Caught In The Crosshairs

“I am your commanding officer and insolence like that will not be tolerated,” he said in a low, deep growl. “It is my job to guard your safety. Am I making myself understood?”

She said nothing.

“Sergeant,” he said. “You will address me and answer my question.”

She brought her heels together, snapped her hand into a salute and fixed her eyes on the wall.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t move while she maintained her salute. He was waiting for her gaze to shift to his, but it was resolutely trained on a spot on the wall—on a picture of a woodland scene. She imagined herself in the picture, taking aim on a tree far in the distance. She saw her father in her mind, encouraging her to trust in her skill and take the shot. For her seventh birthday, he’d bought her a small air rifle. She adored that rifle and, from that moment on, she spent hours practicing hitting tin cans off the wall in the meadow. Her dad nicknamed her “crack-shot Cara” and began to enter her into shooting competitions when she turned ten. She had a cabinet full of trophies at the family hunting cabin on the banks of Bear Lake in Utah. Her chest hurt as she thought of how she’d let him down. She should have prevented it. She replayed the accident over and over in her mind, but the outcome was always the same. A bullet always took him from her. That would not happen to Dean.

Finally, he spoke. “At ease, Sergeant.”

She stood at ease for a few seconds before turning on her heel and marching out the door. She left the kitchen and marched down the hallway, never missing a step until she reached her bedroom door and went inside. She then heard Dean leave the cabin, slamming the back door behind him. She sank to the floor and put her head in her hands. Keeping this man safe from harm was the biggest challenge she had faced yet.

* * *

Dean shone the flashlight into the outhouse, sending insects scuttling from its bright glare. He pulled his hooded sweatshirt up over his head, shielding himself against the rain that had begun to fall. He kicked at the grass as he walked, angry with himself for allowing his temper to flare. Cara didn’t deserve to be treated like that. It wasn’t her fault. The truth was, he just couldn’t answer her question so it was easier to evade it, instead.

He couldn’t stop the emotions that were stirring within him. His overwhelming desire was to protect this petite, beautiful soldier and deliver her back to base unharmed. He knew it was irrational. She was a fully trained, combat-ready member of the Fifth Infantry Regiment—the fierce “Bobcats.” She didn’t need his protection any more than Gomez did. She was strong and feisty, standing straight and confident before him, never flinching under his stare. She challenged everything he thought he knew about women.

He walked to the front of the cabin, to the yellow glow of light that was streaming from her bedroom. He imagined her inside, cleaning her rifle, carefully slotting each piece into place, before raising it to her cheek and lining up a target. She was the most determined and committed soldier he’d ever encountered, clearly driven by a need to prove herself. He should be commending her, not stifling her. Maybe she had a point; maybe he did treat her differently because she was a woman. He resolved to suppress this instinct to safeguard her. At least until she was back to fighting strength.

He turned his back to her window and stopped dead. The gate to the yard was wide-open. He knew he had checked it earlier that afternoon and it was firmly shut. He pulled his M9 pistol from his holster, flattening his back against the rough wood of the exterior wall and inching his way to the front door. It was a dark and rainy night, moonlight was scant and the movement of the trees in the wind could provide ample cover for any would-be assailant. He moved slowly and steadily around the cabin, his senses alert. The gate banged on its post, sending a thud echoing through the dark silence.

As he reached the front door, a noise caught his attention. He squinted into the darkness and saw a dark shape crouching in front of the rusty old truck parked to the side of the cabin. He’d acquired the vehicle in a hurry the previous day, knowing that the army jeep would be too easy a target to follow. One thing was certain: no sane person would try to steal this old jalopy.

The shape was moving. He suspected that, whoever he was, he was tampering with the engine, maybe even planting a bomb. As he assessed the outline of the figure, he realized that this was one huge guy, and he would never match his strength. He’d need Gomez’s help for this.

He slipped quietly into the cabin. He found Gomez standing in the hallway with a look of concern on his face.

“I heard a noise,” said Gomez. “I think there’s someone outside.”

“Get your gun,” Dean ordered, “and follow me.”

