Beg Me to Shoot

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The gunman jammed the barrel of his weapon hard against the mayor's daughter's temple.

Thirty seconds left on the clock.

My ex-boyfriend, SWAT Captain Brooks, shook violently. He choked on his own breath, begging me to pick up the record-breaking sniper rifle.

I ignored him. I took my time unscrewing the lid of my tactical thermos. Steam rolled into the cold air. I held out the freshly poured, scalding black coffee right in front of his chalk-white face.

"Sorry, Captain." The corners of my mouth lifted as I watched him unravel. "Right now I just pour the coffee."

After all, just two hours ago. To please his precious new fling.

He ripped my elite sniper certificationthe only one of its kind in the countryto shreds with his own bare hands. Then he ordered me out of the core tactical unit to go run errands in logistics.

Chapter 1

I stared at the bullseye through the crosshairs, my fingertip lightly tracing the trigger guard.

Three hundred meters out, that tiny black dot warped slightly under the blazing sun. A bead of sweat slid down my temple and stung the corner of my eye. I didn't flinch. My breathing remained as steady as a sleeping ocean.

Captain Brooks stood exactly half a step behind my left shoulder. The heat of his stare pressed against my jawline. Calculating. Impatient.

His delicate new fling, Paisley, stood plastered against his arm. She wore an altered tactical uniform, the hem cropped short and the fabric pulled tight enough to choke her curves.

"Brooks." Her voice was pure syrup. Her finger dragged slow, deliberate circles along the edge of his tactical vest.

"Blair's been holding that stance forever. Do you think she's just too nervous?"

Brooks didn't reply, but a low scoff vibrated from his chest.

The rest of the squad stayed dead silent. The only sound was the wind kicking up grit across the dirt range.

This annual sniper qualification determined who made the roster for the joint international ops this spring. More importantly, it locked in the unit's sole Elite Sniper stipend and badge.

Everyone thought I had it in the bag. Since day one, I'd been the sharpest blade in this unit. I didn't miss. For the past five years, the name Blair was synonymous with absolute precision.

Until Paisley parachuted into the squad. Until Brooks's obvious favoritism tilted the entire playing field.

My fingertip twitched. My exhale dragged out, slowing my heart rate. The entire world fell away, leaving nothing but that black circle.

Wind speed. Humidity. Gravity. The ballistics calculated in my head and surged straight into my index finger.

Now.

I squeezed the trigger.

Bang.

The familiar recoil kicked into my shoulder. Barely a bump.

But the electronic target monitor downrange stayed dark. No flashing green ring for a confirmed hit.

Dead silence.

A miss?

Impossible.

My brow furrowed for a fraction of a second before I smoothed it out.

"Oh? A miss on the very first shot?" Paisley's tone dripped with raw thrill, though she immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, feigning shock.

Brooks stepped forward. His voice dropped to a cold grate. "Blair, focus."

I didn't look back. I reset my breathing, chambered the second round, and lined up the sights.

Squeeze.

Bang.

The monitor stayed dark. That humiliating emptiness screamed across the silent range, deafening everyone.

Whispers ripped through the squad.

"What's wrong with Blair today?"

"Is she sick or something?"

"Two misses in a row what the hell"

Brooks's breathing hitched, turning heavy. I could picture the hard line between his brows. His eternally judgmental eyes weren't filled with disappointment right now.

No. It was a cold, satisfied validation.

Paisley tugged at Brooks's sleeve. Her voice was low, but pitched perfectly for the guys in the back to catch every word.

"Brooks, don't be too hard on her. She's probably just feeling the pressure because I'm here. I mean, considering your history"

She let the sentence hang, leaving a thick trail of gossip in the air.

Brooks shook her hand off his arm. His voice tightened with a warning edge. "We are in the middle of an evaluation. Maintain discipline."

He was protecting her.

Chapter 2

By reprimanding her.

I licked my cracked lips. A metallic tang of rust coated my tongue. I couldn't tell if it was the range dust, or something else entirely.

I shoved the third round into the chamber. The cold steel bit into my fingertips. Through the scope, the black bullseye seemed to blur. Or maybe the trembling was in my own grip.

Brooks.

The name scraped against the inside of my skull. Three months ago. He had pinned me against the wall in the armory.

His hot breath washed over my neck, his voice a rough scrape. "Blair, just give me a little more time. Let me secure my position.

Let Paisley adjust to the squad You know she's fragile. She can't handle herself without someone looking out for her."

