Chapter 1: Shot Through the Heart
The shot cracked. Sharp. Final. Matt blinked, lowering his own pistol slightly, staring at the target twenty-five yards down lane three. Dead center. A perfect bullseye punched clean through the black circle. Except… he hadn’t pulled the trigger. His finger was still resting outside the guard.
"What the hell?" The muttered curse was lost under the echoing percussion of other shooters down the line. He glanced sideways.
Lane four. She lowered her sleek, black pistol, a faint wisp of smoke curling from the barrel. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent behind protective glasses, met his. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her lips. It wasn't just confident; it was pure, unadulterated challenge. And amusement. Mostly amusement at his expense.
Heat flooded Matt’s face, prickling under his collar. Embarrassment warred with instant, visceral attraction. She’d stolen his shot. Effortlessly. Perfectly. And she knew it.
"Nice grouping," she called over, her voice clear and carrying easily over the intermittent gunfire. She nodded towards his target, where a tight cluster of holes sat just left of center. "Bit off today?"
Matt swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The acrid tang of gunpowder seemed sharper now. He cleared his throat. "Apparently." He managed a weak grin, gesturing vaguely towards her target. "Unlike some people."
She chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated strangely in his chest. "Practice." She ejected her magazine with a smooth, practiced motion, checking the chamber before placing the pistol on the bench. "And maybe a touch of showing off." She pulled off her ear protection, letting dark, wavy hair cascade around her shoulders. Then the glasses came off, revealing eyes the colour of rich amber. She winked. "Guilty."
The wink. It hit him like a physical jolt, low and unexpected. Straight to the gut. Or lower. He fumbled slightly, setting his own gun down safely. "Matt," he offered, extending a hand automatically, then feeling instantly stupid. Who shook hands at a gun range?
She didn't seem to mind. Her grip was firm, cool despite the ambient warmth radiating off the concrete floor. "Kate." Her smile softened, became less predatory, more genuinely friendly. "New here? Haven't seen you on Tuesdays."
"Usually weekends," Matt admitted, suddenly hyper-aware of the sweat dampening his palms. "Trying to mix it up. Software gig lets me sneak out early sometimes." He gestured towards her target again. "Seriously, though. That was… impressive. What are you shooting?"
"Glock 19X," she said, tapping the pistol on the bench. "Reliable. Comfortable." She leaned back slightly against the lane divider, crossing her arms. Her movements were fluid, confident. Stylishly practical dark jeans, a fitted grey t-shirt that hinted at lean muscle beneath. "You?"
"Just this old Beretta 92." He patted his own gun. "Hand-me-down from my dad. Gets the job done." He hesitated, the silence stretching awkwardly over the sharp reports echoing around them. "So… Tuesdays are your thing?"
"Usually," Kate confirmed. Her gaze drifted past him for a moment, scanning the other lanes, then returned. There was a flicker of something else in her eyes now – assessment, maybe. Or caution. "Good crowd mid-week. Less… intense than weekends." She tilted her head. "You come alone?"
"Yeah," Matt said, a familiar pang of loneliness briefly surfacing beneath the buzz of attraction. "Friends aren't really into it. More… hiking types."
Kate’s smile returned, warmer this time. "Outdoors are good too. But sometimes you just need to punch holes in paper, right? Clear the head." She uncrossed her arms, picking up her empty magazine. "Refill?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure." Matt scrambled for his own mags and ammo box. They walked side-by-side towards the reloading benches near the back wall, the harsh fluorescent lights bleaching the colour from everything except the gleaming brass casings littering the floor. The scent of solvent and gun oil mingled with the pervasive gunpowder.
"So, software," Kate prompted as they started feeding rounds into their magazines. The rhythmic click-click-click filled the space between them. "What kind? Building the next addictive app to drain everyone's free time?"
Matt laughed, relaxing a fraction. "Nothing that exciting. Mostly backend stuff for logistics companies. Making sure trucks don't get lost and warehouses know what’s inside them. Thrilling stuff."
"Sounds… necessary," Kate conceded with another chuckle. "I freelance. Graphic design. Posters, websites, branding… whatever pays the bills and doesn't make my eyes bleed." She slid the last round into her mag with a satisfying final click. "Less thrilling than logistics, probably."
"Hey, making things look good is important," Matt countered. He finished his own mag. "My UI skills are legendary. Legendarily bad."
Kate snorted. "I believe it." She looked at him fully then, her amber eyes holding his. That assessing look was back, but softer now. Curious. "You seem… surprised. That I can shoot."
