Chapter 5 A Proposal Amid Gunfire

# Chapter 5: A Proposal Amid Gunfire

"Wider stance. Lower your center of gravity."

Noelle adjusted her position, feeling the cool metal of the custom Glock 19 in her hands. The private shooting range beneath Milo's mansion echoed with the controlled rhythm of her breathing.

"Now," Milo instructed, his voice calm and measured from where he stood behind her.

She squeezed the trigger five times in rapid succession, the weapon bucking against her palm with each shot. The paper target forty feet away shuddered as the bullets tore through it—all within the nine and ten rings.

"Better," Milo acknowledged, "but still anticipating the recoil. Again."

This had become their new routine in the week since her discovery of the secret room. Mornings spent training—combat refreshers, weapons handling, tactical scenarios. Afternoons dedicated to planning Operation Phoenix. Evenings maintaining their public charade as the blissfully engaged couple.

"I was a detective for eight years," Noelle reminded him as she reloaded. "I know how to shoot."

"You know how to qualify at a police range," Milo corrected. "That's not the same as knowing how to survive when someone is actively trying to kill you."

"And you're the expert?" She aimed and fired again—this time all ten rounds in the center mass.

"I'm alive," he replied simply. "Many who wanted me dead are not."

She lowered the weapon, engaging the safety before turning to face him. "How many people have you killed, Milo?"

His expression didn't change. "Enough to know the weight of the question. Not enough to stop Sokolov yet."

The answer was both evasive and revealing—typical Milo. In the past week, she'd learned to read between the lines of his careful statements, to find the fragments of truth he parceled out like rare gifts.

"Your form has improved," he continued, changing the subject as he so often did when the conversation approached anything personal. "But under pressure, you'll revert to old habits unless the proper technique becomes instinctive."

He stepped closer, adjusting her elbow slightly. His touch was clinical, professional, yet Noelle couldn't help noticing the warmth of his hands through the thin material of her shooting jacket.

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"The governor's fundraiser is in two days," she said, refocusing. "Are we ready?"

"Almost." Milo checked his watch. "One more drill, then we review the final arrangements."

He walked to the control panel and pressed several buttons. The standard paper target retracted, replaced by a complex hostage scenario with multiple threats and civilians.

"Hostage extraction," he explained. "Eight threats, twelve civilians. You have fifteen seconds and sixteen rounds."

"That's not enough time—"

"It never is." His eyes held hers. "In the field, you'll face impossible choices with inadequate resources. Better to confront that reality here."

Before she could protest further, he activated the timer. Noelle snapped into action, assessing threats and firing with precision born from years of training and the intense drills Milo had put her through. When the buzzer sounded, she had neutralized seven threats and managed her ammunition carefully.

"You missed one," Milo pointed out, indicating a hidden threat partially obscured behind a hostage.

"Didn't miss," she corrected. "Chose not to take a shot that risked the hostage."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Exactly. Sometimes the best action is restraint." He checked the target analysis on the monitor. "Fourteen hits, seven neutralizations, zero collateral casualties. Impressive."

"I told you I know how to shoot."

"So you did." He removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. "My turn."

Noelle watched as he selected a matte black Sig Sauer from the arsenal wall and loaded it with practiced efficiency. His stance was textbook perfect as he faced the next target scenario—this one even more complex than hers had been.

When the timer started, his transformation was startling. The controlled, calculating businessman vanished, replaced by a predator whose economy of movement and deadly accuracy spoke of training far beyond civilian courses. Each shot found its mark with devastating precision, his breathing never changing, his expression remaining utterly calm.

When he finished, the analysis showed perfect neutralization of all threats, no wasted ammunition, no collateral damage.

"Who taught you to shoot like that?" Noelle asked, unable to mask her admiration.

"Various instructors. None of them advertise their services."

"Military?"

"Some." He returned the weapon to the wall. "Others had more... specialized backgrounds."

