Page 44 of Shane
A motion-activated light flickered on inside the sunken compartment at his approach, revealing seven McMillan bolt-action, TAC-338 sniper rifles. All were equipped with Leupold Mark 4 LR/T scopes with illuminated reticles attached to their overhead rails, and black, retractable Harris bipods folded flat to their undersides.
“I think I’m in heaven,” he muttered to himself as he cleared the space between the kitchen counter and the vault. “Look at these weapons, those knives. Everlee, come see.”
Shane couldn’t believe the quality or the quantity of what he was looking at. He knew damned well the rifles alone cost over fifteen thousand apiece. He’d priced them online one time but had quickly decided the cost put them out of his league. Tack on those scopes for another three thousand each, the bipods at several hundred dollars apiece, and he was easily looking at twenty grand for one of these weapons. That didn’t include ammo, slings, or tactical forward grips.
Lovingly, Shane lifted one of those babies out of its butt slot and pulled it away from the magnetized barrel rest. As a scout sniper, he’d carried a beat-up Remington M40A5. The tan, cerakote-toned baby in his hands now was an entirely different weapon. He guesstimated it weighed around fifteen pounds, geared up like it was. Add ammo, a sling, and a forward grip, and he’d be as close to heaven as any warrior could hope to get. Of course, he’d also be flat broke and owing some bank an arm and a leg. But hot damn, he’d be one happy camper.
His chest inflated with another sigh, much like the one he’d breathed the Christmas before his mom had died, the morning she’d given him his grandfather’s Winchester rifle. His grandfather had actually used it to hunt deer, bear, and small varmints, but to this day, Shane hadn’t fired the Winchester, not even once. He’d been too busy. The cancer, the funeral, and the Corps had taken all his time and every last brain byte. But now...
A smile cracked his lips as Shane scanned the rest of the treasure trove. Dozens of loaded magazines stood alongside a light anti-tank shoulder cannon, aka a LAW, on the shelf behind the rifles. Next to that, two sawed-off shotguns, phosphorous grenades, and more tactical gear, including vests. The shelves built inside the doors were deep enough to hold night vision goggles, plastic wrapped fingerless knuckle-gloves, stacked boxes of carabiner clips, tactical binocs.
Shit! He couldn’t believe he was looking at anything and everything a spec ops guy could ever dream of or ask for.
Flashbangs, pistols, knives, holsters, take your pick. Smoke had built a veritable arsenal and was offering it for free. Shane’s nose twitched. He could almost smell the acrid tang of expended gunpowder in the air on the range after hours of practice. Smoky sulfur with a twist of burnt charcoal. Nothing better.
“You have got to see this,” he told Everlee again over his shoulder.
Finally, she came to stand beside him, wiping her hands on a bar towel. “You find what you need? Wow, guess you did.”
“Sweet, isn’t it?” he breathed as he removed a hip holster, strapped it on, then filled its cups with two Glock pistols, both which used .380 ACP. Most over-shoulder rigs needed straps buckled to a guy’s belt for stability. Not the ones Shane used. His were custom-made of stiffer material that held its shape and clung close to a guy’s ribs. Problem was, there weren’t any of them in the closet. No problem. The rig he’d just claimed was a damned good second best.
He tagged a couple carabiner clips to his belt loops and attached empty pouches to them for extra ammo. Two empty mags went into each front pocket. He’d load them later.
Oh, look, IFAK bags. As in individual first-aid kits.He selected one and ripped its Velcro sleeves apart to make sure items in the tri-fold kit weren’t expired. Yup. Epi pens, pre-loaded CELOX applicators full of enough hemostatic granules to slow arterial bleeders, one tourniquet, prepackaged burn dressings, a twin pack of chest seals, self-adhesive gauze, Israeli pressure bandages, two pairs of nitrile gloves, two bags of Quick Clot, sutures, nylon thread, and enough hemostats to get the tough jobs done right. All of it fresh. All of it plenty short of its expiration dates.
“You think you’ve got enough, big guy?” Everlee teased.
