“Uh-huh. So tell me, Doc, what part of that sounds like ‘I got too much on my mind’?”
“Nothing, Chief.”
“Very well. Bring your gear.”
When he said that it only meant one thing: the combat range.
Circe regretted coming out to the range this late. She had wanted to work off some nervous energy and blow holes in the wild theories that were forming in her mind. Bringing her problems to the range had been foolish.
She gathered up her gear, making sure to do each step of gun safety exactly the right way even though Chief Muhammad did not appear to be watching. She ran to catch up with him and followed him down a long and windy cinder-block corridor. The block walls were filled in with tightly packed dirt to catch ricochets, and the corridors smelled like a graveyard.
They came out into the maze of T-Town’s eighteen combat ranges. Each one was designed to allow operatives to train for different kinds of circumstances: city street, subway, airplane, airport, business, government office, house, and others.
Muhammad chose the shortest of the ranges, a mom-and-pop corner store. Circe knew that there were nine Pepper Poppers—metal silhouette targets that could be positioned throughout the range and operated by remote control. They were hinged at the bottom so that they could swing up on fast spring releases or fall back after being shot. At least four of the targets would be hostiles, the rest designated as “possible” noncombatants. The “possible” part was crucial, because in the War on Terror the enemy didn’t wear uniforms or team shirts.
“How many mags, Chief?”
Muhammad grinned. He took a magazine from her pack, thumbed four rounds out, and handed it over. “Eleven rounds. Best intel says four hostiles. Could be five. That gives you two per and three for luck.”
“I never did this with less than two full magazines.”
He shrugged. “Life sucks sometimes. What if a situation turned out to be bigger and badder than you expected? You want to read a rule book at a hostile? Think that’ll win the day, Doc?”
“No, Chief.”
“Now, you run this range and I don’t want to hear from jams, tripping over your shoelaces, or a text message from your friends. You run it like you know how to run it and keep your head in the fucking game. You read me, Dr. O’Tree?”
She had never been in the military, but she snapped to attention. “I read you, Chief.”
“Then it’s time to go to work.”
Muhammad put a wooden matchstick between his teeth and walked off the range and into the steel observation bunker. There was a warning buzzer announcing a live fire exercise and the lights in the store came on.
Circe called, “Loading!” She slapped the magazine into the Glock and racked the slide, keeping the barrel pointed into the range, her finger along the trigger guard. Muhammad’s words from their very first training session echoed in her mind.
Shake hands with the grip. Snug but comfortable. Get to know the weight. Fit the handle into the vee formed by the thumb and index finger of the shooting hand as high as possible on the backstrap. Your strong hand holds and fires; your weak hand completes the grip and supports.
Muhammad’s amplified voice growled from a speaker, “Ready on the firing line!”
Circe could feel her heart hammering, but she took several deep breaths to relax her mind and muscles.
Muhammad spoke from her memories: Breath control minimizes body movement and that in turn reduces handgun movement.
“Go!”
Circe kicked in the door and entered fast, sliding to one side and bringing her gun up in a two-handed grip, the sights level with her eyes.
Aim with your dominant eye when shooting a handgun. Even if you’re right-handed it does not mean that you are right-eyed dominant. Learn your body and work with it in the most natural way.
A target pivoted toward her. A teenager in a Brooklyn T-Shirt and jeans, but he was pulling a pistol from his belt. Circe shot him in the chest and again in the face.
Tap-Tap!
Squeeze the trigger in a natural and continuous way. Never jerk the trigger.
Another target sprang up from behind a row of canned goods. An old man holding something. A bag of groceries. Both hands visible. No weapon. She spun as she caught sight of movement to her left. A man with an automatic weapon.
Tap-Tap!
Follow through. Apply the shooting fundamentals continuously. Sloppy is dead. Let the process keep you alive.
She saw the shadow of another and was aiming as she turned, checking her target in a split part of a second.
Tap-Tap!
The afterimage of a hand grenade floated in her mind as she stepped and turned and covered high and low, tracking with her eyes. She shuffled sideways to put two rows between her and a grenade blast. There was a bang, and wet confetti filled the air. None of it landed on her.
Then the lights went out and something brushed her. She whirled and faded left, looking for ambient light, seeing a glow splash across the face of a man with a smiling face, but the glow washed down across his chest. Shotgun.
Tap-Tap!
Two targets came up together. Another teenager and a housewife. The teenager wore a sweatshirt with the name of the store. The woman stood behind him, one hand out of sight. The kid’s eyes were scared and painted so that he looked nervously back at Circe. It was an almost impossible shot in the dark. She took it.
Tap-Tap!
Four hostiles down. Three rounds left. The lights came on—no, just the emergency lights. Weak and yellow. She turned at movement, saw a woman with a stroller. Lingered for a moment, looking for a trap. No gun, no bomb. Circe moved forward, turning left and right, checking her corners, checking behind her.
There! A figure rose from behind the counter. Big fat guy holding another shotgun. Circe turned, aimed.
Did not fire.
The man looked like an older version of the kid in the sweatshirt. Father? Uncle. The owner, defending his store against the attack. Circe kept the pistol on him.
“Drop your weapon! Do it now—now!”
The shopkeeper silhouette dropped back.
And the lights came on.
“Clear and lock!”
Circe stepped out of her shooter’s crouch, turning to keep the barrel clear of the entrance. She eased the hammer down, removed the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. She held up the locked and empty weapon.
“Clear!”
Muhammad hit the button for the exit door to open and she stepped out, placing her weapon on the courtesy bench. Her ears were ringing and her hand tingled from the heavy recoil.
“Well, well, well,” said Muhammad, smiling around the wooden matchstick. “You’re not dead, Doc. Congratulations.”
“I almost shot that last target.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t. We don’t worry about ‘almost’ any more than we worry about any other distraction. Combat purifies thinking.”
It was one of his most common aphorisms, and she nodded, repeating it softly.
“Now,” he said, “it’s comforting to know that you can bring your game when you need to. Next time you’re on my range I want you to remember that. I don’t ever want to see bullshit scores like you took back there. You read me?”
“Loud and clear, Chief.”
Muhammad smiled and wiggled the matchstick up and down. “Okay, let’s agree that your ass has been kicked. Now, Doc … what the hell’s got you so bent out of shape?”
“It’s complicated, but …” She hesitated, unsure how to begin.
“With what you do? No kidding.” He wore a crooked smile as he shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I believe that it’s Miller time. Let’s go someplace and talk this out.”