Matt felt his cheeks flush again. Had he been that obvious? "Honestly? Yeah. A little. Pleasantly surprised." He met her gaze, trying for sincerity. "It was seriously impressive. And… unexpected."
"Good unexpected?" she asked, a playful challenge back in her tone, but her eyes held a hint of vulnerability he hadn't seen before.
"Very good unexpected," Matt confirmed, his voice firmer than he felt. The attraction was a live wire humming between them now, undeniable. He wanted to know more. Much more. "Want to grab a coffee after? When we're done here? There's a decent place down the street." The question tumbled out before he could overthink it.
Kate paused, her fingers tracing the edge of her magazine. She looked down at it for a moment, then back up at him. That flicker of hesitation was back, stronger this time. Her smile was still there, but tighter. "Coffee sounds…" She trailed off, her gaze shifting past his shoulder towards the entrance doors. Her expression froze.
Matt followed her look. A man stood just inside the heavy glass doors, scanning the firing line. Mid-thirties, broad shoulders straining a faded band t-shirt, a thick beard hiding most of his face. His eyes, small and dark, locked onto Kate. Recognition flashed across his features, followed immediately by a scowl that twisted his mouth into something ugly.
Kate went very still beside Matt. The playful confidence evaporated, replaced by a rigid tension. She subtly shifted her stance, turning slightly away from the entrance, her hand drifting towards her pistol case still on the bench.
"Kate?" Matt asked quietly, alarm prickling his skin. "You okay?"
The man started walking towards them. Not hurried, but deliberate. Purposeful. His boots thudded heavily on the concrete floor, each step echoing louder in Matt's ears than the gunfire. The man’s eyes never left Kate. They held a mixture of anger and something else – contempt, maybe. Possession.
Kate didn't answer Matt. Her breath hitched, barely audible. She kept her profile turned away from the approaching man, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the reloading bench. The easy camaraderie of moments before felt like a distant dream shattered by the palpable wave of hostility rolling towards them.
The man stopped a few feet away, ignoring Matt completely. His voice, when it came, was a low growl, thick with undisguised venom. "Well, well. Look who's playing soldier."
The words hung in the air, thick as the gunpowder residue. Kate didn't turn. Her knuckles were bone-white on the reloading bench. The man’s gaze drilled into her, a physical pressure Matt could feel radiating even from a few feet away.
Matt stepped forward, instinctively placing himself slightly between Kate and the newcomer. The man’s eyes – small, dark, dismissive – flicked to him for the first time, registering him as nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle.
"Can I help you?" Matt asked, keeping his voice level. It sounded absurdly polite in the charged silence between bursts of gunfire.
The man ignored him, his attention snapping back to Kate. "Didn't take you long to find another one to fool, huh?" His voice was a low rumble, the contempt like grit in his throat. "Still playing dress-up, Kyle?"
The name hit Kate like a physical blow. Matt saw her shoulders hitch inward, a barely perceptible flinch. Her head remained turned away, but the rigid line of her spine spoke volumes. The air crackled with something ugly and familiar, a history Matt was suddenly, violently aware he stood outside of.
"Hey," Matt said, louder this time, the protective surge overriding his usual easygoing nature. He took another half-step, reducing the space. The man finally deigned to look at him properly, his lip curling in a sneer that twisted the thick beard. He smelled of stale beer and cheap cologne.
"Problem, kid?" the man grunted, puffing his chest out slightly. He wasn't much taller than Matt, but broader, thicker. Used to intimidation.
"Yeah," Matt said, meeting the dark eyes squarely despite the adrenaline humming in his veins. The casual cruelty towards Kate burned away his hesitation. "Actually, there is. Who the hell are you?"
The man barked a harsh, humorless laugh. "Who am I?" He jabbed a thick finger towards Kate, who still hadn't moved, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. "I'm the guy who wasted two years of his life before that decided to pull a fucking switcheroo."
The crude, hateful phrasing landed like a punch. Matt felt a hot flush climb his neck. He saw Kate’s hand twitch towards her pistol case again, but she stopped, clenching her fist instead.
"That doesn't answer my question," Matt pressed, his voice hardening. He kept his stance relaxed but ready, every sense attuned to the threat radiating off the man. The distant crack-crack of other shooters felt like punctuation marks in the tense standoff. "You got a name? Or do you just go around harassing people?"
