Cold Shot (8 page)

It didn’t take more than Finley stepping from his truck for heads to turn, the few men in the parking lot already enraptured.

He rested his hand on the small of her back, ignoring how much he loved the sensation. It was a presumptuous move on his part, but he felt protective of the lady, and her soft smile up at him said she didn’t mind the gesture. “Let’s head inside.”

“Griff,” the older man working the counter said as they stepped inside. “I see you’ve brought a friend.” The old man’s grey eyes perked.

Griffin’s hand remained steadfast on the gentle curve of Finley’s back. “Hey. May I introduce Finley Scott.”

“Finley,” the man said with a nod. “Unusual name.”

“Unique lady,” Griffin said. He kept his eyes on Gunny but could feel the smile on Finley’s lips without seeing it.

“You ever shot before?” Gunny asked Finley.

“No, sir, but I’ve been wanting to learn.”

“Sir?” He shook his head with a wheezy chuckle. “Don’t think I’ve ever been a ‘sir.’”

“Oh, I’m sorry . . .” Her brow creased.

“You,” he said with a smile, “can call me Gunny.”

“Gunny?”

“It’s what everyone calls me.”

“Gunny was a Marine gunnery sergeant and the name stuck,” Griffin explained.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you so much for your service to our country.”

His eyes sparkled with pride. “Don’t get much thanks these
days. Though back during ’Nam when I served it was a lot worse.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“You weren’t even alive then.”

“The tail end.”

“But far too young to remember.”

“I’ve worked—” Thankfully she cut herself off. “I studied the effects of war on casualties.”

“Ah.” Gunny went back to cleaning his gun. “Reading’s one thing. Living it, another.” He lifted his chin. “Griff can attest to that.”

Griffin nodded solemnly.

“Don’t tell me you’re still hiding?”

“It was a career change, Gun.”

“Same diff.” The old man shrugged.

Could he come shoot at the range one time without Gunny bringing that up?

“The lady and I would like a lane.”

“You got your equipment?”

“Yep.”

“Take lane four, and good luck, missy. I’ll be curious to see if you do as well as I’m anticipating.”

“Oh, like I said, I’ve never shot a gun before.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t possess the innate skill. For some people it’s like breathing—comes naturally. Like, Griff, here. He tell you—”

Griffin held up his hand. “Let’s not bore poor Finley with old stories.”

“Not that old.”

Griffin lifted the target paper. “Thanks, Gunny.”

Gunny waved with a smile, his gaze full of mirth.

“He seemed nice,” Finley said as they exited through the rear of the building.

“Ornery is more like it.”

“Why didn’t you ask him any questions?”

“After we shoot.”

10

T
he range was pretty quiet this time of day. Only a handful of men occupied the various lanes, a wooden-roofed structure protecting them from glare and weather.

Gunny had put them on lane four, which allowed for targets out to three hundred yards, but they’d start at twenty-five for Finley.

He fastened his target down range and strode back to her, noticing that her auburn hair was striking in the late-afternoon sunlight.

She nibbled at her bottom lip.

“You nervous?” he asked, picking up his .22 pistol.

“A little.” She shifted from foot to foot, the crisp fall air biting. “But also excited.” Her blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. “I’ve been wanting to learn to shoot.”

“Any particular reason?”

She pushed her hands into her jean pockets, toeing the concrete slab with her shoe. “Just think it’s a good skill for a woman to have.”

There clearly was more reason behind her desire to learn to shoot, but he wouldn’t prod. He, of all people, appreciated privacy. “Before we start we need to go over the safety instruction portion of our afternoon.”

“Of course.”

“First, you always want to make sure you start with the safety on.” He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and placed his hands over hers. Fireworks shot through him, ricocheting along his nerve endings.

She smiled softly back at him . . .
surprise
in her eyes.

Why surprise?

Was her heart racing too?

He should have never let her come along. Time spent with Finley Scott was
dangerous
.

He swallowed, his throat dry, but managed to continue, “Always point it down range.”

“How’s this?” she asked.

Perfection
. “Great,” he managed to grit out. “You’re lined up perfectly. Now, you want to release the safety and move your finger from the trigger guard onto the trigger.”

She listened intently, doing as instructed.

“Next, get a good sight picture.”

Nodding, her silky hair brushed his cheek, tickling his jaw.

She was ready, but he was so hesitant to let go, knowing he’d probably never get to hold her in his arms like this again.

“Once you have the sight picture, you begin to squeeze the trigger. Nice and smooth.”

“Got it.”

Ever so reluctantly, he moved his arms away and took a step back, his heart still racing. This was very,
very
bad.

Her shot, however, was anything but. The gun reported, and
a quick glance through the binoculars confirmed she’d hit the bull’s-eye. “Great job.”

“Really?” She glanced up, beaming—her eyes glistening, her cheeks rosy, her smile forming an adorable dimple in the hollow of her right cheek.

Her happiness was contagious and her presence addictive. There was just something about the woman that held him fast.

“Take a look,” he said, handing her the binoculars.

She glanced back with pleasure lingering on her lips at the sight of her bull’s-eye. “I credit having a great teacher.”

He smiled. Of course she’d say that. “Wanna go again?”

“Absolutely!”

An hour later, they decided it was best to return to the purpose of their visit—asking questions. Finley had garnered quite the fan base, with the men swinging by to congratulate her on her natural shooting skills.

Griffin knew a few of the men, so he started yammering, first asking about the Dragunov, feigning interest in possibly purchasing one—not that he’d actually mind adding one to his collection. It was an impressive weapon.