As they prepared to leave the range, Milo paused, considering her with an unreadable expression. "I have something for you."

From a nearby case, he removed a smaller handgun—a compact Walther PPK, similar to her former service weapon but clearly custom-made.

"This is yours," he said, presenting it to her grip-first. "Tailored to your specifications based on your police records. Untraceable."

Noelle accepted the weapon, feeling its perfect balance. "Why now?"

"Because Sokolov will be heavily guarded at the fundraiser. Because the operation carries significant risk." He met her gaze directly. "And because trust must begin somewhere."

The echo of his note from a week ago wasn't lost on her. She checked the weapon thoroughly—loaded with hollow-point rounds, already chambered.

"You're giving me a loaded gun after basically kidnapping me into this arrangement?" She couldn't keep the skepticism from her voice.

"If you wanted to shoot me, you would have found a way already." His confidence was absolute. "Besides, you won't."

"Pretty sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of you." The simple statement caught her off guard. "Your moral compass is too strong to execute someone without absolute justification. It's why your captain set you up in Barcelona—you refused to plant evidence, even on a man you knew was guilty."

The accuracy of his assessment was unsettling. "You've done your homework."

"Thoroughly." He gestured toward the center of the range. "One more exercise before we go."

Noelle followed him to the ten-yard line, where he set up a standard bullseye target.

"Ten shots," he instructed. "I want all ten in the ten-ring."

"And if I succeed?"

Something shifted in his expression—a challenge, perhaps even a trace of playfulness that seemed alien on his normally stoic face. "If you hit all tens, you get a reward."

"What kind of reward?"

"The real engagement ring. Not the prop you've been wearing for publicity."

Noelle glanced down at the enormous diamond on her left hand—a flawless five-carat stone that felt like it belonged to someone else. Which, of course, it did. The ring was part of the charade, selected by Milo's PR team for maximum visual impact.

"And if I miss?" she asked.

"Then you continue wearing that monstrosity until I decide otherwise."

The stakes were trivial compared to what they were planning, yet something about his manner made this feel important. Noelle took position, raising the new Walther and sighting carefully on the target.

Ten shots. Ten breaths. Ten gentle squeezes of the trigger.

When she finished, the center of the target was obliterated—a perfect cluster of holes where the ten-ring had been.

Milo approached the target, examining it closely before nodding in satisfaction. "Perfect."

"I believe you owe me a ring," she said, removing the ostentatious publicity piece with relief.

Instead of answering, Milo drew his Sig Sauer again and aimed it at the glass partition separating the shooting lanes.

"What are you—"

The gunshot cut off her question, the safety glass shattering in a controlled pattern rather than exploding as she would have expected. As the fragments fell, they triggered a secondary mechanism behind the wall—a cascade of sparkling lights and what appeared to be smoke.

No, not smoke. Fireworks.

The miniature pyrotechnics erupted in a choreographed display, forming letters that gradually became clear: MARRY ME.

Noelle stared in disbelief, turning to find Milo watching her reaction with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"What is this?" she asked, genuinely confused. They were already engaged—on paper, at least.

"A proper proposal," he replied, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a small velvet box. "The contract established our arrangement. This is... different."

He opened the box to reveal a ring that couldn't have been more different from the publicity diamond. This was an antique piece—platinum filigree surrounding a modest but flawless emerald, with tiny diamonds accentuating the design.

"My grandmother's," he explained. "She wore it for sixty-two years of marriage."

"I don't understand," Noelle admitted. "We already have a contract. The public believes we're engaged. Why this... performance?"

Something vulnerable flickered across his face before his usual composure returned. "Because when Operation Phoenix concludes, you'll have a choice to make. Stay or go. The contract will have served its purpose either way."

"And this changes that how?"

"It doesn't." He removed the ring from the box. "Consider it an option for a different kind of arrangement afterward. One based on choice rather than coercion."

The implications stunned her. Was Milo Dennis—the man who had essentially blackmailed her into a contract marriage—actually suggesting a real relationship might follow?