The door of Cara’s bedroom opened, and she stepped out into the hallway.

“Is there a threat?” she asked. He noticed that she had assembled her rifle and was holding it to her side.

“Go back inside, Hanson,” Dean replied. “You’re not strong enough yet. Let me and Gomez deal with this.”

“But, sir...” she protested.

“No buts, Hanson,” he barked. “Go back inside, lock your door and wait for us to come back.”

She opened her mouth to speak and promptly closed it again. Turning her back, she went into her room and closed the door. He heard the lock click in place.

Gomez returned, holding his gun.

Dean’s hand reached for the door handle. “Stay close, follow my lead and shoot only if absolutely necessary.”

Gomez gave a quick nod of the head and raised his weapon. The door creaked open, and a gust of cold air blew through the cabin, creating a ghostly, high-pitched whine. Dean’s heart was pumping fast as he put one foot out onto the wooden decking outside.

Whatever the danger, he would not let it infiltrate his safe haven.

THREE

The men stood together on the veranda, looking each other in the eye.

Dean gave a small nod of the head to Gomez, who nodded silently in reply. He mouthed the words on three and counted Gomez in with his fingers.

Dean leaped from the deck onto the wet, soggy ground.

“STOP! Hands in the air.”

He aimed his gun at the dark shape hiding in the shadows of the car. It darted away, moving quicker than Dean thought possible. He looked over to Gomez, who was shaking his head in disbelief.

Both men gave chase, hurtling through the bracken behind the cabin, heading for the fields beyond. The black shadow scrambled over the fence and disappeared into the long grass. Dean followed the movement of the reeds and concentrated on the sound of rustling to follow its path.

“There,” he shouted, springing over the fence and snaking through the foliage. Blades of wet grass whipped at his body, soaking him through.

They both moved like thieves in the night, wordlessly weaving through the field, tracking the sound and movement of their target. This guy was not going to get away.

Suddenly, to Dean’s amazement, a huge, dark silhouette loomed from the grass sending a low, guttural growl in their direction. Gomez staggered backward and fell on his behind as the bear reared up.

“Stay where you are, Gomez,” Dean said in a voice that was as quiet as he could manage. “Whatever you do, don’t move.”

The bear dropped to all four legs and stood before them, its eyes glinting in the darkness. Low rumbling noises emanated from huge jaws. Dean raised his weapon.

“Go on now,” he said in a whisper. “We don’t want any trouble with you.”

The bear reared up again, sending another growl slicing through the air. Dean lifted his gun to the sky and fired a shot. It echoed through the night, reverberating for miles around. The bear dropped to his feet and fled. Dean saw its rough black fur shaking in the moonlight as it ran. In just a few seconds, it was gone. He turned to Gomez, offering him his hand. Gomez gripped it and Dean hauled him to his feet, laughing.

“Gee, that was a close call,” Gomez said, clicking the safety on his gun.

Both men began to walk back to the cabin. Dean’s face took on a serious look. “Let’s hope no one reports it. We don’t want anyone sniffing around, especially the police.”

“I guess we gotta make sure we’re more secure from now on,” said Gomez, pointing to the wide-open gate in the distance. “That bear just walked right in.”

They walked to the fence, and Dean closed the gate, making sure it firmly clicked into its latch.

“Do bears know how to open gates?” Gomez asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t think so,” said Dean, squatting down and inspecting the flat patch of grassland in front of the cabin. “One thing’s for sure, though. Bears don’t wear shoes.”

He examined the muddy ground, where boot prints were clearly visible, dotted all along the edge of the fence, like someone had been hiding under cover of the trees.

“Someone has been here,” he said, feeling his heart begin to thud in his chest. He thought of Cara Hanson inside the cabin, weakened from anaphylaxis, totally dependent on his ability to provide a secure environment where she could recover. “Gomez, stand guard while I go fetch a lock and chain. Shoot on sight if you face hostile action from anyone or anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Cara sipped her coffee at the breakfast table. She was still seething from the indignation of being locked in her room like a naughty child while Dean and Gomez dealt with the threat outside. How could she protect them from harm inside a locked room? She couldn’t even bring herself to look Dean in the eye, lest she reignite the smoldering embers of their argument the previous day.

