun that I pulled the trigger on. The same gun that ruined everything about me, my life.

Three hours later I climb into his truck and he drives us back to the park. Our ride, like the drive there, is silent. I don’t really have anything to say to him and he seems lost in thought.

“You did well,” he offers as I exit the truck.

“Thanks,” I say, avoiding eye contact with him.

“See you later, Mags.”

“Yeah,” I call out as I swing the door closed.

As soon as I’m through my door I let my back hit the wall as the emotions I’ve been keeping in check come at me full force. I slide down the wall and let it all come out. This is the last time I will show weakness. This is the last time I will cry. I am changing. I am becoming something else. Memories hold no place in my life now. They won't control me anymore. I am going to be ruthless...right after I let the last of these tears out.





Chapter 8





“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”-Maya Angelou


A Year Later



There are exactly five people in this town that know me, or of me. My neighbor Bentley, the bouncer where I work, Brock, the pimply faced kid who works the late shift at the liquor store, the chick at the Knight’s Super Foods who always seems to be working when I go in and Penny, the manager at the club who hired me. It’s just enough people to be safe and few enough to avoid drawing any attention to myself. I’m not a hermit. I just don’t like people all that much anymore. I suppose if shown a picture in a line-up some of the gym junkies where I box with Brock would be able to say ‘yeah, I’ve seen her’ but I doubt they’d remember my name. I like my quiet life. No distractions. It allows me to keep my eyes open and to stay alert and watch for the real danger. It’s not easy being paranoid and afraid all the time. Somewhere over the last year I went from feeling non-stop sorrow and bone-crushing guilt to rage. Pure hate. It fills me. It drives me now. I train because of it. I stay alert because of it. And I will achieve my objective because of it. Ezra will come for me. I realize he is the only thing keeping my hurt around. It was his fault. It still is and yet, I’m the one paying. I gave up my life, my love, my soul. Ezra has to pay and I am determined to make it happen, on my terms. I just have to stay alive long enough to kill him first. I have to do this. He ruined my life. I have nothing. I am nothing. I want it done as soon as possible. I’ve bided my time for so long now. Then I will forget. I will begin my life and I will forget that I ever knew him.

If there were more people close to me there would be more people to be worried about. More potential casualties or more people who could say the wrong thing to the wrong person without knowing, leaving me in real danger. My life is a shell of what it once was but I don’t have a choice in the matter. Bad things do happen to good people. I know all too well. You have to move on, move forward, if you can. You have to be a survivor. Adapt or die, because in an instant your entire life can be upended. One moment of panic. One millisecond of courage can alter the course of your life.



Sweat drips down my chest and back as I finish my workout on the treadmill. Brock ran me hard today in the ring but I like the pain. I prefer the exhaustion. It helps me sleep. His big black frame looms over me, watching the beads of perspiration roll down my cleavage.

“Quit it,” I bark, slowing to a walk.

“I know the rules, Mags, I can look but I can’t touch,” he smirks. God, he’s irritating sometimes. He pulls the ripcord on the treadmill and I hop off, taking the towel from him.

“I wish you wouldn't bother looking either,” I huff.

“Can it, honey, it’s good practice for you to not be an uptight snot for work, better tips.” I roll my eyes at his lame response and brush past him. It’s the most contact he’ll ever get from me. He’s built like a linebacker, broad and ripped and firm. He’s quite handsome actually, but he’s not for me.

“So you gonna come out and say it?”