The Shepherd (The Game 6)

“Right.” He returned to his task.

As he fired the last two shots, I ditched the ice cream cup in a garbage bin between the shooting gallery and the next trailer, and he missed again.

“Oh well.” He got to choose a prize from the bottom shelf, which had all the crap one expected to see. Key rings, tiny Rubik’s cubes, erasers, pens—shit like that.

He picked a heart-shaped…tea infuser.

He clutched it to him when he turned around to face me. “I will guard this with my life. It’s the most expensive infuser I’ve ever owned.”

I grinned. “Did you look at the shelf and pick the most British thing you could find?”

He twisted his upper body to slip the infuser into his backpack. “Well, what am I going to do with a golf ball or a key ring?”

Fair enough. I stepped forward and handed a twenty to the man behind the counter. Then I reloaded the rifle with pellets before he could offer to do it for me.

“I suppose I could’ve given my sister the pencil case,” the Brit mused.

No, that nickname didn’t work. I’d served with Englishmen. This kid’s accent was too Americanized.

I peered through the scope—shitty damn scope, but what could one expect—and concentrated on one spot where ducks whooshed by every three seconds. Then I fired the first round and maintained my aim. One duck down, four to go.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Are you kidding me?” the kid blurted out.

Shhh.

We all had our skills. Mine was to not get ripped off at carnival games. The opposite, this was where I found my bargains. And some claimed a life in the armed forces didn’t come with perks…

A couple minutes later, I had two premium prizes to pick out, and the young man next to me had a staring problem.

Natalie was going to get her selfie light, and Crew wasn’t gonna be able to say he’d broken his phone in the mud somewhere at Parris Island and that was why he hadn’t called home to his mother.

“That was impressive, sir.” The guy behind the counter handed me the two boxes. I could pocket the one with the phone case, but the LED light was too big. I trapped that package under my arm instead.

“Thanks.” I nodded and stepped out of the way so the woman behind me could have her go.

The question now was, did I immediately choose a new game, or did I drop off the prizes? My truck wasn’t parked right around the corner, so to speak.

I was getting hungry too. I hadn’t eaten in over an hour. The ice cream didn’t count.

Fuck, the air suddenly smelled amazing, and I glanced up to see where it was coming from. I started walking toward the food vendors—

“Excuse me? Wait up.” The Half Brit ran up alongside me, and I side-eyed him in question. “You just shot twenty ducks without missing a single time. Are you James Bond?”

“If I tell you, I have to kill you.”

He laughed at my deadpan joke, the sound as beautiful as the rest of him. We passed a giant platform that had nothing but those crane claw machines, and their flashing lights reflected in his eyes. I wanted to say they were deep blue, framed by long lashes. He had dimples too, and a lopsided smile. Short, dark, messy hair with stubble to match.

“But you are a soldier, right?” he pressed. “Or you used to be?”

Ouch. I had enough grays in my hair and beard to get the “Or maybe you’re retired” question.

Either way, my answer was the same. “Nope.”

“But your…” He trailed off with a hesitant glance at my tattoo that crawled up from the neckline of my tee. Poorly hidden in shadows of battle were the words Semper Fidelis that I lived by to this day. He didn’t push it further, though. “I’m sorry. This is going to sound totally random—but hopefully not creepy. Could you possibly give me a few more pointers?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, a vague gesture to the shooting gallery. “I would like to win something for my niece that I spotted on the third shelf.”

That gave me pause, and I faltered in my steps. Regardless of whether he was attractive or not, I was a sucker for people who showed love for their nieces and nephews. Children brought my life meaning, and I had a whole bunch I couldn’t get enough of, including Sloan’s boys. Maybe his even more since we saw one another so often.

“I’m gonna get something to eat,” I said, “but I can help you after. Or if you tag along, I can write down some basics to remember.”

It wasn’t rocket science. Ten minutes of practice—and an understanding of how even the most stand-up carnival businesses tried to tip the scales in their favor—I was sure this guy could hit three out of five targets.