“Amen to that,” he said, handing out the gear.
Holly took out a plastic bag full of shiny brass rounds. Since they weren’t straight from the box, I assumed them to be reloads. Wyatt noticed too.
“You load your own?”
“Lots of gun nuts think the nine-millimeter round lacks the stopping power of a.40 or a.45, but I’ve found that it’s the bullet that makes the difference, not the caliber. I pour my own lead and load my shells to 150 grains. The expansion and penetration can compete with anything out there. Design can make up for weight and velocity.”
I respected weapons. I even got a certain degree of satisfaction from them, as I would from any high-performance tool. But this woman was the Martha Stewart of firearms.
Holly popped her clip and loaded it. When she reached ten bullets, she slapped it in, worked the slide to chamber a round, and dropped it back out to add one more shot to the clip. I pressed the oversized release catch and did the same. We each filled a spare clip as well.
“Silhouettes or bull’s-eyes?”
Holly asked for silhouettes. Wyatt handed us two 25" ¥ 35" targets, each featuring the life-sized torso and head of a man done in black ink. On the chest was a white area the size of a pineapple, with the number five in it. On the head, an orange-sized circle contained a number ten.
Holly and I donned our gear and each walked to a lane and attached the paper to the overhead metal line with spring clips. I pressed a lever and the target moved backward on a pulley system, traveling down the range.
I watched Holly, and she stopped at fifteen yards. I did the same.
The lane floors were covered in a thick layer of sand, and at the end of the range was a pockmarked metal wall, tilted on a forty-five-degree angle. Rounds went through the targets, hit the wall, and ricocheted into the ground, where they buried themselves.
I started with a two-handed grip to get used to the recoil. The first shot surprised me. Not only was the trigger pull less than I expected – it moved like butter – but the recoil was extremely light and the muzzle rise minimal. Must have had a compensator built in.
I squeezed off two more rounds, both eyes open, knees slightly bent, letting the gun teach me how to hold it. The high grip helped steady the weapon, and I put both shots through the sweet spot in the head.
I tried a one-handed grip, angling my body sideways, sighting along my right arm. Three more shots, through the heart.
To be playful, I put the last five in the groin, then looked over at Holly.
As far as I could tell, all eleven of her shots went through the chest. We brought in our targets and traded papers. Not only were all of hers in the chest area, but they were grouped in a space the size of a silver dollar.
Wyatt brought more targets. He appraised Holly’s, then mine, giving us both nods of approval. We gave him our empty clips and he went off to fill them.
This time I sent the silhouette back the full twenty-five yards. I loaded another clip, sighted the target, and fired all ten shots at the head as fast as I could pull the trigger.
When I brought the target back, I saw I’d put all but two rounds through the ten-point circle. The other two went through the neck. It was a damn fine weapon.
I watched Holly fire her last three shots. Her face remained blank, but her eyes were wide and excited. Again, her target had a tight grouping in the chest area. Perhaps even tighter than the previous one.
The woman was good. Very good.
Wyatt returned with two more silhouettes. These were ten-yard targets, half the size of the previous ones. We exchanged our empty clips for full ones and hung the targets.
Holly glanced at me. I wouldn’t call her stare hostile, but it was far from friendly, and the ugliest I’d seen her. She pressed the lever, sending her ten-yard target past the ten-yard mark, all the way to the end of the range. Her eyes stayed on me the entire time.
I did the same with my target, squinting at the distance. It appeared to be about three inches tall.
I aimed, and let out a breath. My hand had the slightest tremor; my veins were still processing those Yellow Bombers I’d taken on the road. I placed my left hand under my wrist to steady it, tried to ignore the pain from the burn, then emptied my clip at the target.
Holly had watched me the entire time, her ugly scowl replaced by an equally unattractive smirk. I pulled in my target. Five to the head, two to the neck, and two outside the body. When Holly saw this, her smirk became a superior grin.
I raised my eyebrows, challenging her to do better.
She stuck with the one-handed grip, sighted the target, and fired so quickly, her finger was a blur.
When she brought her target in, I could see she had once again grouped every single shot in the chest.
Wyatt tapped my shoulder, indicating for me to remove my ear gear. Holly did the same.
“Damn nice shooting, ladies. Damn nice. I were the judge, I’d call it a tie.”
Holly folded her arms. “You think so? I notice she missed a few, that last turn.”
“Jack went for the head. You went for the body. Head is more points. I got the score as even-steven.”
He handed us each a fresh ten-yard silhouette and a clip.
“Let’s try quick draw. Four rounds. Weapons kept at your sides until I give the signal. Nine extra points to the one who gets them all off first. You game?”
I nodded. Holly flashed a dazzling smile and tossed her hair back, which Wyatt took for acquiescence. I shoved in the clip, chambered a round, and pinned up my target, taking it all the way back to the end of the line.
She’s better than I am, I thought. Probably faster too. But the head shot is worth more than the heart shot, and she always goes for the heart. If I can hit three, I’ll win even if she hits all four and outdraws me.
So the smart move would be to take my time, let her shoot fast, and win on score.
But I didn’t want to play it smart. I wanted to prove I was just as fast.
“Weapons at your sides.” Wyatt stood between us, but he was staring at Holly. We each relaxed our arms, barrels pointing at the floor.
“On three. One…”
I pushed out a breath, relaxed my shoulder, concentrated on my grip. The gun felt good, natural. But I still had tremors, and I hadn’t slept in over thirty hours.
“Two…”
I’d have to shoot one-handed. When you speed draw to a two-handed stance, the free hand meets the gun hand so fast, it throws off the aim before it has a chance to stabilize it, wasting valuable milliseconds.
“Three!”
My arm shot up on its own initiative, my trigger finger flexing fast, the four shots gone in an instant. The noise was deafening without the ear protection, but I still heard well enough to know I’d outdrawn Holly; her last shot went off a fraction of a second after mine.
My elation was short-lived when I noticed my target.
One shot through the head. Three misses.
Holly, as expected, placed all four of hers in the silhouette’s heart.
“Jack receives the nine points for speed, plus a ten-point shot to the head. Nineteen points. Holly hit the heart four times, five points each, for a winning score of twenty points.”
Holly glowed, her face bright as a camera flash.
“Not many people can shoot as fast as I can, Jack. I’m impressed.”
“Speed doesn’t mean anything if the accuracy is poor.”
“I’m sure you’re just having an off day.” Her tone suggested something contrary.
“Yeah. Well. Nice shooting.”
“Nice shooting.”
She came over and hugged me. Just two regular girls, celebrating marksmanship.
I endured the hug, which was tight enough to make me lose my breath. Holly had some serious muscles. I gave her a quick pat on the back, and when she released me she stayed within my personal space, her face so close I could smell her mint gum.
“Want to grab a bite to eat? My treat.”