Perceive by K E Osborn

 

 

AXEL

 

“I’ve got a full house,” Ruin announces, sitting back in his little fold-up beach chair and resting his binoculars on his knee. “Let’s see you beat that, little brother.”

I scoff, doubling down into the dirt, shuffling and digging myself into the dusty ground until I’ve made a comfortable indent around each curve of my body. The heat from the sun is roasting my back, making it almost impossible to keep cool under its intense burn. The tactical vest I have on doesn’t help the situation—the thick, tight padding making me sweat like a whore in church.

I could have opted for cover.

The shooting range has plenty of it.

I could’ve also shot from one of the stands behind me, rather than choking myself in the dust, and having it flick up into my eyes every time a slight breeze floats past me.

But this is how Dad trained me. Scorching sun, pounding rain, lying in the fucking dirt or mud for hours until you get the shot right. You practice under the worst circumstances, in the shittiest conditions, if you want to be any good.

And I’m not just good.

I’m fucking great.

Except for today.

I dust my hands in the dirt to try to eliminate the slippery sweat coating my palms. My fingers burn against the hot rifle that has unfortunately soaked up all the sun’s rays and feels like it’s on fucking fire. I push past it, though. I’ll deal with the minor burns later. Right now, I have something to prove, and if I don’t make these last couple of shots, Ruin is never going to let me forget it.

Inhaling, I lower my body, settling the butt of my rifle into my shoulder to steady it while one hand moves to the trigger. The other just lightly touches the stand that keeps the barrel propped up. It allows me to make slight adjustments if really needed, but for the most part, any movement is done with my hand.

If I can stop it from shaking.

Poker is the name of the game.

Ruin dealt himself a hand, and there is another deck of cards randomly spread out along a wall at the other end of the range. They are arbitrarily placed across a shelf, giving me sight of the entire deck, but it’s up to me to move quickly, finding and hitting hit the cards I need to beat Ruin’s hand.

“And time starts…” he announces. A rush of adrenaline instantly releasing, making my body begin to tingle and my heart race before he even says the word. “Go!”

I duck my head, lining my eye up with the scope that brings the cards a little over half a mile down the range, into sight.

A good sniper can shoot a head-size object from this far with reasonable ease. I’m aiming for something a little smaller. While it’s not the hardest shot, it’s the time pressure that pushes me.

I can’t just spend a minute perfecting my aim and shot. I must make sure my lines are perfect and instant. I can’t second-guess myself. I can’t waver. And today, I’m doing both, here, and in my head, thinking about Kenzi.

I need to beat his full house.

My finger squeezes the trigger, blowing out the center of the first card. “Ace of hearts.”

Ruin starts to laugh. “Oh, ladies and gentlemen, he’s going for the royal flush!”

Each movement seems huge when you’re looking through the scope. But in reality, they’re tiny, less than an eighth of an inch, and the second you jerk too far, everything disappears.

It’s all about being calm and steady.

Fucking great.

Gritting my teeth, I pull the trigger again, cringing instantly but calling out the card anyway. “King of hearts!”

Ruin presses his binoculars to his eyes, studying the shot for a second. He tries to hold in his laughter, but it bursts from his mouth like an obnoxious car horn. “You were lucky with that one, barely caught the corner, but I’ll give it to you.”

“Still hit the fucking thing,” I protest, searching the damn line up for the next card, practically feeling the clock ticking over in my chest. I’m not going to fucking make it. I spot the queen and pull up sharp, pausing for a moment—not a great move on a time limit—but not wanting to give my brother anything more to tattle on me about when he sees Dad.

BANG.

“Queen of hearts!”

“You’re not gonna make it,” Ruin warns, this time his voice tightening a little.

Spotting the Jack just two down, I ease my shot just a breath to the left and pull. “Jack of hearts!”

“Four seconds.”

“Fuck,” I curse, searching.

Searching.

Sear—

I pull.

The timer blares.

