“SOL,” he says. “Shit out of luck.”
He snaps his fingers rapidly, the edginess back again.
“Let’s get back to business,” Sergeant Burch says to the group. “B-Group to the shooting line. Load your weapons and await my command.”
He turns to Lee.
“Why don’t you take your friend for a walk while we finish training.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father,” Lee says.
A look passes between them.
“Burch gets confused sometimes,” Lee says, directing his comments toward me. “He thinks that because he and my father served together, he can give me orders.”
Sergeant Burch’s face stays passive, but he cranes his neck sideways until it cracks.
“I want Daniel to shoot,” Lee says.
“You said yourself that he doesn’t have security clearance.”
“I’m giving it to him now.”
“I’m not going to put a weapon in a stranger’s hands,” Sergeant Burch says. “It’s a breach of protocol.”
“Who says he’s a stranger? He was invited by my father, and he’s my personal responsibility.”
“You vouch for him?” Burch says.
“I do,” Lee says.
“Then by all means, let’s give him a rifle,” Burch says. “Clear the line!” he shouts.
The teens in firing positions lay their weapons on the ground and retreat to the safety of the observation bench.
Sergeant Burch selects a rifle from a table and walks it toward me. I recognize the profile of the M4 carbine, a military-issue weapon that has become the successor to the M16 for U.S. combat troops. A true M4 is illegal for private sale or ownership. It’s possible that I’m looking at a legal variant, a civilian knock-off without the three-burst/select-fire option or a fully automatic mode. But I can’t be sure without firing it.
“Do you know your way around a combat rifle?” Sergeant Burch asks.
“I learned a few tricks during my three tours in Afghanistan,” I say.
Sergeant Burch stares at me without so much as cracking a smile.
“So you’ve never fired a weapon like this,” he says.
“Nope. I’m only sixteen.”
“I’ve got thirteen-year-olds who can handle this weapon.”
“Well, then it sounds like I’ve got some catching up to do.”
“Fair enough,” Burch says with the calm demeanor of a good instructor. “If we’re going to do it, we’re going to do it properly.”
With Lee looking on, he gives me a one-minute tutorial on loading and firing the weapon and the safety procedures associated with it.
When he’s done, he passes me the weapon.
“This is not a toy,” Sergeant Burch says. “I need your entire focus and concentration.”
“You have it,” I say.
I take the weapon from him. I press the telescoping stock into my shoulder, aim downrange, and sight down the barrel.
That’s when Moore comes striding onto the range with Aaron and Francisco following close behind.
I shift toward him, and his eyes widen as he sees the rifle in my hands. Francisco and Aaron react quickly, moving in front of him as Aaron quick-draws a pistol from under his arm.
Moore puts a hand out to stop Aaron. Then he steps between Aaron and Francisco, exposing his chest as he moves slowly toward me.
“What’s going on here?” he says quietly.
“They asked me if I wanted to shoot,” I say.
“Who asked you?” Moore says.
I glance at the crowd of teens watching us, moving my eyes but not my body.
“Lee asked,” I say.
Moore walks toward me. Francisco and Aaron tense behind him but hold their positions.
Twenty degrees of rotation. That’s what it would take to bring the shortened barrel of the M4 in line with Moore’s chest. At this distance, the round would impact with devastating effect. A double tap, two bullets to the chest, and it would be over.
Moore must know this, but it doesn’t deter him. He stays in the open, exposed to danger.
“The rifle,” Moore says, spreading his arms wide. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Sergeant Burch showed me,” I say.
“Lee vouched for him,” Sergeant Burch says.
“Very well,” Moore says. “Daniel, I want you to aim the rifle at my son.”
Lee’s eyes widen.
“I can’t do that,” I say.
“Why not?”
“You don’t aim a weapon at anyone you’re not willing to kill,” I say.
“I told you to aim, not fire.”
“They’re the same thing,” I say. “I’ve had shooting lessons. I know to consider them the same.”
I sense movement behind me. It’s Sergeant Burch. He’s picked up a rifle and trained it on my back. He’s not shy about aiming.
“What if I command you to aim at my son?” Moore says.
“I don’t take orders from you,” I say.
Tension ripples across the faces of the kids watching us.
Moore nods, considering what I’ve said.
“Do you take requests?” he says.
“If they’re reasonable.”
“Put the weapon down.”
I make sure the rifle is on safe, and I pull the magazine from the breech. I place them both on the ground at my feet.
I feel Sergeant Burch relax behind me. Aaron and Francisco move back into position next to Moore.
Suddenly Moore whirls and charges toward his son.
“You gave a weapon to a newcomer?” he shouts at Lee.
He glances at the assembled teens, then at Sergeant Burch. Nobody dares speak.
“I did,” Lee says, putting on a brave face in front of his father.
“Why?” Moore says.
“The game,” Lee says. “I wanted to establish a skill level for him—”
Moore reaches out and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. At first it seems like a benign gesture, but his fingers turn white as he grips, pressing into Lee’s flesh the same way he pressed into mine in the parking lot of the community center last night. I see Lee working hard not to react while Moore bears down, putting intense pressure on his nerve plexus. Sweat breaks out on Lee’s forehead and his face goes pale, but he doesn’t make a sound.
Moore lowers his voice, leaning in toward Lee.
“I love you,” he says, “and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. But you have to learn that decisions have consequences. You put yourself in danger with your actions here. Do you see that?”
“Yes, sir,” Lee says, his voice faint.
“You put all of us in danger.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not always going to be here to protect you,” Moore says.
He looks at Lee’s face with great concern, then he releases his grip from his shoulder.
Lee inhales sharply. I can see him holding back tears.
“Very well, then,” Moore says, brushing himself off. “Sergeant Burch, we’ll talk about this later.”
“Yes, sir.”
Moore slowly looks across the line of teens, a silent challenge.
Nobody says a word.
“Daniel, why don’t we take a walk together,” Moore says. “If you don’t mind.”
I adjust the glasses on the bridge of my nose.
“I don’t mind,” I say.
I need to find a way to get Moore alone for a few minutes. This could be my opportunity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BUT MOORE IS NEVER ALONE.
Flannel and Aaron tail us as we walk, never straying more than a few feet from Moore.
“I’m sorry to use you like that,” Moore says.
“Use me?”
“To teach my son a lesson.”
“What would you have done if I’d followed your order and aimed at him?”
“I would have given you a second order,” Moore says.
“To drop my weapon?”
“To shoot.”