Scorpion
: Chapter 8

Mathijs leaves the compound nearly every day. I usually drive to the location first to scout it, set up on a roof or behind a window. Or sometimes I’m a couple meters away from him, pretending to be a random civilian who’s enjoying a meal, not someone armed and ready to kill. Cafes, restaurants, bars, clubs, I’ve been everywhere with him over the last three weeks.

The days aren’t monotonous, but there’s a level of consistency that gives me enough semblance of normalcy, which doesn’t make me feel like I’m losing control. Shit, I haven’t once thought about sneaking away to have a go in the ring for some extra cash. I actually like what I’m doing.

The other day, I pretended to be his date at a yacht party. It would have been a little demoralizing to be his mindless arm candy if it weren’t for the fact that we kept our hands to ourselves except for the occasional touch on my lower back as he steered me through the crowd. I think he realized partway through that I made for a horrific date because I wasn’t going doe-eyed and melting for him. The touches were nice, but it made me spiral, questioning whether it’s too much or too far.

Now, after a week on the road, it’s good to be back on the compound. I’ve missed being able to anticipate my surroundings.

I tap my finger on my arm and try not to fidget as I wait for Mathijs to come out of his office. We were meant to leave for an undisclosed location twenty minutes ago, and the anticipation is agonizing. Sergei had absolutely no idea where we were meant to go since there were no outings planned, which only made him alert—and dare I say it, upset—that we were heading out, and the big man never gave him the heads-up.

“Apologies for my tardiness,” Mathijs says before he exits his office. “Now, shall we?”

My lips part as I take him in. What in the fuck is he wearing? He looks like he’s walked right off a military catalog with the black camo pants, combat boots, and military jacket. Mathijs is dressed to the nines, ready for war, and not a single one of his security detail has a goddamn clue what we’re about to walk into.

No wonder Sergei has lost all his hair working for him.

“Where, pray tell, are we going?” Jesus Christ. Is that a tactical knife strapped to his leg?

He rubs his hands, eyes glinting in excitement. “On an adventure.”

My hair is graying with each second. “You’re a security nightmare,” I mumble, following behind him down the steps.

“I know,” he throws over his shoulder.

We turn toward the ammunition room and I have to stop myself from outwardly groaning. If he’s planning another raid or mission, he’s meant to involve his fucking security advisors. There’s absolutely no way I am about to agree to go off on some adventure when I’m the only one who can protect him. It’s plain stupid, especially with Goldchild growing more aggressive with each passing week.

The combination of annoyance and anticipation has me crossing my arms and staring him down as he unlocks the hidden entrance, and the bookshelf automatically slides back into the wall and to the side. “Tell me where we are going, so I can advise Sergei to prepare accordingly.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “No need. All the necessary arrangements are done.” I catch the sniper rifle he throws my way and glare at him. “It’s just you and me today, Lieverd.”

“I’m calling Sergei.”

“You’re no fun.” Mathijs sighs, grabbing a fire-resistant blanket and a spotting scope, placing both in a pack that he throws over his back. I glare at him when he grabs both my shoulders and taps my nose. “Don’t worry, my little protector. We’re staying on the property.”

Mathijs snatches the rifle from me before I get the chance to respond.

I repeat, what the actual fuck is going on?

Dumbfounded, I march behind him into the forest surrounding his property, no closer to figuring out what shit show I’m about to replace myself in. “Give me that.” I try to snatch the sniper from him but he tightens his grip. So I hold my hand out instead. “I’m meant to be protecting you. Not the other way around.”

He whirls around on me. “You’re unarmed?”

“The answer depends on who’s asking. Are you expecting a show and tell?”

“Are you offering? Maybe throw in a pat down as well.” Mathijs’s eyes glint. Flirting with the flirt will only make this whole situation even more difficult to navigate.

He grins victoriously, and I resort to following along silently. The dirt squelches beneath my feet, and my pants catch on branches and bushes. The Halenbeek estate consists of acres of forestry spanning over ten miles. The first time Sergei told me, I was ready to argue about how horrific an idea it was. Now that I’m walking past trees and rocks and fallen logs, I can just spot the various hidden cameras and pressure systems concealed beneath leaves. Apparently, an alert will go straight to the security room if there’s anything bigger than a cat passing by.