She felt physically stronger and more like her old self, although she desperately needed a change of clothes. She had worn the same stretch pants and T-shirt for the last two days. Dean had a full closet to cater for himself and Gomez but, of course, nothing fit her and she didn’t want to highlight the differences between them by drawing attention to her need for another set of clothes. She would probably just have to make do.

Dean entered the kitchen. He had shaved. His face was smooth and she saw that his chin had a cleft right in the center. She’d never noticed it before. Despite her resentment toward him, she couldn’t help but admit that his face was undeniably handsome with the kind of square jawline that made women look twice. She wondered if he had someone special waiting for him at home. A man this abrasive and uncompromising surely needed the presence of a woman to soothe his tortured mind.

“Good morning, Hanson,” he said, sitting at the end of the table.

She said nothing.

“Ah, I’m getting the silent treatment, am I?” He poured himself a coffee. “I guessed I might, especially after our disagreement yesterday.”

“I could have helped out there,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the table. “I’ve encountered more bears than you could imagine. I would’ve known exactly what to do.”

“I’m sure you would, Hanson,” he said. “But I couldn’t let you face any danger. I saw how much your hands shook yesterday. You were in no shape to handle a gun. It’s not just your safety on the line out there, it’s mine, as well, and I need you to be strong before you pick up your rifle again. I won’t apologize for making the right call.”

She let her head drop. He was right! Her hands had been shaking badly these last couple of days. She brought her hand up and held it in the air. It was reasonably steady, with just a hint of a tremble.

He leaned over to her. “Part of being a good soldier is knowing when to admit you’re weak. You can’t be strong all the time, so don’t try to be.”

She looked up into his face, momentarily dumbfounded by the way he’d just summed her up in a few words. She’d strived, for seven years, to be strong all the time, for her shot to be the truest, straightest and cleanest. It was the only control she had.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I admit that I may not have been ready to pick up my rifle again, but I’m better now.”

He looked at her without speaking. She gripped her coffee cup tightly to control any tremor.

“I think we may have got off to a bit of a rocky start,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve taken on board what you said to me last night, and I understand why you feel so passionately about proving yourself on this mission.”

Her head jerked up. “You do?”

“Of course,” he said knowingly. “Women in the military must have a tough time being accepted among their male counterparts. You probably feel like you have a lot to prove.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” He knew just the half of it.

He brought his chair a little closer. “But I am in command of this mission and I make the decisions. I know it may be hard for you to accept but I only have your best interests at heart.”

She stared at him without blinking, realizing exactly what he meant. “You mean you want to protect me?”

She saw his chest rise and fall quickly. “Yes, Hanson, I do want to protect you.”

“And I want to protect you,” she said, allowing the words to hang in the air for a while before adding, “I need to make sure that you don’t walk into danger. I can keep you safe.”

He looked taken aback as he nodded slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re a superb sniper, Sergeant, there’s no doubt about that. But you need to know when to take a step back. You won’t always be strong enough to protect those around you.”

She swallowed hard. His words cut open old wounds that she hoped were healing. She was strong. She had to be.

“I haven’t failed so far,” she said defiantly. “I’ve never missed a target since joining the military. Ever.”

“But you will,” he said quietly, as if trying to lessen the impact of this harsh reality. “Eventually, we all miss something.”

He looked into her face, holding eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. She stared back, feeling the unwelcome connection between them take a tighter hold. He seemed to know the inner secrets of her heart—the fears that she’d voiced to no one.

“Not me,” she said, breaking her gaze away. “I won’t miss again.”

He opened his eyes wide. “Again?”

She shook her head vigorously. “I mean I won’t miss a shot,” she garbled, flustered. She gritted her teeth, angry with herself for revealing too much.

“Is there something you want to get off your chest, Hanson?” Dean said, leaning toward her.

