The tie in his hand matched the one in her hair—same style, different color.
He loosened his tie, looking utterly calm. “If I went up against you with my eyes open, you still wouldn’t beat me in ten years.”
Ouch. That stung. Even so, she couldn’t deny it.
If Galen were here, he’d probably add, “Even if he was blindfolded, you wouldn’t win in five years!”
Franco’s aim was nearly superhuman. This range—twenty-five meters—was something he’d been practicing since he was ten, working on rapid-fire pistol shots. For someone like Petty, who was more of an amateur, twenty-five meters was already a big step up from anything she’d learned. When Malcom had taught her, he’d chosen this exact distance. So far, she’d only trained with pistols.
Petty shot Franco a sidelong glance. This was actually perfect, exactly what she’d wanted to ask for: he should have to shoot blindfolded.
Fair? Franco had dragged her out to this island in the first place. She didn’t care about so-called fairness.
“So, how does this work?” she asked.
Franco answered, “Twenty shots, all at once. Score by the rings, two hundred points total.”
Twenty rounds in a row. Petty did the math in her head. Compared to single-round or best-of-five matches, this format might give her a better shot at winning, or at least make it easier to stay calm under the pressure.
“Fine,” she said. “Your rules.”
Franco dangled the tie and watched her pretending not to care. His lips curled with a hint of a smile. “Ladies first.”
Petty gripped the pistol a little tighter, remembering how Malcom had coached her through each movement.
Slowly, keeping steady, she lifted her right hand to aim and braced herself with her left, lining up the sight with the black-and-white target in the distance. She’d never shot beyond an eight before.
Stay calm. Don’t blow it.

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