Then he unzipped a case lying on the ground.

The crossbow was black and sleek and lethal. Sasha felt a tingle along her skin as Doyle set his foot in the stirrup, cocked it. He flicked a glance in their direction, slung a quiver of bolts over his shoulder.

He loaded one, lifted the bow, sighted. The bolt plowed into the target about a quarter inch from dead-center bull’s-eye.

“Nice.” Riley nodded. “Stryker, right? The new one. What’s the draw weight?”

“One fifty-five.”

“You surprise me, you can draw more than one-double-nickel.”

“This is my backup. What can you draw?”

“I can draw that.” She passed her glass to Sasha, held out her hand.

Doyle hesitated, but he handed her the bow.

“Nice, lightweight. Won’t weigh you down on the hunt.”

As he had, she put a foot in the stirrup and, biceps rippling, cocked the bow. She helped herself to a bolt from his quiver, loaded it.

Her shot hit the other side of the bull’s-eye, about the same distance as his. “String suppressor’s a nice touch. Keeps it quiet. I’d say that’s, what, about three hundred FPS?”

“Yeah, about.” He looked at Sasha now. “Bran said you were looking for a crossbow.”

“Yes. I was.”

“You were? You want to learn to shoot, Sash?”

“I’d like to try it.”

Obliging, Riley passed it off to Doyle, took the glasses and the book from Sasha.

“The draw’s going to be too much for you. I’ve got a cocking device.”

“I need to learn to draw it manually.” She took the bow, and turned it as they had, set her foot in the stirrup.

But Doyle was right, she didn’t have the strength for the draw weight. “I’ll get stronger. And Bran can do something to make it so I can cock it. Would you do it for me this time?”

“Sure.” He did as she asked. “You should get used to the weight, the feel. We’ll move closer to the target.”

“No. From here.”

He shrugged. “Carbon bolt—no point wasting time with less. You need to make sure it’s set properly, or—”

“Let me try it once.” She simply took the bolt, loaded it. And in one move aimed, fired.

Her bolt centered neatly between theirs, center bull’s-eye.

“Well, kick my ass and call me Shirley.” Riley gaped at the target, let out a bark of a laugh. “That didn’t look like beginner’s luck.”

“I’ve used one in dreams. It feels the same.” She lowered the bow to study it. “I know this. FPS, you said. That’s feet per second. I know this.”

Doyle walked to the target, pulled out the three bolts. When he walked back, he took the bow, cocked it.

“Do it again.”

She hit dead center a second time.

“No, not luck. Either you beef up,” Doyle added, “use the cocking device—or see what Bran can do. You can have that, and a couple dozen bolts.”

“I appreciate the loan.”

“Take care of it. When this is done, give it back.” He cocked it yet again, stared off at the target. “I figured I’d be out here all damn day just showing you how to sight it. I’m going for a beer.”