Page 42 of Shrapnel

Jamie got to loading the bullets into a black plastic magazine. Owen rolled his eyes but did as he said. Dropping to his knees, Owen dug through the bag until he found a neon pink Lisa Frank folder. Propping it open he immediately flinched at the ugly autopsy photo on top.

Flipping through, he forced himself to look at the pictures. At the people. No matter what Jamie and Elijah said, they were people to Owen. People who had been living their lives, good or bad, up until someone took it away. It didn’t help that their driver’s license photo was taped to the back of the autopsy photo. To see them alive on one side and dead on the other was uncomfortably heartbreaking.

“This isn’t your work,” Owen announced after he’d looked at them all.

Jamie cocked his head. “You don’t think so?”

“I know so. You’d never do this.”

“I’m touched, O Face. You’re right. I’ve done some fucked up things, but I would never do that.” he slapped the magazine into the pistol and pulled the slide. “Those are dead White Sand Mesa members. Five over the last six months. All killed like that.”

Owen felt his face pale as Jamie gave him the details. Details he didn’t want. Details he thought he left behind when he stopped working for the Weavers. He could only imagine the pain and horror those people felt when they died, a helplessness that was worse than actually dying.

And Noah. He was so young, younger even than Owen. How could he be expected to deal with this? When things were already so fragile.

“Stop.” Owen held up his hand when Jamie began talking about some homeless man’s blood splattered all over Zebra Cakes. Helikedthose. “Why are you telling me this?”

Jamie reached down and grabbed Owen under the arm, pulling him to his feet so they could stand face to face. “I need your help, O Face. Your magic fingers are the best in the business.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Weaver,” Owen muttered, but even as he protested, he knew he would do it. He would do it because he cared about Noah and Elijah. Because those people deserved justice.

And because Jamie asked him to.

“What’s with the sudden interest in teaching me to shoot?”

Jamie bodily turned Owen so that he was facing the field. At some point, Jamie had stuck some old local government campaign signs into the grass thirty feet away. Jamie being Jamie, had drawn fake mustaches and fart smells too.

“This is dangerous, O Face. Someone is coming after gang members, and I need you to be able to protect yourself.” Jamie aligned himself behind Owen, reaching to hold the gun in front. Owen was surprised by the ease with which his arms wrapped around him. Tentatively, Owen took the gun. The grip was warm from Jamie’s fingers, and it was heavier now that it was loaded.

“Why?”

“Because,” Jamie’s face was right next to Owen’s ear, chest pressed to his back and hands on his to move his fingers where he wanted them on the gun. He caught a subtle whiff of whatever shampoo Jamie used, it smelled citrusy. “I might not always be around to do it for you.”

There was a heaviness in his words, a finality that Owen didn’t like. He turned, his nose brushing against Jamie’s cheeks.

“Where will—”

“Pay attention,” Jamie grabbed Owen’s chin and turned it to face forward again. “Guns aren’t toys. They’re dangerous and you need to know how to handle them.”

“Says the guy who just tossed one at me…”

Jamie ignored him and went into his spiel about not pointing a gun at anything you aren’t prepared to kill. Owen thought it was excessive, but Jamie seemed to think it was very important.

“Shoulders back, feet apart. Put your dominant foot back like this.” Jamie reached down and casually slid his hand between Owen’s thighs, pressing his right leg back. Owen stared ahead but he could feel the warm press of Jamie’s strong fingers. How could they be so warm through denim? He swallowed dryly as those agile fingers slid from his thigh back up to his trembling hands.

“You’re right-handed so put your right hand higher, and wrap your left around to support—no, too high. You’ll catch the slide like that.”

He maneuvered Owen’s fingers, ignoring the way his breath hitched whenever Jamie pressed against his back, and nonchalantly moved Owen where he wanted. The lightness in his tone was gone, replaced by a cool confidence that Owen had never heard before. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he had to fight to keep himself from leaning back into his solid chest.

“Now, this is a 9mm. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll get the job done. When you shoot, aim for center mass then keep shooting until he’s on the ground.”

“Ok but like what if he stops—”

“Owen,” Jamie stared at the side of his face. Owen could feel the weight of his stare, but he didn’t dare turn to meet it. He didn’t know what would happen if he did. “I’m serious. If you’re shooting, you’re shooting to kill. You pull this trigger until that bastard has changed shape or caught fire. You hear me?”

He nodded mutely, shivering at the cold chill that ran down his back. His knuckles were white on the gun and Jamie slid his hand over them. He gently rubbed the skin between his thumb and forefinger with the back of his knuckles, the calloused digits pressing against his hand until it softened a little on the grip.

“Relax, O Face. Just breathe. It’s a gun, not a snake. It won’t turn around and bite you,” he huffed a laugh, the warmth from his breath caressing Owen’s cheek. He didn’t relax.