The man’s scowl deepened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He took a deliberate step closer, invading Matt’s personal space. The stale beer smell intensified. "Name’s Derek," he spat. "And she," another dismissive jerk of his chin towards Kate, "knows exactly who I am. Her boyfriend. Or did you forget that part when you started painting your nails?"
Kate finally moved. She turned, slowly. Her face was pale, her amber eyes wide and bright with a mixture of fear and a fierce, burning anger Matt hadn’t seen before. Her voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, though taut as a bowstring. "Ex-boyfriend, Derek. We broke up months ago. You don't get to call me that. You don't get to call me anything."
"Months?" Derek scoffed, his gaze raking over Kate with open disgust. "Still looks like a bad joke to me. Thought comin' here, seeing you play pretend with guns..." He trailed off with another coarse laugh. "Guess you thought it made you tough, huh? Real manly."
"Leave," Kate said, the single word sharp and cold. "Now."
Derek ignored her, his focus snapping back to Matt, his sneer twisting into something predatory. "So what's your deal, pretty boy? She tell you her little story yet? Or were you too busy staring down the sights to ask what was really in your lane?"
Matt felt a surge of protectiveness, sharp and fierce. He didn't know Kate's story, not really. But he knew Derek was toxic. He knew cruelty when he saw it. He knew the rigid terror in Kate’s posture.
"She doesn't owe me anything," Matt said evenly, holding Derek’s glare. "But you owe her the decency to walk away." He gestured towards the exit with his head. "Club's got security. You wanna keep yelling slurs, they'll help you find the door."
The threat hung there. Derek’s face darkened, a vein pulsing in his thick neck. He looked between Matt’s determined expression and Kate’s frozen fury. For a second, Matt thought he might actually swing. The man’s fists were clenched, his posture coiled. The raw hostility was a live wire in the brightly lit, echoing space.
Then Derek spat on the concrete floor near Matt’s boots. The glob landed with a wet smack. "Decency?" he snarled, the word dripping with contempt. He leaned in, his breath hot and sour. "You're defending that? Must be desperate, kid. Or just stupid." His dark eyes flickered with malice. "Get lost, pretty boy. This ain't your fight. Yet."
The word hung there, sharp and ugly. Yet. It promised future pain, a debt to be collected.
Matt didn't blink. The stale beer smell, the contempt radiating off Derek – it crystallized something cold and hard inside him. He’d seen bullies before. Usually on playgrounds, not in gun clubs reeking of cordite and sweat. This wasn't just harassment; it was a violation.
Matt stepped between them.
Not an aggressive shove, but a deliberate, solid placement of his body, physically severing Derek’s line of sight to Kate. He filled the narrow space beside the reloading bench, shoulders squared, facing Derek head-on. The move surprised Derek; his scowl faltered for a split second, replaced by raw incredulity.
"This fight?" Matt said, his voice low but carrying clearly over the sporadic gunshots. "It became mine the second you decided to spew that hate in my direction. You don’t talk to people like that. Especially not her. Now walk away, Derek. Last chance."
Behind him, Matt heard Kate’s sharp intake of breath. He didn’t dare look back. His focus was locked on the thick-necked man whose fists were clenched white-knuckle tight.
Derek’s face purpled. "You think you’re tough?" he snarled, spittle flying. "Defending that? You got no idea what you're playing with, kid." He jabbed a thick finger towards Matt’s chest. "She’s a liar. A freak. She tricked me! Played house for years pretending to be something she’s not!"
The accusation, the venom in it, hit like a physical wave. Matt felt Kate flinch as if struck. He didn't need the details; the sheer, corrosive hatred was explanation enough.
"I don't care," Matt stated, the words flat, final. "I care that you’re here, now, being a dangerous asshole. That’s enough for me."
"Don't care?" Derek roared, the sound raw and startlingly loud. He surged forward, shoving Matt hard in the chest. "You will care! You stupid fuck, I'll make you care!"
Matt staggered back a step, boots scuffing on shell casings. He caught himself on the edge of the reloading bench, adrenaline roaring in his ears. Derek crowded in, fueled by rage and cheap beer, his fist drawing back – a meaty hammer aimed straight at Matt’s face.
Time seemed to slow. Matt braced, started to raise his own arms. But faster than either man could react, Kate moved.
She didn’t shout. Didn’t scream. She was just there. One moment slightly behind Matt, the next stepping fluidly past his right side. Her hand shot out, not to hit, but to deflect. She slapped Derek’s forearm hard, just above the wrist, as his punch descended. It wasn't enough to stop the momentum, but it threw his aim wildly off. His knuckles grazed Matt’s jaw instead of connecting squarely, a hot scrape of skin.
