way Emma does, leaving a long section loose at the end.
The cabin is sparsely decorated—an old wood table with several mismatched chairs and a slouchy sofa, burgundy with gold threads fraying on the edges. My father sits at the table, his briefcase open in front of him.
“It’s time you get this back,” he says, holding the barrel of my FN 5-7. “But first”—his gray eyes meet mine—“you need practice.”
Putting my gun in his waist holster, he stands and hands me a backpack.
“Why can’t I talk to Aksel? I need to know he’s safe, that he …”
My father stands beside the grimy window overlooking the cloudy sky, his eyes hollow. “If I could have let you stay, I would have. But we were this close”—he places his forefinger millimeters from his thumb—“to losing cover. We depart before anyone knows our destination. That’s how we stay safe. We don’t compromise this. Ever.”
“It’s all for operational integrity,” I say bitterly.
“Operational integrity.” A shadow of sadness passes over him. “Exactly.”
“Did he make it back safely?”
“Sophia, you need to forget about Aksel—”
“Forget?! I want to return to Waterford and explain what happened so—”
“You can’t, Sophia.”
“What are you not telling me?”
“All I’m asking you to do right now is forget Aksel and concentrate. You have only one job, Sophia, and that is to survive.”
We enter the dense woods behind the house, jogging twelve hundred meters to a clearing.
While I run, I adjust the strap on my shoulder; the backpack is heavy, like it contains a thousand rounds of ammunition.
I have so many questions: Why did we go to Waterford? Why did we leave? Why did Aksel ask: Is that what you told my father?
My father stops in the western corner of the clearing, which is shrouded in thick foliage and concealed from the sky by a canopy of frost-laced branches.
Holding my 5-7 in his left hand, he unwraps a wool scarf from around his neck and holds the fabric out to me.
I shake my head, casting my eyes to the snow-covered ground beneath my feet.
“Please?” he prompts. I see the hurt in his eyes. I’ve seen that look many times—it is a look that says: I’m sorry for all this, but not sorry enough to quit.
Relenting, I take his scarf, cover my eyes, and secure it at the crown of my head. When I reach my hand out, my father places the Belgian gun in my palm. Against my skin, it is hard. Cold. Powerful.
I wrap my fingers around the grip, relaxing as my fingers settle into the contours, modified on my fourteenth birthday to fit my slim hand.
Locking back the slide, I remove the magazine and clear the chamber. I drop the bullets into his hands: one … two … twenty …
Next, I pull down on the lock and release the slide forward. It too drops into my father’s hands. I remove the spring and take off the barrel. In less than seven seconds, I have the pistol field-stripped.
“Assemble,” he says. Feeling for each component with my fingers, I reassemble everything I took apart, insert the magazine, and in another few seconds I am finished.
I hold the loaded pistol in my right hand. My heart pumps in my chest. With my left hand, I reach around the back of my head, untie the scarf, and push it against my father’s chest.
He loops the scarf around his neck and points to a cluster of trees a short distance away. “We’ll start at twenty meters and increase from there.”
Slowly, I lift the FN 5-7 and prepare my body for the jolt.
Standing with my feet shoulder-width apart and my fingers wrapped around the pistol grip, adrenaline courses through me. My pistol has always given me the ability to defend myself, to protect myself.
But shooting like this is something I haven’t done since Africa.
Snow falls in a light dusting, but in these dense woods, little reaches the ground.
I hold the grip securely, resting my right hand on my left.
“The black knot on that tree.” My father points to the trunk of a spindly pine in the center of the cluster.
I miss the first two shots. Both bullets burrow into a mound of slushy earth behind the tree. Behind me, I hear my father shift his feet.
Keeping my gaze steady on the knot, I aim again—Taut but loose.
I try not to remember the last time I said these words. With Aksel. To Aksel.
Anguish tears through me so viscerally I wince. I suck cold air through my nose, hoping to quell