“So, how do you two know each other?” Clay asked. He had an easy-going, country-boy vibe about him that made me feel at ease. I wondered if he was a good cop, and figured that anyone with that much confidence either had to be very good, or very deluded.
“We shot together before,” Tequila said.
“Competitively?”
“You could say that,” I answered.
“So, you’re a markswoman?” Clay lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve done a bit of competition shooting myself. Maybe we should have ourselves a little wager.”
“What have you got in mind?”
He grinned. “Hundred bucks?”
Tequila said, “I’m in.”
I knew Tequila was good. I could also assume Clay was good. But I was good, too, and had a closet full of trophies to prove it. Though I liked my chances, I didn’t happen to have a hundred dollars on me.
“That’s a bit steep for my public servant salary,” I said.
“Fair enough. How about if you lose, you kiss the winner?”
Tequila said, “I’m in.”
The two of them stared at me like they were lions and I was a zebra with a broken leg.
I didn’t mind it in the least. I just hoped I didn’t get pregnant from all the free-range testosterone floating around.
“You’re on,” I said. “But this is a new gun for me. I get to practice first.”
Porter came back with three boxes of ammo, three pairs of noise-dampening ear muffs, and the paper targets. We followed Clay through a door, and the shooting sound increased tenfold. I put on my headgear, muffling the noise, and we found our way over to the only open lane.
Clay attached a paper target to the pulley system and pressed a button to send it downrange. They were the standard police silhouettes, five points for the head and chest, four for the collarbones and wrists, three for the upper thighs, two for the arms and stomach.
“Twenty-five?” Clay yelled at me, barely audible.
I shook my head, said, “Fifty.”
Then I loaded a clip, popped it into the weapon, and jacked a round into the chamber. The P2000 had a slightly larger grip than my Colt, but it was comfortable. I slipped my index finger inside the trigger guard, stood in front of the booth counter, and aimed fifty yards downrange. I used a two-handed grip known as the Weaver stance, feet spread apart, knees slightly bent, my left hand supporting my right.
The HK was a traditional double action trigger pull, which meant it also functioned as a single action. I cocked the hammer, and let out a slow breath. Then I began to fire, emptying the gun, getting used to the action and recoil, adjusting when needed.
I heard Clay whistle, and I didn’t have to look at the target to know I’d fired all nine rounds straight through the target man’s heart.
“I guess I don’t need to practice,” I said, letting him have his turn.
Clay took down the target and handed it to me.
“Nice grouping,” Tequila said.
My shots had been so close together they’d made one big hole in the center mass. I shrugged and reloaded.
Clay and Alice fared well. He couldn’t fire as fast as I did, because the recoil from the Casull was so huge it made his shoulders shake. He put three in the head, three in the heart, then gave Tequila a turn.
Tequila was packing two nickel-plated .45s. I didn’t recognize the manufacturer, and Clay asked to see one.
“Custom?” he asked.
Tequila nodded, sending his target downrange. Clay handed him back the weapon, butt first, and Tequila held a gun in each hand, keeping them at his sides. In a quick blur, he raised the weapons like an old west gunslinger and emptied both into the silhouette.
Clay and I sighted the target, and I saw that Tequila had completely outlined the silhouette’s head with bullet holes, cutting it across the neck. When he pressed the button to bring the paper back, the target’s head fell out, leaving a head-shaped hole.
“Fuck me,” Clay said.
There was a crackling sound, then a voice came on over the house speakers. “We’re closed. Please pack up and leave your lane.”
“I think I’d call this one a draw,” I said, taking off my head gear and giving my hair a shake.
Clay pouted. “No kiss?”
“You guys can kiss each other, if you like,” I said.
Tequila collected his brass and placed the empties in his pockets—something that gave the cop in me pause. As we filed out of the range, Clay asked, “You guys up for a drink? On me.”
I glanced at Tequila. He shrugged, then nodded.
“You’re on,” I said. “But only if I get the second round.”
Luther
Over at the Porta-Johns, it looked like the lines at fucking Disney World, but across the parking lot, there was a guns and ammo store. Could be a bathroom there. He’d murder someone to use it if need be.
Hell, he might murder someone either way.
Luther started across the parking lot. There must be a thousand people here at least. He’d had to park his white van almost a quarter mile away in the third overflow lot. He was hungry, too, stomach rumbling. Hadn’t eaten anything but half a bag of Lemonheads since the morning, and the smell of fresh jerky at a smaller tent outside the larger one was calling to him. Unfortunately, the line to jerky looked more daunting than the lines to the shitters.
Luther stepped out of the cold, falling sun and into Porter’s Guns and Ammo. He didn’t spend much time in gun shops, knives being much more his style, but he did love the smell of well-oiled firearms mixed with the faint bite of gun powder. Got off on it the same way he got off on the down-and-dirty smell of gasoline.
The place wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared. Only a handful of customers browsing the racks of rifles and shotguns, and up at the counter, the owner of the store—a slight man with a faint mustache and large, silver-frame glasses—was trying to sell a revolver to a biker chick wearing a Toby Keith shirt, the words, “We’ll put a boot in your ass…it’s the American way” screen-printed across the back.
Somewhere deep in the building, Luther could swear he heard the muffled pops of gunfire. Then his eyes fell upon a large poster behind the counter.
“PORTER’S FOUR COMMANDMENTS OF SAFETY AT THE RANGE”
1. Treat ALL GUNS as if they are ALWAYS LOADED.
Yawn. Luther quit reading after the first “commandment.” He strolled over toward a break in the counter that lead to a metal door.
“Does this access the range?” Luther asked.
Porter glanced over. “Yeah, but we’re closed.”
“I need to pee.”
“Well, we got about a thousand Porta-Johns out—”
“The lines are too long.”
“Didn’t you see the sign on the front door?”
Luther shook his head.
“Restrooms are only for paying customers.”
Luther reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the glass.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
Porter reached under the counter, and must have pressed a button because the door buzzed and made a clicking noise.
“Go on. Take your first right, second door on your left.”
Luther passed through to the other side of the counter and pulled open the metal door.
The gunfire instantly louder.
He moved down a narrow hallway whose walls were covered in posters, the vast majority featuring bikinied hotties holding giant automatic weapons.
The smell of gun powder getting more potent.
He took his first right as directed and dug his shoulder into the second door on his left.
Into the bathroom.
Single stall against the back wall.
Two urinals.
Shit.
One of them was occupied by some Hispanic guy in a designer leather jacket. Longish black hair greased stylishly back. Luther caught a trace of his cologne, which smelled exotic and very expensive.
Luther sidled up to the open urinal and unzipped his fly.
Oh sweet Lord.
Seemed like he peed for twenty minutes.
He glanced over at the man standing next to him, caught his eyes for just a moment, had been anticipating black or deep brown, but they were this clear and perfect blue, like one of those high mountain lakes turned turquoise by glacial silt.