My foot aches as we walk, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be. Since I started, Mathijs always makes sure that there are no scheduled outings when I’m meant to have a physio appointment. And the times we’ve gone out of the city, he forced me to “see her” by video.

Mathijs halts in his steps, stopping us at the edge of a clearing of green fields and a small lake that continues in a stream straight ahead. I frown when he draws a set of binoculars out of his bag to peruse the area. Are we… hunting? When we were kids, he wouldn’t hurt a fly but he wouldn’t think twice about laying it on someone else.

Ex-wannabe-veterinarian-Mathijs doesn’t hurt animals. Or at least I thought that was the case until he sets the binoculars down and lays out the blanket on the ground, right behind a log.

“What are we doing out here, Mathijs?” I say wearily. I can shoot humans fine; animals are where I draw the line.

“Target practice.”

Excuse me? “For… you?”

“It wounds me you think I’m the one who needs it.” He places his hand over his heart, then drops onto his knees on the blanket.

“Are you saying I’m not a good shot?”

“I’d say no such thing.” He settles himself on his stomach and places the rifle in front of him, balancing it on the log. I try to spot what it is he’s aiming for, but all I can see on the other side of the clearing are more trees.

Averting his attention, he reaches into his backpack to hand me the scope. Fucking hell, I guess we’re doing this. I kneel beside him and take the spotting scope from him.

“I hope my instructions weren’t confused for miles.”

What?

He squints somewhere north, and I follow his line of vision until I spot a human-shaped dummy with target symbols all over it.

“Fifteen hundred meters, right? That’s the distance you want to meet.”

I stare at his profile for a heavy moment.

He… he’s helping me try to reach my goal? My chest warms and expands, faster than I can reasonably comprehend. Putting a roof over my head and giving me a salary felt like an act of community service. This is another layer altogether.

My head swims with all the things I could say: thanking him, rejecting his offer, insisting that he doesn’t need to waste time accompanying me. But anything I want to say is caught in my throat.

“I think I need glasses,” he mutters as he squints in the direction of the dummy.

I swallow and force myself to look away. I just know that my body is humming with the familiar thrill of… of working toward something.

I forgot what that feels like. Goals.

Shit. Ambition is such a mundane, everyday concept, but already it’s made me feel ten times lighter.

Bringing the scope to my eye, I take a deep breath and play around with the dials to work out the distance to the target. “We need to go closer. We’re about eighteen hundred meters.”

He curses under his breath. “Let’s hope you never replace out what your observations do to me.”

“What?”

He smirks. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”

I hit his arm as we rise to our feet.

“I cannot believe you just attacked your employer.” Mathijs mock-gasps.

“Sue me then,” I deadpan.

Chuckling, he grabs the bag, while I carry the blanket. “Many fathers teach their children essential survival skills. Like how to light a fire, check the car oil, and fish. Mine taught me to always have my lawyer on speed dial.”

“I look forward to hearing from them.” I roll my eyes and walk closer to the middle of the clearing. “Make sure you mention that I am interested in perfecting a fifteen-hundred-meter kill shot—and I already succeeded at thirteen. Live targets are always welcome.”

“You murderous little thing. I like it.”

I side-eye him, but the corners of my lips curl at the deranged compliment. Using the scope, I get us as close to the fifteen-hundred-meter point as I can and lay out the blanket.

Mathijs offers me the rifle, but I motion for him to get into position. “Let’s see how good your aim is.”

“No need.” He holds out the rifle again. “Just trust me when I say it’s phenomenal.”

I push the weapon back to his chest, preparing to say the magical words that could get this man to do anything. “I bet you can’t make the shot.”

His eyes harden, and he’s on the ground with the gun poised within the next breath. Simply put, his form is horrific. Not to mention he’s balancing the rifle on his shoulder when there’s already a stand attached to it for him to use.

“You already have support. Use what you have around you. There’s no point reinventing the wheel.” He readjusts, pulling his knee too high up to the side, jeopardizing the stability and straightness of his body. “No, you’re too angled. Square your shoulders. Don’t put your elbows there.”

“Anyone ever told you that you’re such an eloquent teacher?”

“You’re the one who taught me how to shoot,” I say, then grate out, “Form,” when he reverts back to the position I just got him out of.

