Page 10 of Femme Fatale
She picked up the SIG, spun it once in her palm. “PTSD doesn’t show up on a background check.”
“Neither does a tendency to make people disappear,” I said.
Now she smiled for real. “You came all the way out here to impress me with Google?”
“No. I came to recruit you.”
She holstered the pistol and turned to face me, eyes gone flinty. “Why?”
“Because you don’t miss,” I said.
She gave that a second. “Let’s cut to the chase, Selene. What’s the real offer?”
“Simple,” I said. “I need a crew that can scare the shit out of Zeke Smalls and anyone else dumb enough to get in our way. I want you as my SAA. Full control over security, tactics, and procurement. You want your own budget, you got it. If you want more than that, you negotiate it up front. But you answer to me, and nobody else.”
She considered it, the way people do when they want to say no but are tempted by the yes.
“What if I say no?” she asked.
“Then I'll come back tomorrow,” I said. “And the next day. Until you run out of bullets or I run out of patience.”
That made her laugh, a rusty, honest sound. “You shoot?”
“I can out-shoot half the old guys in this town,” I said.
She unzipped a duffel at her feet and produced a fresh mag, loaded it in three seconds flat. “Let’s see it, then,” she said. “Winner gets to set the terms.”
“Deal,” I said.
We took adjacent lanes. She handed me a spare eye/ear set. It was military, and better than range junk. I strapped in. We both loaded, braced, and waited for the Range Officer to nod.
Twenty rounds. Standard silhouette. Closest grouping wins.
Spade went first, smooth as a sewing machine, double-taps and quick reloads. All her shots were inside a fist-sized knot, dead center. Mine were wider at first, but I settled in, exhaling slow, letting the rhythm take me. When it was over, the Range Officer reeled both targets in.
He whistled and held up the two sheets.
Spade’s was perfect, but mine had one outlier. I’d added a left-shoulder flyer. She saw it, and her mouth twitched.
“Nice shooting,” she said.
“You too,” I replied.
She tore her target off, folded it, and stuffed it into her bag. “Sergeant at Arms?”
“Sergeant at Arms,” I said, and handed her the patch. “You in?”
She took it, running her thumb over the edge, the same way Joker had. “You run a tight ship, Selene?”
“Tighter than the Army,” I said.
She shook my hand, grip firm, no games. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
“I’ll have a bike waiting,” I said.
We walked toward the parking lot, side by side, guns cased and slung.
“First order?” she asked.