What had I said to him back then? I had stared into those eyesthe same eyes that used to make my pulse jumpand gave him a single syllable. "Okay."

I thought it was a promise. Turns out, it was just a cage built entirely for me.

Now, I was done playing this game.

My index finger squeezed.

Bang.

The third shot cracked over the empty dirt range. Again, the monitor stayed dead.

Three rounds.

Three misses.

A suffocating quiet crashed down. Even the wind died.

Paisley reacted first. A short, breathless gasp slipped from her mouth before she clamped both hands over her lips. But her eyes curved into sick little half-moons, practically bleeding smug satisfaction.

Brooks moved. He closed the distance in three long strides, blocking out the sun and casting a heavy shadow over my face. He stared down at me.

The last flicker of warmth vanished from his features, leaving behind nothing but ice-cold disgust and was that relief?

He held out his hand. His voice dropped, plunging like an ice pick straight into my eardrums. "Your sniper cert."

I tilted my head up and met his gaze. His eyes were dark brown. I used to think I could see the whole world in them, but right now, all they reflected was my own dead, numb face.

"Give it to me," he repeated, clipping the words. An absolute command.

I didn't move a muscle.

The rest of the squad watched us like vultures. I could feel their stares burning into my backshock, confusion, pity, and a heavy dose of gloating.

Paisley chimed in right on cue. Her voice was powder-soft, but the words were pure venom.

"Brooks, don't be so harsh Blair is getting older, it's totally normal for her reflexes to slip She didn't do it on purpose"

Getting older? I was exactly twenty-four months her senior.

Those words acted like gasoline on an open spark. Brooks lunged. His hand snapped out and ripped the lanyard right off my neck, snatching my sniper badge.

It was still warm from my skin. The photo stared back at himmy eyes sharp, burning with the absolute conviction I had when I first joined.

He gripped the thin plastic. His knuckles bled white under the strain. And then, right in front of me. In front of the entire squad.

Rip.

A sharp snap.

He tore the ID clean in half.

The sharp crack of tearing plastic shattered the silence. He hurled the two broken pieces into the dirt at the toes of my combat boots.

"If you can't even hold a gun steady," he spat, each word a venomous strike to my face, "then pack your trash and go pour coffee in logistics!"

He didn't waste another second looking at me. He turned on his heel and wrapped a protective arm around Paisley's shoulders.

When he spoke again, his tone shifted into sickeningly sweet warmth. "Let's go, Paisley. You're up next."

Paisley leaned her weight into his chest. She glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes dragged over me, dripping with a victor's fake pity and ultimate triumph.

They walked away together, cutting across the dirt range toward the admin building.

Chapter 3

The sun dragged their overlapping shadows long across the dirt.

The squad exchanged looks before silently scattering. Nobody stepped up to say a single word to me.

I stood there. I stared down at the elite sniper cert ripped in half at my boots. The photo of me was split right down the middle. My eyes still looked sharp, but the whole thing felt like a sick joke.

The wind kicked up grit, slapping against the plastic.

I crouched down. I reached out a gloved hand and brushed the dust off the surface. I picked up both pieces. I pushed the torn edges together and squeezed them in my palm.

The jagged plastic dug hard into my skin.

I stood up and looked at the sky. Blinding sun. Bleach-white clouds. In the distance, Brooks and Paisley were just two blurry dots.

I turned around. I headed in the opposite direction of the admin building, walking toward the squat, run-down logistics shed. A slow, even pace.

The empty sniper range stretched out behind me. The wind still tasted like gunpowder. And betrayal.

My fingertips brushed against the three unspent brass casings deep in my pocket. Cold. Solid.

The corner of my mouth lifted a fraction of an inch.

Pouring coffee? Fine.

Logistics sat in the furthest corner of the ground floor. I pushed the door open. A stale wave of dust and cheap roasted beans hit my face.

Wayne was slumped over his desk, dozing off. He snapped his head up at the noise. He blinked at me, then offered a knowing, slightly pitiful smile. "You're here."

He didn't ask questions. He just pointed at a desk in the corner covered in a thin layer of grime. "That's your spot now."

I nodded and walked over. The desk was beat to hell. Peeling paint. A wobbly leg.

Out the window, I could see a corner of the range. A few blurry figures moved around in the dirt. Probably Brooks running Paisley through her basic drills.

I pulled the chair out. The metal legs screeched against the floor. I sat down.