“No,” she said quickly, recovering her composure. She felt crowded. She pushed her chair back, away from his probing eyes.

She breathed deeply, reminding herself that she wasn’t eighteen years old anymore, watching a huntsman lining up a shot on a deer. She wasn’t on the hilltop, fumbling with her rifle, panicking as she took in the horror unfolding before her eyes. She wasn’t still watching her father die from a single shot to the heart. She was here, as an elite sharpshooter, saving lives. She’d moved on.

She realized that Dean’s hand had inched closer to hers on the table. His fingers were perilously close to touching hers, and she slid her hand from the table back into her lap.

“I can protect you, sir,” she said. “I need to know that you’ll give me a chance.”

“I’ll try, Hanson,” he said, clenching his fingers into a ball. “But if we face any serious danger, I’ll be the one standing on the front line. That’s where I belong.”

“It’s where I belong, too,” she said. “That’s why you chose me for this mission, isn’t it?”

“I chose you for this mission because it was a one-off job requiring your expert skills. I never anticipated it would get this complicated.”

She felt her heart drop into her stomach. “Do you regret giving me the assignment?”

He said nothing. She looked away, clenching her teeth and pushing her hair behind her ears. It was obvious Dean didn’t accept her as a front-line protector and she knew she couldn’t change his mind. Not yet, anyway.

“You completed your mission flawlessly,” he said finally. “Your skill saved me from an enemy sniper, and I want you to know how thankful I am. But I worry about what will happen from here on. We don’t know what danger is waiting for us out there, and you’re vulnerable to all kinds of attack.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said with conviction. “I can take care of myself.”

His eyes flicked quickly over her slender frame and she watched him assessing her, no doubt wondering how she would defend herself against an assailant. She knew she was small and, physically, not powerful, but these things didn’t matter to her. Sheer brute force was not a strength she coveted. A gun and a cool head were enough for her.

“You’ll need a handgun in order to take care of yourself,” he said. “Your rifle won’t be suitable for close combat.”

She nodded. She’d only ever experienced warfare from a distance—hidden away, safe and secure in the knowledge that she was invisible. The thought of facing the enemy at close quarters sent a cold shiver through her but she was determined not to show it. She knew she could handle it just as well as Dean.

“I keep a small store of handguns locked up in the basement,” he said. “We should go find one that’s suitable for you.” He looked at her earnestly, betraying his fears for her. “I hope to God that you never need to use it but it’s important we’re prepared for every eventuality.”

He rose from his seat, and she followed him to a locked door in the hallway that he opened with a key from his pocket. He flipped the light switch, and the bulb popped in the darkness. He clicked his tongue and extended his palm. “Take my hand,” he said. “I’ll lead you down the stairs until I can switch on the lamp at the bottom.”

She took his hand and he gripped it tight, sending a jolt coursing through her. His fingers were warm and firm, and she couldn’t help but feel reassured by his strong presence guiding her through the dark. Even when she was angry with him, she felt close to him, sensing that he was willing to bear the brunt of her fury with quiet acceptance.

He kept a firm grip until they reached the last step, and he was able to switch on a small, yellow light, casting a dingy glow in the windowless basement. He unlocked a steel-gray cabinet in the corner and took out two handguns.

“Let’s try these for size,” he said, handing a Glock 17 to her.

She took the gun from him and aimed at a spot on the wall, assessing the weapon’s size and weight. She became aware of Dean’s body behind her, his arms reaching around her torso, cupping his hands over hers and bringing his face to rest just to the side of her head. She caught her breath as goose bumps appeared on her skin.

“It’s important that your grip feels natural,” he whispered in her ear. “Not too heavy, not too large for your fingers. It should sit in your hands like it’s meant to be there.”

She watched his hands completely envelop hers until they were almost invisible beneath his thick fingers. She felt smothered by him and pushed against his bulk. He stepped back, and she turned to face him.

“I have fired a gun before,” she said incredulously. “This one feels perfect.”

He put his hands in the air. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to tread on your toes.”

She found herself smiling. “By the time we’re done on this mission, I suspect my toes will be bruised beyond recognition.”

