Page 4 of Wick
"Show me what you got," Nova grins, playing right along with me.
Stepping into one of the partitioned spaces, I place my weapon and ammo on the shelf in front of me and begin to load my firearm. It doesn't take long for Kiwi and Fender to join us.
"Aww hell." I look over my left shoulder, and Fender is rubbing his palms together. "We're about to watch Nova get his ass kicked."
"Hold up," Kiwi chimes in. "We need to document this shit." Glancing past Fender, I notice Kiwi holding his phone in the air and I laugh.
With a new target hanging, I keep the safety engaged on my firearm and step to the side. With a gesture for Nova to take my place I tell him, "Ladies first."
Being a good sport, Nova throws his head back in laughter. "Let the master show you how to do it." He strides up, taking my place, and pulls his weapon from its holster. Aiming, he shoots three rounds. Laying his gun down, he presses the button to his right, and the target floats down the alley in our direction. Nova stops it a couple of feet in front of us and folds his arms across his chest.
I nod. "Not bad." I take in his shots. Two in the head and one in the upper chest area. "Not bad at all," I repeat impressed by his ability. "Send it back."
Pressing the button, the silhouette becomes smaller as it moves backward. He stops it about midway, just a tad closer than what he had it. "Keep going." I raise my brow, and he smirks, while Fender and Kiwi snicker behind us. Only when the target hits the end of the track and can't go any further do I tell him. "That's good."
Nova steps to the side, and I take my stance. Holding my weapon in front of me, I line up my target and squeeze the trigger. After firing several rounds, I holster my gun and push the retrieval button. The closer it gets, I grin. I put a couple bullets through each mark Nova made, widening the holes he already put through the paper before emptying the rest of my clip into the center of the silhouette.
"Holy shit, man. You see how clean those shots are?" Fender pokes his finger through the bullet hole in the center. "You put each bullet through the previous mark with precision."
Nova pulls the target from the clip. "Fuck." He turns to Kiwi. "Did you get all that?"
"Damn right, I did." Kiwi beams.
"Good." Nova turns back toward me. "That was impressive fuckin' shootin'. As impressive as your drinking skills. Or so I've heard."
"Thanks." The men follow me to the other room, where I grab a bottle of cold water from my bag. "You plan on challenging me on those skills too?" I twist the cap of the bottle.
"Drinking?" Nova looks at me. "Hell no. I've heard all about your drinkin' skills. Save your game for some other fool who doesn't know any better."
After taking a drink of my water, I reply, "Riggs must have told you."
"Wait a minute. Does this story have anything to do with the origin of your nickname Tequila?" Kiwi chimes in, and I nod. "I need to hear this one. You care to share?"
I shrug my shoulders. "Not much to tell. One weekend, while on a short leave between missions, I went out with a few of the guys. A simple drinking game turned into a competition between us and another unit. We got to choose one man from their group and vice versa. Of course, they decided who they thought would be the weakest link." I pause, and grab another firearm from my bag, placing the one I just shot in its case. "Anyway, they chose Tequila as their poison of choice. I went up against a soldier the size of a refrigerator. First one to puke loses." I grin, thinking back to that night. "Their man lost." Little do they know I paid the price all night when I went back to my base housing.
Heading back into the gun range, the three of us spend another hour shooting and cutting up with each other. It proved to be the medicine I needed to melt away my stress, and half-ass forget about Malik for a while.
Walking outside with the guys, I strap my bag down and swing my leg over my bike. Nova slides his shades on after doing the same. "How about we carry our asses over to Twisted Throttle," Nova says while looking at me. "I owe you a drink, and a bike wash."
Two weeks.That’s how long its been since my last mission, so I shouldn’t complain that I'm on my way to the clubhouse to pack my shit and head out after getting a call from Scott. I've been serving my country since I graduated high school. Still considered active duty, most of my missions have become covert. During one of those missions is when I met Riggs, and Malik happened to be serving alongside him. Since then I've piloted several more missions with them.
I've spent my time off the past couple of weeks, here in New Orleans, alongside my second family, The Kings of Retribution MC. I’ve even seen some action; meaning I beat a bitch my first night in town, but hey, what can I say?Laissez Les Bon temp rouler.
Then there's Malik or Wick as his brother's call him. There's a ray of sunshine for you. Sucking the fun right out of the room whenever I wanted to have a good time. He and Riggs own a bar on Bourbon Street called Twisted Throttle. There is always live music, and my drinks have been free. That is until Malik decides I've had enough and cuts me off.Killjoy. That, and any man who so much as looked my way he managed to scare off with his murderous stare.Who the hell does he think he is anyway?He doesn't want me. He made that abundantly clear long ago.
Twisting the throttle, I pick up speed, the hot, humid wind licks at my bare skin as I travel down the road. The entire situation between Malik and I is, well, complicated. The memory and taste of his kiss cause my thighs to flex against the vibration of the bike between my legs. The kiss which happened during a mission more than a year ago. The very one Malik also said was a mistake. Pushing my bike a little harder, I do my best to avoid the rush of emotions trying to suck the life out of me.
Slowing to a stop, I punch in the security code and wait for the massive metal gate to roll open, then pull my bike alongside Malik's. "Great," I roll my eyes as I kill the engine. Relief washes over me the moment I walk through the front door and find the common area empty. Doing my best to avoid running into Malik, I jog up the stairs, heading straight for my room. Knowinghisis two doors down the hall, I make quick work of shoving what few things I brought with me inside my duffle bag. Stopping briefly, I glance at myself, in the full-length mirror leaning against the wall beside the bedroom door; my skin still glistening with sweat from the heat of the Louisiana summer. Unblinking, I catch small glimpses of my brother staring back at me. Not a day passes without thinking of Damien. It's been eleven years since we lost him, but some days, it feels like it was only yesterday when I watched a black sedan pull into our driveway.
Closing my eyes, I fight back the tears and swallow my emotions.
"Running away?" Malik's gravelly voice pierces the silence, dragging me from my memories.
Opening my eyes, I find him leaning against the doorframe, his large frame taking up the entire width of the opening. For a moment, I become fixed on his earthy brown eyes, and the way the sunlight coming through the bedroom window catches warm hues of copper surrounding his pupils. "I've never run from anything." Without hiding behind an indifferent stare and falsities, my eyes travel the length of his body. Wearing black jeans, black combat boots, and nothing beneath his cut, I drink him in like a cold glass of sweet tea until my eyes connect with his once more. The smell of perfume hits my nose the moment I take a step toward him, reminding me of yesterday, and how relaxed and engaging he was with Josie. I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does. Masking my jealousy, I fling my bag over my shoulder. "Scott called, I have an intel briefing at 2200." Malik takes a step back, allowing me to step into the hall. I feel his presence behind me as I descend the stairs.
"You know where he's sending you?" Malik questions as he follows.
"Nope." Keeping pace, I cross the room. "You know how Scott works. He gives us nothing until we get to his location."