“Son of a b—”

“Woah! Don’t curse our mother because your ass is a shit shot,” Ruin taunts as I drop my forehead into the dirt. “Man, what the fuck? I get shit with Kenzi is bad right now, but she’s fine. She’s right there, and you have all the time in the damn world with her now. So why are you still letting her get in your head.”

I don’t know.

I’m honestly not sure exactly how to answer.

I could protest. Say he’s completely off the mark, it’s not true, and it has nothing to do with Kenzi at all, or maybe I’m just nervous or out of practice. But the truth is, Dad has been teaching me how to shoot since I was fucking four years old. I know this, I know it in and out, and I’m one of the fucking best at what I do.

And yet, I just missed that last card by over half an inch.

“Maybe the sights are out.”

“Maybe your sight is out. But mine and your gun are all just fine.”

I shove my palms into the dirt and force myself out of my little hidey-hole in the dirt, snatching my rifle off the ground and snapping up the stand so it sits flat against the barrel. “Don’t be an asshole, Ruin,” I snap back before stomping off toward the empty building behind us like a tantrum-throwing child. It’s all of seven in the morning and the range hasn’t opened yet, but thankfully, I know the owner, and he lets me come in early before everyone else.

The weapon I use is military issue only, so I can’t shoot in a range with other people. It’s one of the benefits of working for a government agency but not actually having a military clearance to own such a fine specimen.

If people saw, they’d ask questions.

And the only thing I want anyone to see when they look at me is a biker. That’s my cover, and I work my ass off to keep it that way. I press my rifle into the case that’s waiting just inside the doors, fitting everything firmly and meticulously into place. It always amuses me, watching all these movies where the sniper takes a shot then runs away, breaking his rifle down into pieces like it’s some kind of fucking transformer.

You do that with these things, your sights are instantly fucked. If someone fucks with my sights, I can spend hours and hours trying to get it back to the position I like it in. 

And if I have to do that on a time crunch, under pressure, someone is going to fucking die. Nobody wants a sniper who has to take five shots at a guy’s head, while in the meantime, he’s shot every member of your team from close range.

“Tomorrow, same time,” Ruin announces, strolling in behind me holding up his winning hand and flashing it with a grin.

“I’ve got shit to do tomorrow morning,” I argue, making shitty excuses that I know he’ll see right through.

“Sitting in Kenzi’s cell, chatting about a past she doesn’t remember, isn’t classed as shit to do,” he snaps back, finally tucking the cards into his back pocket. “This is beyond obsessed.”

A growl rumbles in my chest, and I slam the lid of my case down, probably doing just what I said I didn’t want to do and fucking with my perfect sights. “I’ve been searching for Kenzi for six years! Lay the fuck off.”

“No, we’ve been searching for her for six years,” Ruin hisses back, stepping forward. I see him change, see that brotherly look in his eye disappear, and suddenly, he isn’t the big brother who had my back since the day I was born. Who kept my secrets. Who lied for me. Who felt my fucking pain.

In this moment, he’s my vice president. “That girl means just as much to the club as she does to you. So stop acting like a spoiled fucking sulky brat and do something. Yes, we’re glad she’s back, and I’m fucking sorry that everything the two of you had seems gone, but what I want to know is… what the fuck you’re gonna do about it?”

My fingers clench into tight fists, my muscles twitching at the urge to just lay my brother out and walk away. But the thing is, he’s fucking right.

I’m wandering around, moping and pretending like my life is over because this girl I love doesn’t know who the hell I am, but it’s not her fault she’s that way. It is not her fault she was beaten, bruised, and God knows what fucking else because I’m still too scared to ask.

The Agency is careful, they follow procedure, and stick to their guidelines.

There’s a process they must follow—interrogations, evidence—and there’s a file at least three inches thick of information before they will even consider making a move.

But that isn’t the way Malice MC handles their shit.

Someone hurts our family, we hurt them.

Simple.

Easy.

Done.

“So, you’re saying I need to find this fucker,” I confirm, raising my brow at my brother.

“What I’m saying is… The Agency has a lot of rules about how to deal with problems,” he explains with a shrug. “On our end, things are a lot simpler. You hurt us…”

“… we kill you.”