Oftentimes the soldiers trying to get into the Special Forces fail these mental tests, not the physical ones. Lots of people can swim, run, and carry a rucksack weighing a hundred and fifty pounds for twenty-six miles. Not many can survive mental torture and not come out of it a deadweight victim.
I don’t know what Regan has endured and I don’t like envisioning it. But I’m guessing that Regan’s suffered more than any Special Forces soldier ever has, and she’s not catatonic. So what if she broke down? That shit’s normal. I couldn’t barely say more than two words when I finished my psychological training. Unlike Regan though, I was alone in the shower of my apartment when I had my mental vacation, and the next day I could pretend that it was nothing when everyone was patting me on the back for graduating and buying me drinks. A few of the old timers, though, passed me a drink and gave me a knowing look that said my bravado was a thin front. So yeah, Regan’s little torrential outburst was nothing but normal. I hope she knew that. Getting her back to the consulate and on her way to the good U.S. of A. would make a helluva difference.
The first thing we need to get her up and on her feet are real clothes and shoes. It is tempting to leave right now. Rio is like Vegas—open all hours of the night. But if she were to wake up and find I wasn’t there? That seems like a bad idea. I’d deal with the clothes thing in the morning. I kick off my boots, pull off my t-shirt, and settle into the hard-backed chair for some much needed shut-eye. My last thought is there’s a damned good bed not getting used tonight.
“YOU CAN’T LEAVE.” REGAN’S VOICE is tinged with desperation that she is valiantly trying to swallow back. I pretend like I don’t notice that she’s huddled onto the edge of the sofa, as far away from me as she can get while still maintaining two eyes on me at all times. It’s like she wants to see me there and feels safer that I’m around but can’t really be sure I’m not going to hurt her like she’s been hurt the last six weeks.
I inject as much gentleness as I can into my voice and hold out a hand—not for her to touch, but to show her I mean her no harm. It’s worked with horses in the past and it’s not like I have any better ideas. “I can’t take you downstairs. You stand out too much, and we need to keep a low profile until we can take you back to the consulate."
She nods, but I’m not sure if I’m getting through to her. I swipe a hand down my face. Hating to leave her but having no choice, I look around. How can I make her feel safe? My eyes fall on one of the guns I have disassembled on the table. A weapon. She’d been feeling me up yesterday after her storm of tears, searching for a weapon. For a quick moment, I’d thought she was caressing me and I had to fight back a completely inappropriate boner brought on by her soft body and her need for comfort, not to mention her slim fingers running up and down my abdomen and around the waistband of my pants. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”
“No.” The word is quavering and soft. I go over to the table and reassemble my Ruger. It’s not a good gun for beginner. A Glock would be better, but I don’t like those and, more importantly, I don’t have one with me. This piece will have to do.
I carry it over and hand it to her butt first. Her hands curl around the stock and her finger is immediately on the trigger.
“Nuh-uh, uh.” I pull her trigger finger out and rest it along the barrel. “Only put your finger on the trigger when you’re going to pull it,” I instruct. This time her nod is matched by some understanding in her eyes.
“See the switch here? It’s the safety." I slide her thumb along the safety, making her push it up and down. “Up and the safety is engaged. Down, it’s not.” I wait for her acknowledgment and watch her flip the switch a couple of times. I take her other hand and pull back on the barrel. “Your chamber is loaded. The gun is hot. You disengage the safety and wrap both hands around the stock.” I pull her left hand off and fold it around her right hand. “The SR45 has a soft recoil, but it’s still going to kick which makes you point upward. Always bring your gun back down when you shoot or you’ll only hit the ceiling.”
“Pull back the chamber, disengage the safety. Got it.” She rubs her index finger almost lovingly along the side of the barrel and my junk starts swelling again. Shaking my head at my own dumb response, I redouble my efforts to concentrate on showing Regan the rudimentary steps of using a handgun.
I pull the gun from her hands, but she won’t release her grip. I tug on it and then promise, “I’ll give it back. Just a minute.” Reluctantly, she lets the weapon slide out of her hands. Pulling back on the slide, I release the bullet we’ve chambered and then press the magazine release. It drops into my hand and I push the bullet back in. Checking to make sure the safety is still on, I hand her back the gun and then walk out fifteen paces, which puts me right in the kitchen about ten feet from the door. “Wait until your intruder is right here and then shoot. Anything farther away and you’re bound to miss.”
She scowls at me. “Because I’m a girl?”
“Because you haven’t shot a gun before. Doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or a guy,” I correct. “I’m going to run out and get you some clothes and shoes and a case and…” I wave my hand toward her body. “Other stuff. When I come back, I’ll say my name. If I think you’re in danger, I’ll say ‘Honey, I’m home’ and that’s your signal to run to the bedroom, grab my pack, and climb out onto the fire escape. Instead of going down, go up to the roof and wait there.”
“I thought you said the windows were nailed shut.” She scowls at me.
“I lied.”
“And if you don’t come?” A fearful look creeps into her eyes.
I crouch down so we’re both eye level. “I’m coming back for you, Regan. I won’t leave you until you’re safe. I promise.”
“Why?”
It’s an easy question and there are easy answers if I trusted her to keep her mouth shut, but it’s not just my life that is on the line. It’s Nick and his girl Daisy, who happens to be Regan’s best friend. I don’t know what story they want me to tell her, so until I can make contact with them, I have to keep my mouth shut. But I don’t want to leave her hanging.
“Because you’re too important not to save.” I know it’s the truth the minute I say it. I’m not going to let her be hurt again, not on my watch, not while I’m still breathing. Because I’m a stupid piss, I lean in even closer and I give her a soft kiss on her temple. The air around us grows thick with tension. I know what the tension is on my side because I can feel my pants getting too tight. Her tension is fear based. I stand swiftly, feeling something like embarrassment, and pull up my pants to check my service revolver strapped around my ankle.