Wayne brought me an old coffee pot and a few chipped mugs. "We don't stand on ceremony here," he rubbed his hands together. "Usually we just brew some instant black coffee to keep the boys out there awake."

I arranged the gear piece by piece. The pot. The mugs. The drip tray. Slow, deliberate movements. A near-ritualistic focus.

Wayne watched me for a second, shook his head, and went back to snoring.

Sunlight slashed through the high windows, throwing harsh shadows over the desk. It was dead quiet. A total blackout compared to the cracking gunfire and barking orders out on the range. A heavy, suffocating silence.

I picked up that chipped mug and held it up to the light. The ceramic was rough, nothing like the custom tactical gear I used to carry. My thumb traced the jagged chip on the rim. A little rough.

Perfect.

When Brooks shoved the door open, I was prepping the second pot of coffee. The water temp had to be dead-on. Too hot and it burns the beans, too cold and it kills the aroma.

He stood in the doorway, blocking the light. A massive silhouette reeking of sweat and range dust. He looked completely out of place in this cramped room filled with coffee stains and stale air.

His brow pulled tight. He hated the smell in here.

"Blair." He clipped my name. Cold. Strictly business.

I didn't look up. I kept my eyes locked on the steaming water pouring into the pot, churning the dark grounds inside.

"The Director just blew up."

Chapter 4

He took a step forward. His heavy boots struck the old terrazzo floor, the echo sharp and clear.

"The slot for the joint international ops next spring went to Paisley."

The drip didn't stop. The dark grounds bloomed in the filter, releasing a rich, bitter aroma.

"Her skills still need work, but it's an opportunity." He added the sentence, a justification that hung heavy in the air.

I let it brew. The timing had to be exact.

"Are you" He paused, a harsh edge bleeding into his tone. "Do you have anything to say?"

I finally raised my eyes and looked at him. He wore a crisp tactical uniform, shoulders squared, collar tight. Still the same flawless, cold, commanding presence.

Except there was a flicker in his stare. Guilt? No. More like the microscopic unease that follows a massive sigh of relief.

"Say what?" I spoke. My voice rasped, probably from disuse. "Congratulations?"

Brooks's brow pulled tighter. "Blair, I know you're pissed." He took another step, closing in on my desk. His fingers tapped a rapid beat against the wood.

"But the failure on the qualification is your own problem. SWAT doesn't need unstable elements."

He looked down. His eyes caught the corner of my desk, where my elite sniper certification satripped in half and meticulously taped back together. The crack running through my photo looked like an ugly scar.

His gaze flickered before snapping away. "Why do you still have that?" A sneer curled the edge of his voice. "Trash is trash."

I didn't say a word. I grabbed the pot and poured the fresh brew into a mug. Guatemalan strictly hard beans. Wayne's private stash. I had dragged a thick, rich crema out of that beat-up coffee pot.

"Logistics is fine." Brooks scanned the cramped office. His tone softened, dripping with charity. "Quiet. Low pressure. It suits your current condition."

He stared at me. A momentary daze washed over his features. "I remember you used to love the pour-over coffee I made."

That was back when he was chasing me. He was just a newly promoted lieutenant then, not as busy. He'd go out of his way to drive across town for my favorite roasted beans, using his prized gooseneck kettle, clumsily filtering it for me.

The water was always too hot, or too cold. The ratio was always off. But I drained every cup. He thought that was love.

Maybe it used to be. But now

I picked up the pot and split the dark roast between two chipped mugs. Fluid, seamless motions. I slid one across the desk toward him. I kept the other for myself.

"Try it?" I offered.

Brooks stared at the black liquid. He didn't move.

His eyes dropped to my hands. These hands used to grip a sniper rifle with absolute stability, setting a unit record that still hadn't been broken. Now, they were just pushing cheap mugs around.

The last ripple of emotion in his eyes died out. Replaced by a total, suffocating indifference.

"No." He took a step back, widening the gap. "I have things to do on the range."

He turned for the door. No hesitation in his stride. His hand hit the knob, and he paused, but he didn't look back.

"Keep your head down, Blair. Don't cause don't cause any more trouble."

The door yanked open, then slammed shut. It cut off the faint shouting from the dirt range outside. And it cut him off, too.

Chapter 5

The office fell back into dead silence.

Just the heavy scent of roasted coffee beans.

I picked up my mug and brought it to my nose, inhaling slowly. Dark, rich, with a hit of cocoa and dark cherry. Good beans.