Before she could process this, her detective instincts kicked in. The timing was too convenient, coming just before a dangerous operation. There had to be another angle.

She raised the Walther, aiming it directly at his chest. "What's your real game, Milo?"

If he was surprised by her reaction, he didn't show it. He simply held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, the emerald catching the light. "No game. Just a proposition."

"Bullshit." She kept the gun steady. "Two days before we move against Sokolov, you suddenly develop romantic feelings? I don't buy it."

"I didn't say anything about feelings." His gaze remained unwavering. "I'm offering a mutually beneficial arrangement based on compatibility and shared objectives."

"Most women want more from a marriage proposal."

"You're not most women." He took a step closer, seemingly unconcerned about the weapon pointed at his heart. "And I'm not offering romance, Noelle. I'm offering partnership. Equality. Respect."

"At gunpoint?"

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "You're the one holding the gun."

She couldn't argue with that. "Why now?"

"Because tomorrow we begin an operation against a man who has killed everyone who's ever gotten close to exposing him." His voice remained steady, but something in his eyes betrayed genuine concern. "The statistical probability of both of us surviving is approximately sixty-eight percent."

"Those aren't terrible odds."

"They're not optimal." He gestured to the ring. "Consider this insurance—a reason to beat the statistics."

The absurdity of the situation struck her suddenly—standing in a private shooting range with a gun aimed at the chest of a billionaire offering her his grandmother's ring amid smoldering fireworks debris.

"This might be the strangest proposal in history," she said, lowering the weapon slightly.

"I doubt that." His dry tone almost made her smile. "Though the fireworks were perhaps excessive."

"You think?"

"My team advised something memorable. Skywriting was considered but deemed too public."

The casual way he discussed it—as if proposals were simply another tactical decision to be analyzed—was so quintessentially Milo that Noelle found herself relaxing despite herself.

"Why the emerald?" she asked, nodding toward the ring.

"It matches your eyes when you're angry." The unexpected observation caught her off guard. "Which is approximately sixty-seven percent of the time you're in my presence."

This time she did smile. "That's oddly specific."

"I keep statistics on most things." He held the ring out. "Your answer?"

Noelle finally lowered the gun completely. "To what question, exactly? You haven't actually asked one."

Milo considered this with typical seriousness. "Fair point." He didn't kneel—that would have been too conventional for him—but he did take her left hand in his. "Noelle Bates, will you consider a non-coerced marriage alliance following the successful completion of Operation Phoenix?"

"That might be the least romantic proposal ever uttered."

"Romance is subjective. Clarity is universal."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly strange?"

"Frequently. Usually before they attempt to kill me." He raised an eyebrow. "Your answer?"

Before she could respond, a faint noise caught her attention—the barely perceptible sound of debris shifting behind them. Acting on instinct, she pushed Milo aside and raised her weapon, firing twice at the source of the sound.

The bullets struck a small drone that had been hovering near the ceiling, sending it crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks.

"Surveillance," she said grimly, keeping her weapon raised as she scanned for additional threats.

Milo was already moving, drawing his own weapon and activating a security panel on the wall. "Not mine."

Alarms began blaring throughout the facility as security doors slammed shut, sealing them in the range.

"Perimeter breach," Milo explained, checking a display on his phone. "Southwest quadrant. Three intruders neutralized, two still active."

"Sokolov?"

"Unlikely. His style is more direct." Milo tapped something into his phone. "Richards has contained the situation. We're secure."

The alarms silenced, though the security doors remained locked. Noelle kept her weapon ready, years of training making her hyperaware of every shadow, every sound.

"The timing is suspicious," she noted. "How did they penetrate your security?"

"A question I intend to have answered." Milo's voice had taken on a dangerous edge she'd never heard before. "Someone will pay dearly for this breach."

As they waited for the all-clear, Noelle noticed something unusual in the debris from the shattered glass—a metallic object that didn't match the surrounding materials. She knelt to examine it, careful not to touch it directly.

