Page 28 of Dirty Roxie
Roxie
Rocks and debris scattered about the rooftop dig into my elbows and belly as I try to find a comfortable position. My T-shirt and cut-off shorts doing little to buffer my skin. My body is sore from fighting last night. But it doesn’t help there’s all this shit left here from who knows when.
Not to mention, my insides are racing around on high alert. Not just because I’m readying myself for a kill. It’s also because of this man next to me. So close I could roll a mere forty-five degrees and be on top of him.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, I’ll lose focus. And if I lose focus, I lose everything. Instead, I center my gaze on the target. Letting everything else around me fall away.
Center in. Block out.
The words from my mentor still resonate with me even after all these years. A mantra for shooting sharp and true. If the target moves, I move with it. As the wind blows, I adjust. When my heart beats, I slow it down.
Closing my left eye, I keep my right focused straight ahead. My fingers are loose, my body is rigid. This target deserves to be hit. It was made to die. Not to stand there, vibrant and alone, mocking me, the shooter—daring me to take it down as swiftly as possible.
I take a deep breath in, filling my chest with air, then let it out slowly as I pull the trigger. One seamless move.
BANG!
The target explodes, morphing before my eyes from something whole to what barely resembles fragments. My remaining breath leaves me in a whoosh, a smile takes over my face. Satisfied, I turn to look at him.
Ronan remains sprawled next to me, seemingly unaffected. The only muscle moving on his body is his trigger finger as he follows my lead. His target decimates in front of us, his technique infinitesimally better.
“Nice shooting,” he says, not looking at me. I’m disappointed that he doesn’t. I want to see his eyes after the slaughter. To gauge the expression on his face, take note of how he is affected, if at all.
Instead, he removes his gun from the bipod, stands, and packs his things in his carry bag.
“That’s it?” I ask, looking up at him, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is that it? One shot and you’re finished?”
“That’s what we agreed to.”
“I know, but you barely even waited until I finished mine.”
“I didn’t realize there was a timeline.”
“Well, there’s not. Not really. I guess I just thought there would be more set up or discussion. I don’t know. Not just a wham, bam, bang, done.”
He chuckles, I assume at my phraseology and continues to put away his things. Not that there’s much. He’s almost finished. I stand to do the same.
“I think it’s clear who is the victor here.”
“You do, huh?” I ask.
He nods in response. His expression is smug as he waits for me to disassemble and put away what I need to before we leave our perch.
I stand and head toward the rickety ladder that will bring us back down to ground level. I sling the carry bag over one shoulder diagonally across my chest and descend. The ladder creaks with each step I touch. Reminding me of a time when I was chasing a scumbag up a rusty old fire escape. One rung broke loose under his weight. As he went down, he caught his chin on another—sending his bottom teeth through his top lip and busting up the lower half of his face.
The next time I saw him, it was in front of a judge, and he had his entire jaw wired shut, which made me smile. This was before I realized it was much more efficient to just get rid of these guys rather than taxing the system with one more irredeemable, incarcerated dead beat.
I follow Ronan toward the targets in silence. Waiting to see mine with equal parts dread and excitement. I want to win. To shove it in his pretty face that I’m the better shot. At the same time, it’s thrilling to think he might be better than me. I’ve not met one in a really long time.
We reach the small clearing and study the carnage before us. What remains of the 3D targets spread multiple feet in every direction, as though they combusted from the inside out. Which, I suppose, given the bullets we used, they did. The targets being the closer you get to the dead zone, the less that will remain of the lifelike doll.
As we look about, there is more of my doll remaining than there is Ronan’s. I’m upset and impressed.
“It is as I thought,” he says. “You are good. Very good. But I am better.”