“Almost,” he replied even as he strapped a minimalist woven holster around his thigh and slid a Browning Black Label 1911-380 pistol smoothly home. The holster fit that particular weapon like a glove, and Shane liked the versatility and flexibility it offered. The trigger guard was made extra stiff so it didn’t flap back over the grip when a guy needed quick access to his weapon.
Shane already kept a knife in one boot. He selected another sheathed blade and slid it into his other boot. Never hurt to be doubly prepared, and redundancy was a proven rule in combat. Finally done weaponizing himself, he stepped back and blew out a breath of pure satisfaction. He’d been a defenseless sheep for most of this mission. Not anymore. Even though he’d have to remove nearly everything he’d just put on before bed, it felt damned good being a guard dog again.
He lifted an arm up and around Everlee to seal the compartment. “You need anything?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked down at her. She was standing nearly inside the bend in his arm, her body aligned with his. Nearly touching. Close enough to feel the heat between them. Her pupils were big and black, her irises shrunk to narrow rings of dark brown. She licked her lips, making them shine. Making Shane hard. Something crackled between them. Felt like electricity.
Had to be his imagination. Everlee didn’t need a broken-down has-been like him. She was tough, former security, a cop, and an officer. A woman to respect. Former AF Lieutenant, for hell’s sake. He’d seen the footage from that Virginia Highway Patrol officer’s dashcam the day she’d taken down Finch. She hadn’t held one thing back. Just went after the murderer with no-holds barred. Alone. Everlee was strong-willed and most likely a better shot than Shane. Frost that humble pie with his chicken-shit meltdown at TEAM HQ, and, yeah. There was no way she could be attracted to a loser like him.
It took a minute before he forced the lust running in his blood like molten lava to back the hell off. So why couldn’t he lower his arm to his side? Why didn’t he want to? And why was she frozen in place, still looking up at him like he meant something to her? Her, a woman who could have any man she set eyes on. Why was his throat so dry he could barely swallow?
She blinked up at him, her thick fringe of lashes velvety butterfly wings. Her eyes were two dark wells of mysteries he wanted to explore, relish, and solve. “Do you have everythingyouwant?”
He didn’t miss the emphasis she’d put on that secondyou.“No,” he said quickly. Then added, “I mean… Yeah. I’ve got enough gear, but...”No. I don’t have what I really want. What I need. What… who… I honestly, truly would love to have in my life. I have no real home. No real family. And that song, “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry,” is the story of my life.
She blinked again, her silence telling. Was she really waiting for an answer?
The air between them thickened. Her eyes were blown wide with what sure looked like lust. Time stopped, just as it had during that moment back at Farmer Boyz. There was something incredibly sexy about a strong woman who handled firearms the way Everlee did. She hadn’t run from those asshats back at the convenience store, either. Had instead given chase, ran straight into trouble, and peppered the rear of their getaway vehicle with lead. Then she’d turned on a dime and provided dinner, like any totally domestic badass would.
Shane tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying. Wondering.
They were within kissing distance. Mere inches separated her mouth from his. So close their breaths mingled. He was no alpha predator. Would never be as fearsome as Alex Stewart. Didn’t have the personality dominant males did. Wasn’t even in the running. Hadn’t wanted to sell that much of his soul to be the baddest killer in the tent or room or… shit, not even on The TEAM. If anything, Everlee was tougher than he was. And yet…
Shane was man enough to know that whatever he’d felt for Everlee these past couple days had changed, grown into something else, possibly even that indefinable something more.
The longer their breaths mingled, the more sure he became. Did he dare grab this chance and find out? Ms. Smart was still in the bathroom. How long would it take her to finish showering? Ten, fifteen minutes? Twenty? Thirty? She said she’d be quick, but he had yet to hear the faucets running. Better question, did he have enough time to break yet another TEAM rule? Was Everlee brave enough, dumb enough, to break those rules with him?
Shane hit the red button, and the vault doors hissed shut. The hydraulics locked into place behind him. He squared his shoulders, planted his boots, and prepared to find out.
Chapter Fifteen