Good Girls & Gangsters. (Book 2)

Chapter 11

Torin POV

I adjust the precision lens again, eyeing the target through the scope.

The first target is at the base of the gradient, the others are peppered all the way through the leafy terrain with wisps of foliage obstructing my view. Comprehensive calculations flit through my mind, considering various ballistic factors, especially regarding the deviating effects of gravity and wind whilst performing long-range shooting. I do a quick wind estimation: Gentle breeze; Leaves and small twigs in constant motion.

I align my sight with the target, holding my aim and controlling my breathing. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet fires out and hits the metal frame, centre mass. Maintaining concentration, I discharge a round that hits the four other targets at the same location with deadly precision.

"Not bad," Hadassah comments. She tilts her head to the side, closing one eye to look into the scope, evaluating my marks. "Not bad at all."

Both of rifles are mounted on bipods with two legs to lend support. Semi-automatic rifles with self-load during the conclusion of the gas-driven bolt cycle. She and I are secured in a stable firing position, lying prone on the ground with our legs spread to absorb the recoil.

"Your turn, and keep in mind that assembling a rifle, is one thing. Shooting with it is another."

She takes a moment to determine the different ranges, deciding the wind speed for the different zones. Hadassah dials the elevation on her optic, and she holds for the wind.

"Don't worry," I provoke. "It's not a competition."

"That's a good thing. For you."

She aims and unleashes a barrage. Each shot blasts through the metal men's forehead, repeating the feat with fatal exactitude. Holes blazed right through the sequence of steel targets.

Dumbstruck, I check her marks through the scope. Again. And I check three more times.

"Damn, remind me to never piss you off." I lift my head, gawking back at her. "I thought you ran with gang bangers, not gang banging with them. Those targets are like over five hundred meters away. That's expert shooting."

A haunted look veils over her face. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. I've been fighting ever since my dad died. And it only intensified after my ordeal with Sidorov." She frees a humourless laugh, smiling without sincerity. "It's funny. With all my training, I failed to protect myself when I needed it the most."

A ghost-chilling realization befalls me. I understood it before, but I didn't recognize the devastating magnitude of trauma that Orian had put her through. Until now. For most of her life, she honed herself from being someone to be pitied to being someone to be, arguably, respected. She trained herself to be strong. And my brother nearly squandered that. Nearly. She's not someone who's easily broken. Damaged but never broken. An unfaltering strength.

"Did you ever think of... talking to someone?"

Her face carved into an unnatural scowl. "I'm talking to you."

"I mean professionally. After Sidorov?"

Her face contorts into an expression of pure confusion. "You mean like a... therapist? Baby, I'm black." She snorts wryly. "Like I need another white person in my business."

I bring myself up to my knees, rising to stand over her. "Come. Let's go."

She hangs her head with exasperation, blaring a groan. "Just when I was getting used to this villa." She looks up at me, squinting from the sunlight. "You know it's a complete gamble if he shows or not."