Ayla nodded. 90 Days. And if you can't learn fast enough, we're both dead. Then I will learn faster. Ethan almost smiled.
Almost. Get some sleep, he said. We start tomorrow. The training began at dawn. Ethan led Ayla out into the open ground behind the house, where the earth was hard and flat.
He handed her an old Colt revolver, the weight of it heavy in her palm. You ever fire a gun? he asked. Once, a rifle. I missed. Good.
That means you're honest. Ethan stepped behind her, adjusting her stance. Feet shoulder width apart, knees bent. You're not a statue, you're a spring. Ayla shifted her weight, her jaw set in concentration.
Both hands on the grip, firm, but not strangling it. Breathe, aim, squeeze, don't pull. Squeeze. She fired. The shot went wide, kicking up dust 10 feet to the left of the target.
Again. She fired, missed. Again. Missed. Again.
This time, the bullet clipped the edge of the wooden post Ethan had set up. Better, Ethan said. But you're flinching, anticipating the recoil. Stop thinking, just shoot. They worked for hours.
By midday, Ayla's hands were shaking, her arms aching, but she didn't complain, didn't ask to stop. Just kept firing until the cylinder was empty, then reloaded and fired again. When the sun was high and brutal, Ethan finally called a break. Ayla sat in the shade of the barn, drinking water from a canteen, her face flushed and sweating. You're a terrible shot, Ethan said.
I know. But you don't quit. That's worth more than aim. She looked at him, surprised. Tomorrow we work on hand-to-hand, Ethan said.
If they get close, the gun won't save you. You need to know how to break a man's nose, crush his throat, take his weapon. You need to be mean. I can be mean. I know.
I saw you spit in Grady's face. Ethan almost smiled again. That was stupid, but it took guts. My mother used to say courage and stupidity look the same until the end. Your mother was smart.