“The teacher becomes the master. A classic.” He shakes his head, then readjusts his hands on the gun.

I glance at Mathijs as small smile curls across my lips. This is the happiest I’ve felt in years, and it’s all because of him. There’s no serious conversation about our pasts or how we see the future shaping. This is just Mathijs and Zalak, hanging around in the forest and playing with guns just like we did when we were teenagers. Right now, we’re two friends with nothing but this moment.

Part of me wants to lean over and throw my arm over his waist and snuggle into his side like we used to. But we can’t do any of that because everything has changed. He’s my boss now. Even if he weren’t, I have far too much baggage, it’d be cruel to force anyone to share the load with me.

Lowering myself onto my stomach beside him, I fix my attention on Mathijs, and say in an even tone, “Take a deep breath, then look down the gun.”

He does exactly as I say, body tense. Oh, such a rookie.

There’s a certain elegance that comes with using a sniper that can’t be replicated in any other form. The level of patience required to carry out an intel-gathering mission would have most people clawing their eyes out. But there’s peace in studying others. You start gathering details about your environment that you wouldn’t have seen before. Like the fallen bird’s nest a hundred meters south. Or the deer half a klick behind us, and the blue jay we passed on the short walk between our last sniper’s hide and here.

“Usually, your spotter will help you identify your target and the conditions that would impact the shot,” I explain as I bring the scope up to my eyes to focus on the dummy hidden among the trees. I commend whoever set up the target for not putting it in a wide-open space.

“You just aim and shoot.”

“Amateur,” I tease. I had that exact thought before I started training. I said it to TJ once as a joke, and he almost hit me over the head for it. So I told him that he was just jealous I was a better shot. “A bullet doesn’t fly through the air; it falls in a specific direction. For a shot at this distance, you need to consider the Coriolis effect.”

I hear Mathijs move beside me—to give me a blank stare, I assume. “I believe that piece of knowledge is above my pay grade.”

“It’s the pattern of deflection taken by objects not firmly connected to the ground that are moving a long distance.”

“That’s even further away from my pay grade. But keep going, seeing you nerd out turns me on.”

I drop the spotting scope and hiss, “Mathijs.” I point at his shoulders. “Focus—and watch your form.”

“I’ll be honest, I can barely line up the target,” he says nonchalantly before resuming his position. “I swear it’s moving, and you getting all smart and bossy is doing things to me.”

“Aim for something closer then,” I suggest, moving around to replace something else for him to shoot. “How about the—”

A shot rings out, and my first instinct is to drag him behind me, but I stop when he says, “Sorry. I got bored.” He rolls to the side and hands me the sniper. “I believe I’m better suited to an observer role.”

“What did you hit?”

“Nothing alive, one would hope.” He shuts his eyes like he’s concentrating. When he reopens them, there’s a disappointed look on his face. “Fortunately, I don’t hear any screaming, which means I am still on track to winning boss of the year—you, on the other hand, do not have any Christmas bonuses on your horizon.”

“Give me four working days to cry about it.” We swap gadgets. I set up the sniper by fixing the height of the stand and leveraging the ground to my advantage to stabilize the kickback.

“Make that two—I’m on a tight deadline.”

I shake my head and take a deep breath, saying a silent prayer up to TJ and Gaya before looking down the scope, making all the necessary adjustments to see the dummy better.

“You make it look so easy,” Mathijs says after a moment of silence.

Scoffing quietly, I say, “I haven’t pulled the trigger yet.” It’s been a long time since I’ve tried aiming at anything more than eight-hundred meters away, and I’ve almost forgotten how difficult it is. “I have to calculate the bullet drop due to gravity, spin drift, wind, light, elevation, barometric pressure, and the final kinetic energy upon arrival,” I explain.

“Who would have guessed AP physics would come in handy.”

I huff out a half-hearted chuckle, calculating the range to the target and the estimated descent, but the world is working against me regardless of how much compensation I try to make for the angle and the amount of light on the target.

“Approximately forty-five-degree winds coming from the southwest. There’s an incline. Plus, the humidity is too high, so the impact will be lower.”

“So what does that all mean?”

I pull the trigger between heartbeats, then narrow my eyes at the target.

“It means I’ll miss the shot.”