Vision Impossible Read Online Free PDF Page B

when I want to be.
    “Well,” said the agent, “we understand that you have limited weapons training. Is that correct?”
    I narrowed my eyes at him, irritated that he’d pulled that particular fact out of my file. “I’ve probably killed more people than you, Agent . . . uh . . . you .” What was his name again?
    “Agent Rosco,” he reminded me with a smile. “We know about the shooting in Waco. Is there someone else you were forced to eliminate?”
    I crossed my arms and thought. “You mean, as in someone else I personally shot?”
    “Yes.”
    Crap on a cracker. I’d never been so ticked off that I hadn’t actually killed more than one guy in my life. “Well, no.”
    Agent Rosco smiled, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d call a friendly sort of grin. “I had seven kills last year alone in Afghanistan.”
    I scowled. “Don’t tell me,” I said to him. “You’re my weapons trainer.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    I sighed and looked up at Dutch, who was actually grinning. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked him.
    “Yep.”
    Dutch had been trying to get me to learn how to use a gun properly for weeks, and I’d barely managed to hold him off after the one time we actually visited a gun range together and he’d forced me to fire a few rounds. With a sigh I said, “What specifically does this specialized training I’m supposed to endure entail?”
    “Extensive weapons training, self-defense, survival skills, interrogation techniques, and basic first aid along with syringe practice.”
    I looked at him in astonishment. Was he kidding?
    “Why the syringe practice?” was all I thought to ask.
    “You’ll need to practice injecting yourself and a partner with the antidote should you or Agent Rivers get hit by one of the toxic darts.”
    Gulp.
    Agent Rosco took advantage of the fact that for the moment he’d managed to shut me up, and handed me a blue folder embossed with the CIA’s seal. He gave an identical one to Dutch. “Agent Rivers, someone will be along shortly to brief you on the next item on your schedule. Ms. Cooper, if you would follow me, please?”
    I trucked along behind Rosco without a backward glance to Dutch, still a little miffed that he was enjoying this so much. We walked to the elevator and Rosco pressed the down button. Once we’d stepped off the elevator on the basement level, he led me to the women’s locker room and said, “In locker number seven you will find a duffel bag. In that duffel bag will be a change of clothes, earplugs, noise cancellation earphones, and protective eyewear. Please change and meet me back here in ten minutes.”
    I barely resisted the urge to grumble a complaint and simply got on with it by marching into the locker room. Once I’d changed into the dark blue tracksuit with gold piping (which I was seriously hoping was a party gift, ’cause it was super cool), I met Rosco out in the hallway again and followed him to a set of double doors where he swiped his ID card and we went in.
    Not surprisingly, we ended up at the indoor shooting range, where several agents in similar tracksuits were lined up in small cubicle-looking slots shooting off all manner of weapons. Well . . . no grenade launchers, but the day was young.
    Inside the range it was loud. Like, surround-sound loud. Even with the earplugs and earphones on I still jumped at every pop, bang, boom.
    Rosco led me to the last booth and unholstered his weapon. He offered it to me, muzzle down, and said, “Let’s start you off with a Ruger SR9c nine-millimeter and see how you do.”
    I eyed the gun suspiciously, wondering if it could go off by itself. Rosco waited me out and I took the gun much like you’d pick up a dead smelly fish.
    Attempting to remember the “training” Dutch had given me a few weeks back, I pulled back the clip, cupped the deceptively heavy weapon, and held it up level with my right eye. Working to ignore the hail of bullets being fired feet away from me, I took a