“Two forty-two.” I went on tiptoe in my combat boots to kiss him. “Being in love is good for my shooting. I swear, every bullet zings along the right trajectory when I know I’m coming home to you . . .” “For the love of Lenin, woman, did you just say you loved me as you tallied your dead? Classic Mila Pavlichenko.” He kissed me back, and I nearly puddled down into my boots.