I tipped the mug back and took a slow sip. The black coffee hit my tongue, sharp and bitter upfront, with a smooth, lingering finish.

I set the mug down and picked up the taped-together sniper badge. My thumb traced the harsh split running right through my photo. The tape lay flat, but a crack was a crack. Some things, once shattered, stayed shattered.

Outside, the sky bruised purple as dusk set in. Lights flickered on across the admin building in the distance. One of those windows belonged to the Captain's office.

I used to have a light on in there, too. Not anymore. It didn't matter.

I grabbed the kettle and poured another round of water over the coffee filter. Steam billowed up, fogging the window and blurring the ugly scar across my ID.

Paisley tracked me down in logistics right as I was wiping down the coffee drip tray. She had ditched her tactical gear for a pale yellow sundress. The hem caught the air as she walked, completely out of place in this grimy, dust-coated room.

"Blair." Her voice dripped with fake sugar. Her eyes dragged around the cramped office, putting her raw disgust on full display. "It's so quiet down here."

I didn't answer. I just kept dragging the rag over the metal tray, wiping away the water spots.

Wayne took the hint. He muttered an excuse and slipped out the door, shooting me a silent look before he bolted.

Paisley didn't wait for an invite. She dropped into the chair across from me and slammed a fancy pastry box on the desk.

"Freshly baked red velvet cupcakes. Brooks went out of his way to hit up that trendy bakery across town just for me." She flipped the lid open. An overpowering wave of buttercream frosting flooded the air.

"I figured you wouldn't have anything good down here, so I brought you a couple."

The cupcakes sat perfectly frosted, still warm.

I tossed the rag aside, picked up a chipped mug, and started polishing it. Slow. Methodical.

"Brooks is just so overly protective of me." She sighed, though the flex was glaringly obvious. "He insisted training was too hard and I needed the sugar. I mean, it's fine. Since I'm representing the unit in the upcoming tournament, pushing myself a little is expected."

She leaned in across the desk, dropping her voice like we were trading secrets. "You know, right, Blair? That slot for the joint international ops next spring? It's officially mine."

I raised my eyes and leveled a dead stare at her.

She immediately sat up straight, painting on a flawless mask of apologetic pity. "Honestly, I feel so bad for you. You prepped for this qualification for so long But Brooks said opportunities need to go to the ones with actual potential. He also said"

She let the sentence hang, studying my face before dragging out the rest. "You're getting older. Your reflexes and stamina just can't keep up anymore. Pushing yourself is just going to end in public embarrassment. Staying safe and cozy down here in logistics it really suits you."

I set the mug down. The heavy base hit the peeling wood.

Clack.

"Are you done?" I asked.

Paisley's smile cracked. Clearly not the reaction she was fishing for. Her carefully rehearsed little monologue had just hit a brick wall.

"Blair, don't take it the wrong way. Brooks and I just want what's best for you"

Chapter 6

"The cupcakes," I interrupted her, locking my eyes on the paper box. "Eat them before the frosting melts."

Paisley pressed her lips together. A flash of irritation crossed her eyes, but she quickly buried it under a sugary smile.

"True, they're no good ruined." She picked up a cupcake and took a tiny bite. Red crumbs and frosting cascaded down, landing right on her expensive dress.

She let out a sharp gasp, frantically brushing at the fabric. A total mess.

I grabbed the kettle and poured water over the fresh coffee grounds. Steam rose, forming a physical wall between us.

"Blair," she smoothed out her dress, pasting that smile back on. Her tone dripped with charity. "If you really miss touching guns that much, I can talk to Brooks. Maybe he'll let you help out in the armory, wiping down the rifles or something. Better than staring at these old mugs all day, right?"

The pot filled up. I snapped the lid shut. "Pass," I said. "I like making coffee."

Paisley stared at me for a few seconds. Then, she let out a laugh.

"Makes sense." She stood up, hooking her designer bag over her arm with practiced elegance. "Self-awareness is a virtue. It's good you know your place, Blair."

She walked to the door, pausing to look over her shoulder. "Oh, by the way. Brooks and I are throwing our engagement party next month. You absolutely have to come."

I didn't answer.

She didn't care. She hummed a tune, her heels clicking down the hallway until the sound faded out.

Dead quiet settled over the office again. The only thing left was the sickeningly sweet smell of frosting and her cloying perfume.

I grabbed the pastry box and chucked it, along with the rest of those cupcakes, straight into the trash can in the corner.

Thud.

