The back lot was pure chaos. Controlled chaos—but chaos nonetheless.
Targets lined the field: plywood silhouettes, mannequins in trench coats, and a few spray-painted barrels marked with smiley faces and crude Graves-inspired graffiti. A shooting range stretched to the right, and in the far corner, a rusted-out car was parked with its doors open, as if mid–high speed chase.
Claire c****d a pistol, chambered a round, and grinned. “Okay. This is better than therapy.”
Diego adjusted his sunglasses, leaning against a crate of ammo. “That’s because your therapist doesn’t let you fire hollow points.”
“Anymore,” Claire muttered.
Jorge clapped once. “Alright, mis reinas. We’re not here to play. We’re here to get lethal, quiet, and precise. You want to take Graves down? That means drills, cont