Nearly all the guys suggested he talk with a man named Vern Michaels. Michaels was a former decorated sniper who’d lost his right leg during the first Gulf War and who shot at the range daily.

“If anyone knows anything useful, what shooters have that rifle, where to seek further answers, Vern’s your guy,” Tag said.

“Thanks, man.” Griffin shook Tag’s hand and that of his friend, Bill. Tag and Griff had competed against each other during numerous competitions, taking first and second place three years running in the Junior Olympics.

“Missed you at Mammoth last year,” Tag said.

“Yeah.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck, conscious of Finley’s curious attention. “Needed a break.” How could he compete in shooting competitions after what happened?

“Well, it’s good to see you, man. Hope to see you on the competition range next year.”

Griffin nodded, letting his answer appear open-ended, but he’d already made up his mind. No more awards for a skill he’d failed at when a woman’s life had hung in the balance.

“I heard the lady is quite a shot,” Gunny said with a denture-filled grin as they reentered the store.

Of course news traveled fast. Hopefully the answer they sought did the same.

“What time is Vern Michaels usually in?” Daily snipers like Vern were nothing if not routine and in-the-know. Sounded like he was the perfect connection. If anyone knew snipers in the area, it’d be a daily guy like Michaels.

Gunny’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your interest in Vern?”

Of course Gunny would be protective of his regulars.

“I’ve got some questions about a rifle. Heard he’s the guy to ask.”

Gunny lifted his arms, indicting the vast weapon stock enclosing him in glass cases along the U-shaped counter he stood behind. “Did it ever occur to you I might know a thing or two?”

“Of course. I was planning on asking you. Figured I’d check with Vern too. The more insight, the better.”

“Which rifle you interested in?”

“Dragunov.”

Gunny’s jaw tightened. “Why that weapon?”

Griffin glanced around to be certain there weren’t any listening ears, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “We’re investigating a sniper hit that took place last winter.”

“Or early spring,” Finley added.

Gunny’s lips thinned. “Is that right? And you figured my clientele were the ones to question?”

“No. It’s not like I think someone here . . . I just figured it was best to start at a place I know.” Though asking questions like this in your own backyard was frowned upon.

Gunny’s eyes narrowed, his jaw shifting. “Is this about that Gettysburg grave?”

Griffin nodded.

“You heard?” Finley asked.

“Been all over the news. I know Griffin works there. Now he’s in here asking about a hit.” His pale lips thinned again. “Not hard to put two and two together. Even for an old bird like me.”

“Any thoughts?”

“Haven’t seen a Dragunov around here, but Vern’s pretty established in the area. He probably knows which shooters prefer that particular rifle, but that’s assuming your sniper is local.”

“Or regional,” Griffin added.

“Hate to think we have a sniper for hire anywhere around these parts.”

“So there are none that you’ve heard of?”

Color imbued Gunny’s pallid cheeks. “What did I just say?”

Got it.
Gunny was done answering. “Thanks for your time.”

He arched his greying brows. “I assume you’ll be back?”

“Unless you want to give me Vern’s home address?”

Gunny looked at him as if about to say
“Have you lost your mind, boy?”

“Right. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Wonderful.” He didn’t bother hiding his annoyance.

“Why’s he so irritated?” Finley asked as they made their way to the door.

“Because we’re using his business to seek out a killer.”

She glanced back at the older man. “You think Gunny suspects who the killer might be?”

Griffin exhaled. “I think Gunny is bright enough to know there are a lot of really skilled shooters in the area—probably a handful of snipers, between the SWAT teams in the region and former military that have come back home following their service. Stands to reason our killer could be from around here or a transplant to the area. If he’s not local, he’s highly vested in keeping his and our vic’s identity concealed.”

The sun was beginning to set, and only a few vehicles remained in the dirt parking lot as they stepped outside, the air temperature a good ten degrees cooler than when they’d entered.

Finley turned to question Griffin about what Gunny might suspect, but his eyes widened and he suddenly grew still. Cocking his head slightly to the right, he squinted, studying the wooded slope to their right for the briefest of seconds before hollering, “Get down!”

Instinct kicked in and Finley dropped to the dirt, her elbows absorbing the brunt of the hit. What was happening? Panic seared through her like a knife fileting a fish—rapid and gut-wrenching.

Griffin rolled underneath the truck to her side and pulled her behind the wheel well, his arms holding her fast.

“What’s happening?” Her pulse whooshed in a frantic frenzy.

“Sniper, I think. Twelve o’clock. About eight hundred meters out.”

“A sniper? You don’t . . . ?” Of course it was
him
. What were
the chances another sniper would have them in his sights? “What do we do?”

“Get in the truck, lay low on the floorboard. I’m going after him.” He opened the door for her, helping her inside.

“You’re going to do
what
?”

“Find out who’s tracking us.” He shut the door.

The truck’s floorboard was cold. The thickly grooved plastic mats pressed hard into her neck, arms, and legs as she lay curled up, wedged between the pedals and driver’s seat. Memories of being stuffed in a car’s trunk choked her, making it difficult to breathe. She fought to draw in a decent breath as cold sweat beaded on her skin. A chill washed over her, and her thoughts shifted to Griffin.

How could he head out after a killer? Did he possess no fear?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed.

Please, Jesus, let him be okay. Let us be okay. Help me to breathe. Help me to calm down. Help keep us safe.

She continued to pour her heart out in a rush, begging her Savior to protect them. Every minute Griffin didn’t return, the panic threatening to engulf her increased.

Please, Lord.