Then I pushed the window open. The chill of the late autumn wind rushed in, wiping out the sugar stench.

I dropped back into my chair and stared outside. On the dirt range, Brooks was walking Paisley through her shooting stances. He stood directly behind her, practically wrapping his arms around her to adjust her grip.

Too far to read their faces. But I bet he was putting on a masterclass in patience.

I pulled my eyes away and picked up the taped sniper badge from the desk. My fingertip tapped against the harsh crack over my photo. One tap. Then another.

Life in SWAT ran like clockwork. Logistics was even worse. Brewing coffee, sweeping floors, taking inventory. Monotonous. Repetitive.

Wayne was a quiet guy. He spent most of his shift dozing off or reading the newspaper. He never asked why I ended up down here, and he never brought up the firing range. I liked that.

Brooks showed up occasionally. Usually to grab a thermos Paisley left behind, or some specific snack she demanded. He was always in a rush. He barely looked at me. Like making eye contact would somehow stain his authority as Captain.

Sometimes, he dropped a few strictly business commands.

"Brass is coming down for an inspection next week. Make sure we have the good roast ready for the reception."

"Do a headcount on the old tactical gear in storage when you have a minute."

"Paisley has a weak stomach. Don't make her coffee too hot from now on."

I gave a nod to every single order. Zero emotion. He seemed pretty satisfied with my obedience.

The guarded, calculating look in his eyes slowly faded out. Replaced by a habitual, total disregard. Like I was meant to be the background noise in logistics all along. Just another piece of furniture. Like the beat-up coffee pot next to my handfamiliar, but completely invisible.

Paisley, on the other hand, practically lived down here.

Chapter 7

She always found an excuse to come down here. Sometimes to complain about how hard training was, sometimes to show off whatever new gift Brooks bought her. She lived to flaunt their affection and how much Brooks spoiled her right in front of my face.

"Brooks insisted on buying me this bag. I told him it was way too expensive, but he just wouldn't listen."

"I twisted my ankle at training yesterday, and Brooks completely freaked out. He insisted on carrying me all the way to the infirmary on his back. Honestly, with the whole squad watching"

"Blair, do you like my new French manicure? Brooks said the rhinestones look just like stars catching the sunlight."

I usually just listened. Whenever she fished for a reaction, I gave her a half-hearted hum or a flat nice. It seemed to leave her both disappointed and smug.

Disappointed that I wasn't putting on the agonizing display of jealousy she wanted. Smug over my total surrender and spectacular fall from grace.

She got more comfortable. Her little probes and jabs became blatantly direct.

"Blair, those old sniper records of yours was there a lot of luck involved in those?"

"Honestly, just being a normal woman is pretty nice. All that shooting and fighting it's just not meant for girls like us."

"Brooks said he prefers someone like me. It brings out his protective side."

I wiped down a ceramic mug, watching my own blurry reflection warp against the clean surface. Dead calm.

Until the day she walked in carrying a beautifully wrapped box. "Blair, look at this."

She popped the lid. Inside sat a custom subcompact pistol. It was tiny, plated in rose gold, with crushed diamonds embedded into the grip. It caught the harsh overhead light and sparkled. Like some gaudy piece of jewelry.

"Gorgeous, right?" Paisley lifted the gun, turning it over in her hands like she couldn't get enough of it. "An engagement gift from Brooks. He said since I'm going to be his wife, I need to learn some self-defense."

She waved the muzzle carelessly toward the window. Clumsy. Dangerous.

"He said the recoil is light, perfect for a girl. But honestly, even with light recoil, you still need natural talent. Unlike some people who only have brute force, but when it actually counts"

She let the sentence trail off. The meaning was loud and clear. Her eyes dragged over me, loaded with implication.

I dropped the rag and locked onto the weapon in her hand. In the dim office light, that rose gold gave off a cheap, flashy glare.

"Your grip is wrong," I said.

Paisley froze. "What?"

"Your wrist is locked. Your index finger is wrapped way too deep on the trigger. Your eyes aren't aligned with the rear and front sights." My voice was flat, just laying out the raw facts.

"Holding it like that, forget about hitting a target. You are more likely to catch a ricochet and shoot yourself."

Paisley's face instantly dropped. She slammed the gun back into the velvet lining and snapped the box shut.

"You sound like you actually know what you are talking about." She rolled her eyes, her tone snapping like a cracked whip. "Too bad I am the one actually pulling the trigger now."

She hugged the box to her chest and spun around to leave. She hit the doorway and paused