The force still jolted Matt’s head sideways. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate. But the greater shock was Kate’s intervention – her speed, the cold precision in her movement. It wasn't fear driving her; it was controlled fury.
Derek howled, more in outrage than pain. "You bitch!" He recoiled, shaking his stinging arm, his rage now entirely focused on Kate. He lunged for her, completely ignoring Matt.
Matt saw red. He shoved off the bench with everything he had, crashing into Derek’s side. It was pure momentum, desperation. They collided heavily, stumbling sideways, crashing into the heavy metal frame supporting the reloading bench. Ammo boxes clattered to the concrete. Metal screeched.
Derek grunted, off-balance, grabbing at Matt’s shirt. They grappled, a messy tangle of limbs fueled by anger and panic. Derek was heavier, stronger, driven by pure malice. He slammed Matt back against the steel frame. The impact knocked the wind out of Matt. For a second, the world swam.
Over Derek’s shoulder, Matt saw Kate. She’d snatched her pistol case off the bench, not fumbling, holding it like a shield, her eyes wide and fixed on the struggle, scanning frantically. Not helpless. Assessing.
Derek got a hand free, drew it back again, aiming for Matt’s ribs. Matt twisted, trying to block, knowing it wouldn't be enough. The punch landed hard, a sickening thud against his side. Agony lanced through him. He gasped, vision blurring.
Instinct took over. Not thought. His hand, scrabbling against the bench where he’d fallen, closed on something cold and metallic. Not his Beretta. Something smaller. Kate’s empty magazine? A loose round? He didn't know. He didn't think. He just swung it wildly in an arc towards Derek’s head.
There was a muffled thwack. Not the sound of metal on bone. More like metal on thick leather. Derek jerked backward with a startled yell, clutching his temple. He hadn't been seriously hurt, but it broke his grip, created a sliver of space.
Matt stumbled free, clutching his throbbing side. He saw what he’d hit Derek with: a heavy, solid steel speed loader for pistol magazines. It lay glinting on the concrete floor.
Derek touched his temple, his fingers coming away slightly smudged with blood from a small scrape. The sight of it ignited an inferno in his eyes. "You're dead!" he bellowed, pure murderous intent. He wasn't going for a punch this time. He lunged, hands reaching for Matt’s throat.
Matt braced, pain screaming from his ribs, knowing he couldn't dodge. He saw Kate step forward again, raising her pistol case higher, her expression terrifyingly focused.
BANG!
The sound was deafeningly close, impossibly loud in the enclosed space. It wasn't a gunshot from the lanes. It came from them.
Everyone froze.
Derek stopped dead, his hands inches from Matt’s neck. Matt flinched violently. Kate stared, horrified, at the pistol case in her hands. The muzzle end was pointing downwards, near her own foot. Smoke wisped faintly from the partially unzipped opening.
A negligent discharge. A round somehow left in the chamber when she’d cleared it? A malfunction? The cause was irrelevant in the sudden, ringing silence that followed the shot. The other shooters down the line had stopped firing. Heads were turning. Someone yelled, "Cease fire! CEASE FIRE!"
The bullet had punched a ragged hole in the concrete floor less than a foot from where Kate stood. The smell of fresh gunpowder cut through the haze.
Security arrived fast. Two burly men in tactical vests materialized, moving with grim efficiency, their own hands near their holsters. "Everyone down! Hands where I can see them! NOW!"
Derek, momentarily stunned by the proximity of the gunshot, took a step back, his hands instinctively rising. His face was a mask of shock and fading rage, the blood on his temple stark under the fluorescent lights. He glared at Kate, then at Matt, pure hatred simmering beneath the shock.
Matt slowly raised his hands, his jaw aching, his ribs screaming, his ears ringing from the shot. He looked past the guards, past Derek’s hate-filled stare, to Kate. She was ghostly pale, trembling slightly as she carefully set the pistol case down on the bench with exaggerated slowness, her eyes wide with a different kind of fear now. The fear of what had almost happened. The fear of consequences. She met Matt’s gaze for a fractured second. There was no smirk now. No challenge. Just raw, vulnerable shock, and a dawning horror at the chaos unleashed. The bullet hole in the floor gaped like an accusation between them. The guards moved in, shouting commands, the harsh lights bleaching everything stark and unreal.