He looked so pantherish and male, dressed all in black, lounging at his ease in her cheerful kitchen.
The T-shirt he wore clung to him, revealing the breadth of his shoulders and the flatness of his stomach. He was tall and lean, but more muscular than he looked when wearing street clothes. He had meant his words one way, but his physical presence was so strong she couldn't stop herself from a brief sexual speculation. Did his stamina extend to lovemaking? If so ... wow.
Immediately she pulled her thoughts away from that direction; nothing but trouble there. "So what am I supposed to do with my time until we're ready to leave? When do we leave, anyway?" she asked briskly.
"About a week. It takes time to set up a cover as foolproof as yours will be. In the meantime, we train. How are you with a handgun and self-defense?"
"Rusty."
"Have you had any formal self-defense training?"
"No. Just a rape-prevention course, the usual self-defense stuff." And the rudimentary training Dallas had begun with her, but that was five years ago, and she hadn't kept it up.
"Okay. We won't have time for anything in-depth, but in a week's time I can have you at a level where you can hold your own with most men. You're in good shape already, so that helps."
Great. It looked as if she was going to be in his company nonstop for a week. She sighed and took a skillet out of the cabinet. "I'm not doing anything else until I eat. What do you want for breakfast?"
"Take your pick," Medina said, indicating the small arsenal he had laid out on a bench. They were in a private firing range, used by CIA personnel. The huge, barnlike building was empty except for the two of them.
It wasn't anything fancy, having been built more for use than looks. The far wall of the range was stacked with sand bags and bales of hay, so no rounds of ammunition went through the walls to do damage to anything or anyone outside. The walls themselves were lined with what looked like pegboard, to contain the noise. Big industrial lights hung overhead, but they were individually controlled so that the lighting conditions could be adjusted
He indicated the first weapon. "This is a Colt .45. It's a heavy-duty cannon, with a lot of stopping power. The next one is a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. Again, it's pretty heavy. But they're both as reliable as the sun, so you might want to practice with them. I wouldn't recommend them for regular use, though, because of the weight. You need something lighter."
He indicated the other weapons. "The next one is a SIG Sauer P226, 9mm. It's my personal favorite. The other automatic is an H&K P9S. It's half a pound lighter than the Colt, and H&K makes a fine weapon. You can't go wrong with either one."
Niema studied the handguns, then picked each one up in turn. The two revolvers were so heavy she could barely aim them. The H&K was more manageable, but for sheer ease of handling the SIG suited her much better.
"Looks like the SIG is going to be my favorite, too." She wasn't an expert with firearms, but neither was she a rank beginner. Dallas had been constitutionally unable to bear a wife who didn't know how to fire a weapon, so he had taught her the basics and insisted she practice. But that was five years ago, and she hadn't been on a firing range since.
"The SIG doesn't have a thumb safety," he said. "That lever on the left side of the frame is the decocking lever. Never, ever lower the hammer except with the decocking lever. Some SIGs are double-action and won't have the lever, but you need to get used to using it."
"It's awkward," she said after a minute spent familiarizing herself with the lever. "I can't work it without shifting my grip."
"Try using your left thumb. I learned to shoot it left-handed because I ran into the same problem."
She slid a glance at him. "Accurately?"
"Of course," he said coolly. "Or I wouldn't do it."
"Pardon me for insulting your manhood."
"My manhood isn't connected to my weapon, honey."
She bit the inside of her lip to hold back any rejoinders. That particular subject could rapidly get into dangerous waters.
A surprising amount of expertise returned as soon as she handled the weapon. She put a clip in the SIG, and Medina set the first man-shaped target at ten" yards.
"Is that all?" she asked, wondering whether or not she should be insulted.
"Most situations where you would use a handgun are fairly close quarters, and things happen fast, in five seconds or less. Work on your accuracy before you start worrying about distance. Anything much over thirty yards and you'd be better off with a rifle or shotgun, anyway."
"How do we get our weapons on board the plane?"
"We don't. I could, but it would attract too much attention. I'll get them once we're in France. By the way, we won't be traveling together."
She nodded, put on her headset, and raised the pistol. Dallas had taught her the point-and-shoot method; studies had found that people were very accurate in pointing at something, but when they tried to aim a weapon the mechanics of doing so somehow interfered with that natural ability. The idea was not to aim, but simply to point.
Medina's arms came around her from behind, his hands closing over hers and making minute adjustments in her grip. "Gently squeeze the trigger," he murmured, his voice coming through the headset.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, the way Dallas had taught her. When she had exhaled about half, she stopped and squeezed the trigger. The weapon jumped in her hands as if it was alive, the barrel recoiling upward from the released energy. With the headset protecting her ears, the shot was a flattened crack, like a board popping. Smoke and cordite burned her nostrils. Without a word she steadied the weapon, took a breath, and shot again.