He laughed and leaned toward her face. “If that’s the case, Sergeant Hanson, I’ll be forced to carry you everywhere.”

“Never,” she said strongly, turning to help herself to ammunition from the cabinet. “I’d rather hobble.”

Their laughter bounced off the walls in the dimly lit basement. She saw a sudden playfulness in his character, and she quickly felt the need to stop their closeness creeping further. She concentrated on her weapon, fixing a holster around her waist.

“Sir,” she said. “There’s something else I need.”

“You got it.”

She cast her eyes over her pants and T-shirt. “I can’t wear these clothes every day.”

“Of course,” he said, shaking his head. “I hadn’t realized. I’ll take a trip to the nearest town and buy what you need.”

“Can’t I come with you?” she asked.

He rubbed his face. “I’d rather you stayed with Sergeant Gomez. It’s safer.”

She put her hand on her holster. “I can look after myself.”

He looked at her and she stared back.

He bit his lip. “All right, we leave in five minutes.”

* * *

Dean started up the rusty, old truck and drove out onto the narrow, winding lane, checking each direction thoroughly, before deciding it was safe. Cara was sitting in the seat beside him, wearing an old overcoat of his that swamped her petite frame. Her slim wrists poked out of the sleeves, rolled up several times. The truck rattled and bounced along the lane, heading for the busy highway in the distance.

He glanced over at her. Even in that old overcoat she possessed a beauty that floored him. He often had to stop himself from staring at her, studying the way her face rose and fell with emotions that she struggled to conceal. He’d caught Gomez gazing at her a couple of times but he’d brushed it off as “research” into his suspicions about her.

“Is there anyone you need to call?” he asked. “Anyone who’d be worried about you?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “There’s just my mom, but she’s on vacation in Florida.” She looked down in her lap before adding, “There’s no one else.”

“No one important in your life?” he asked, choosing his words carefully.

She turned her body to face his. “If you’re talking about a boyfriend then the answer is no. My job isn’t really compatible with dating.” She looked into the distance. “I scare most men off.”

He gave a small smile and nodded. “Strong women can sometimes scare a man.”

She straightened her back. “Do I scare you?”

His lips curled into a playful smile. “Sometimes, yeah.” It was a truthful answer. She did scare him but not in the way she imagined.

“Good,” she said. “Then I must be doing something right.”

He shook his head, laughing. “Gantry was right. You really are one tough cookie.”

“Colonel Gantry was the person who recruited me into sniper school at Fort Bliss,” she said, relaxing back in her seat. “If anyone knows me, it’s Carter Gantry.”

Dean decided not to mention that it was Colonel Gantry who persuaded him to take Cara into his team. He just couldn’t shake his concerns about her suitability and had decided to recruit another sniper in her place. Colonel Gantry had insisted that Dean give her a chance. He’d followed the colonel’s advice, despite it going against every instinct in his body.

“Gantry obviously sees something special in you,” Dean said, remembering her amazing display in the Colorado Mountains. “He knows how hard you’ve worked to get where you are.”

“When you put your mind to something, you can achieve anything,” she said.

He glanced over at her. Her face shone with an expression he hadn’t seen before. It intrigued him.

“I never met a woman like you before,” he said, turning onto the highway, pressing the gas pedal hard to keep up with the fast-moving traffic. “You seem so...” He struggled to find the right words.

“...challenging?” she suggested.

He smiled. “I was going to say fearless.”

“I guess you haven’t met many different types of women, then,” she said. “There are plenty of us fearless types in the military.”

He mentally ran through the list of females in his life. It was a pitifully small number, mostly the wives of fellow soldiers, women he admired and respected, women he was fighting for. He thought of his mom and sister. They were good, strong women—survivors. But they’d needed his strength to save them. They couldn’t have faced the terror of his father alone. They would certainly never have thought that they were capable of protecting him.

“I guess you’re right, Hanson,” he admitted. “I haven’t met many different types of women.” He stopped himself from adding that he hadn’t actually met many women at all.