“No, sir, no matter how much you cry.” —Gubernatorial assistant Gina Tallent Seventeen She’d missed. Bobbie Faye gaped at the kid, who was writhing on the ground, his shoulder bloody. He was very much alive. Because she’d missed her intended target. She’d been off by a slight nudge to the right. And the bullet had sliced through the column—apparently made of Sheetrock and wood—which deflected it down and into the kid’s shoulders instead of being the head shot she’d intended. The last time she’...d missed by that much . . . well, she couldn’t remember the last time. She shot nearly every damned day for the last twelve years at the firing range. Give or take a day or two in the hospital. Maybe Riles didn’t maintain his guns like he should. Maybe the sight was off. Yeah, right. He was a sniper. He lived and breathed gun maintenance. Hell, knowing Riles, he probably farted gun maintenance. Maybe she was losing her control, her edge.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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