Pappy watched Sam walk across the plateau. For one wild moment, he wanted to run after her, to apologize. He felt lower than a snake’s belly and knew the members of his staff were aware something out of the ordinary was going on. The recruits wore vicious looks, and he knew that in their eyes, he’d stepped over the line, and they didn’t understand what was going on either. None of them would meet his gaze. He waited until all four teams were out of sight before he dismissed his staff. He whistled for Alpha, who joined him under the tent. The big dog was soaking wet. Pappy needed to dry him off. He needed to dry himself off, too. What he really needed was a good dose of absolution followed by a stiff drink.

Maybe the rain would cleanse him to some degree. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t. He bit down on his lip when he remembered Sam’s defiant reaction to his command. And then he laughed because he’d done exactly the same thing a hundred years ago when he’d undergone his own training.

She’s the one. He could feel it in every pore of his body.

Chapter Seven

It was the end of August, and the heat and humidity of the Carolinas had made their way to the mountain. Everyone had a sheen of sweat on their bodies as they trooped to the firing range. Team Three had the highest marksmanship scores of all four teams. Sam was the only one on the four teams to have a perfect score.

Out of the corner of her eye Sam could see Pappy standing off to the side, the ever-present scorecard in his hands. He wore aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap with the bill in the back. She’d seen the stitching earlier signifying he was a Chicago Cubs fan. Personally, she thought the Cubs were a bunch of slugs on the field. She’d played softball all four years of college and could whack the ball better than some of the players on Chicago’s National League team.

In the weeks since the PT and DT tests, and her recovery, she’d yet to have a word with him. She knew he watched her like the proverbial hawk. At times it unnerved her. At other times, he was invisible to her. Just then, though, she needed to pretend he was invisible. It was her turn at the range. She stood straight, both hands clasped on the SIG Sauer provided by AFJ. There was almost something seductive about the curve of the trigger mechanism. She didn’t blink, and she didn’t twitch. What she did was paste a mental picture of Pappy on the target. She fired six consecutive shots and ripped his imagined face to shreds. All shots were dead center. Her team let out a proud whoop of pleasure.