Free Longest Night by Kara Braden Page B

squeezed off two more rounds before she heard the back door slam open, wood striking wood more loudly than the echo of the fourth round. That one hit a target, judging by the faint, distant ting she heard from the far end of the runway.
    â€œCecily?” Ian shouted.
    â€œClear!” she called back, raising the rifle’s muzzle. Then, realizing he might not understand, she added, “It’s safe. I’m on the runway to your left.”
    As she listened to his boots crunch across the late-autumn grass, blades made brittle by the cold, she crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet, and dropped out the magazine. She felt for the box of ammunition and loaded four rounds to replace the ones she’d fired. Her fingers were already stiff, fighting the spring pressure, but her head felt clearer. When she wasn’t firing at a living target—and when no one was shooting back at her—she found shooting to be relaxing.
    â€œAre you all right? Did something happen?” he asked as he stopped beside her. In the starlight, he was a tall silhouette wrapped in a dramatic coat. She could just make out the pale face above the dark wool but couldn’t pick out the details of his fine bone structure or beautiful eyes.
    Just as well. She didn’t need to torture herself with what she couldn’t have.
    â€œIt’s fine. I have some targets at the far end,” she said, gesturing down the runway.
    He turned to look into the darkness. “Can you even see them?” he asked skeptically.
    â€œNot even a little.” She looked up at him and impulsively asked, “Want to give it a try?”
    His laugh was sudden and unguarded and did more to lift her spirits than the target shooting had. “I’m not the soldier in the family.”
    â€œIt’s a .22, not a grenade launcher.” Cecily turned, holding the rifle out. “Ever fired one of these?”
    â€œOnce or twice,” he answered with forced casualness.
    â€œUh-huh. Safety’s behind the trigger.” She set the weapon in his hands, covering them with her own, directing his fingers to each part of the weapon by feel. His skin was warm under her cold fingers, but he didn’t pull away. “You’ve got ten shots. The bolt will work automatically. On the last shot, it’ll stay open.” Gently, she pressed the rifle up and circled around behind Ian’s right shoulder. The wool coat was soft under her hands. “Snug it up in the hollow of your shoulder, but don’t worry about recoil. You won’t feel it.”
    â€œEasy enough,” he murmured.
    â€œOh, did you want me to find safety glasses or ear protection?” she offered. She had some in the gun safe for when she went hunting.
    â€œNo need.”
    â€œAll right. You’re clear to fire, as long as you stay aimed down the runway. I own the property, and anyone on it is trespassing.”
    â€œI’ll help hide the bodies,” he offered lightly, shifting his stance. That was all the warning Cecily needed to step back, and a moment later she heard him fire the first round. As the echo died out, he brought his head back up. “There’s really no point in aiming, is there?”
    â€œWant me to dig out the night-vision gear?” she offered.
    Ian laughed, a warm sound that slithered through her, coiling itself contentedly in her chest. “Another time.”
    ***
    Cecily’s abrupt departure hadn’t caught Ian by surprise. Her typing had become more and more erratic as the hours passed, until the pauses between words stretched out into nearly a full minute each. The first surprise had been when he’d listened to her open the gun safe, and he actually wondered if he’d need to stop a suicide until he dismissed the thought as foolish. She wasn’t depressed— distressed , yes, and angry, but not depressed. For someone who lived in the most boring back-end of nowhere, she was