"Milo," she called softly. "Look at this."

He joined her, studying the object with narrowed eyes. "Blood typing kit," he confirmed. "Military grade, designed for field identification."

"Why would intruders bring a blood typing kit?"

Before Milo could answer, his phone chimed with a message. Whatever it said caused his expression to darken further.

"The intruders were after information, not assassination," he said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "They accessed the medical wing."

"What's in the medical wing?"

He didn't answer immediately, instead retrieving the fallen ring from where it had landed during the commotion. The emerald gleamed beneath the range lights, somehow undamaged despite the chaos.

"The ring survived," he noted, almost to himself. "My grandmother always claimed it was indestructible."

"Milo," Noelle pressed, "what were they looking for in the medical wing?"

His eyes met hers, and for once, she could read his expression clearly—calculation, weighing how much to reveal.

"DNA profiles," he finally said. "Specifically, genetic matching records for potential bone marrow donors."

"For whom?"

Again, that moment of calculation before he answered. "One of the children from your orphanage requires a transplant. I've been running compatibility tests against potential donors."

The statement aligned with what she'd seen in the secret room—his protection of vulnerable children—but something about his delivery suggested he wasn't telling the whole truth.

Before she could press further, the security doors unlocked, and Richards appeared, his usual impeccable appearance marred by what appeared to be blood spatter on his sleeve.

"Situation contained, sir," he reported. "Three casualties among the intruders, two captured alive but injured. They've been secured in holding room three."

"Identification?" Milo asked.

"Professional mercenaries. Eastern European, based on equipment and tactics. No identifying marks or documentation."

Noelle noticed the subtle exchange of glances between the two men—a shared understanding that excluded her despite her presence.

"And the... materials?" Milo inquired carefully.

"Secured," Richards confirmed. "No compromise. Dr. Winters is conducting inventory now."

"Have the prisoners prepared for questioning." Milo's tone left little doubt about what that "questioning" would entail. "I'll handle it personally in one hour."

After Richards departed, Noelle turned to Milo. "I want to be present for the interrogation."

"No."

"That's not a request." She held his gaze steadily. "If these people are connected to Sokolov, I need to hear what they know. I was tracking him long before you entered the picture."

For a moment, she thought he would refuse again, but then he gave a curt nod. "Very well. But you observe only. The questioning requires... specialized techniques."

"Torture, you mean."

"Information extraction." His expression was unapologetic. "These men would have killed us both without hesitation. They'll reveal what they know, one way or another."

The cold pragmatism in his voice reminded her forcefully that whatever else Milo Dennis might be—protector of children, meticulous planner, awkward proposer—he was also dangerous in ways she was only beginning to understand.

As they left the shooting range, Noelle noticed the forgotten ring box on the floor amid glass shards and firework residue. The emerald ring itself was still in Milo's hand, apparently forgotten in the chaos of the security breach.

"Your grandmother's ring," she reminded him, nodding toward it.

He glanced down, seeming almost surprised to find it still in his grasp. Without comment, he pocketed it, his mind clearly already focused on the prisoners and what they might reveal.

The proposal—if that's what it had truly been—remained unanswered as they made their way through the mansion's now heavily-guarded corridors. But something had shifted between them, a new layer of complexity added to their already complicated relationship.

As they passed through the medical wing en route to the holding cells, Noelle noticed a document that had fallen during the intrusion—a partial blood type matching report, with one name clearly visible at the top: Michael Dennis, age 12.

Milo moved quickly to retrieve it, tucking it into his pocket before she could see more, but the glimpse was enough to raise new questions in her mind.

Who was Michael Dennis? A relative? A child from the orphanage? And why would mercenaries risk infiltrating Milo's fortress to obtain information about blood type matching?

The answers, she suspected, lay somewhere in the complex web of secrets that surrounded Milo Dennis—secrets she was only beginning to unravel.