Shot Down

by Steven Sheiner

  Chapter 7

  The range became my third home, after my actual home and my office. I’d been going every week for months and everyone that worked there knew my name. I had just finished another practice session in which I’d put a hundred rounds through my pistol into a paper target filled with two-inch circles.

  When I had initially begun training with Ingo, he told me if you can put a bullet through a two-inch circle at eight to ten feet, then you can put one through an attacker’s eye at the same distance.

  The prevailing thought among virtually every instructor I trained with, including Ingo, was the same: If you take out your gun, it’s to kill. Not to warn, not to wound, but to kill. To end the threat and the possibility of someone getting hurt or killed right then and there.

  Don’t take it out unless you’re prepared to kill someone. The words echoed in my head constantly. I’d heard them from Ingo and from other trainers I’d worked with.

  Most of the other people at the range were shooting a target shaped like a human figure at a distance of twenty-five feet or more, and they were aiming for the torso. Sometimes they even hit it.

  As I walked through the two sequential doors leading out of the shooting range and into the gun store lobby, I was met by one of the range officers.

  “Oh. Hey, Dave,” I said.

  “I was watching you. You shoot pretty good.”

  “Thanks. It’s coming along.”

  “It’s a lot better than that. You’re really good.”

  “Aww shucks, Dave. I bet you say that to all the fellas,” I said with a laugh.

  He chuckled. “No,” he said. “Believe me. I see a lot of people come in here every day. Most couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. But you’ve gotten really good.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” I turned to walk away, but he held up a hand to stop me.

  “I think you should enter our shooting contest. It runs all month long. It’s twenty bucks to enter. We give you a bull’s-eye target with a red circle in the middle. Ten shots from twenty-five feet. Whoever puts the most rounds in or near the center wins.”

  “Twenty-five feet? I don’t know, Dave. That’s not really my wheelhouse.”

  “Simon, I’ve seen you shoot. This is well within your wheelhouse.”

  “What’s the prize if I win?”

  “First prize is five hundred bucks.”

  I perked up at that and said, “Where do I sign up?”

  We both laughed and he walked me to the front counter to register. I filled out the registration form, paid the twenty dollar entry fee, and took my target for the contest. Dave escorted me back to the range. He said a range officer had to be present for every contest entry to ensure there was no funny business.

  We both put our eye and ear protection back on and walked to the very last lane of the range. I opened my bag and took out my pistol. As luck would have it, my magazines held just ten rounds, so it worked out perfectly. I loaded one up and slapped it into my gun.

  Dave clipped the target to the clothespins on the track and held the switch until the motor pushed it exactly twenty-five feet away. The red dot in the center looked awfully small from this distance.

  I placed my pistol on the table in front of me, pointing safely down range, and wiped my hands on my pants to dry the sweat. I took a deep breath, then picked up my pistol.

  I assumed my shooting stance, feet just wider than my shoulders, slight bend in the knees, arms out, elbows locked. My grip was solid with both thumbs aligned just below the slide. As I got my initial sight picture, the front sight on my pistol practically covered the red dot on the target completely.

  Well this should be fun, I thought.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I eased the hammer back so I could shoot from single action, making for an easier trigger pull.

  “No rules against that,” Dave had said when I asked.

  One more deep breath. Staring down the sights with the red dot barely visible in the background, I pressed the trigger. The muffled bang was audible through my ear protection and the slight recoil kicked the gun up gently.

  “Got it,” Dave said.

  Sure enough, I had put a hole through the upper left portion of the red dot.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  I turned to look at Dave with a modest, yet surprised look on my face.

  “Nice,” he said. “Do it again.”

  Focusing on my fundamentals, Ingo’s voice whispering in my ear, I followed the same routine with each shot. When all ten rounds had been fired, there was no red dot remaining on the target. I’d hit it with nine of the ten shots, and the one that missed did so only by a few millimeters.

  “Holy shit,” Dave said, as he held the switch to bring the target back. As the target got closer and closer, we both examined it.

  I was equally impressed with myself.

  “Well, that went better than I expected,” I said.

  Dave gave me a look of derision and added a scoffing sound to boot.

  “Well I’ll tell you this,” he said, “you definitely won.”

  “But the month isn’t over,” I said.

  Dave raised a hand toward the target still hanging in front of us. There was a large hole in the middle where the bull’s-eye used to be, and he put his finger in it.

  “You see that? No one is gonna beat that. I guarantee it.”

  “Cool,” I said. I held out a hand and, with a cheeky grin, said, “Then give me my five-hundred bucks.”

  “That you do have to wait for. End of the month.”

  “Rats.”

  “Seriously, though. That was some of the best shooting I’ve seen around here in a long time. Some of the SWAT guys that come in here don’t shoot that well. Whoever trained you did a helluva job.”

  I beamed and couldn’t wait to call Ingo from the car.

  “Thanks Dave, and thanks for suggesting I do this. It was fun.”

  “No sweat. Just buy me lunch some time and we’ll call it even.”

  “Done.”

  Chapter 8

  “I found our guy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Some eye doctor up in Boca. Married, couple kids, a dog.”

  “He sounds like a boy scout. You sure about this?”

  “Trust me.”

  “You think he can do it?”

  “There’s no question he can do it. The real question is, will he?”

  “If he doesn’t, he’ll have other problems. And then we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

  “You know we can’t. I’m telling you, this is our guy. He’ll do it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Chapter 9

  Mandy loved waking us up in the morning. She’d jump up on the bed, hopping back and forth between me and Sara, furiously licking our faces. Her favorite thing to do was stick her tongue up our noses. It was adorable and disgusting at the same time. She would stand directly on top of us and, at twenty pounds, she was just heavy enough to crush some internal organs without causing any permanent damage.

  As we bobbed and weaved in an effort to avoid the slobbery onslaught, Mandy barked in our faces. It was her way of coaxing us to get up and play with her.

  “Oh good,” Sara said. “Because having my face licked at six-thirty in the morning isn’t quite enough to wake me up. Thanks a lot, Mandy.”

  “Whose turn is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “Yours,” Sara replied. “In fact, consider it your turn for a while. I’ll let you know when something changes.”

  With that, she was out of bed and headed to the bathroom. She was still mad at me. More because I’d gone behind her back than anything else. And while her anger had lessened considerably, she still liked to remind me now and again that it wasn’t entirely gone.

>   Over time, I’d convinced her to come with me to the shooting range and take a few lessons. “You never know,” I’d said. She’d shot her father’s gun years ago, and she remembered a lot of what she’d learned. She was a natural. After just a handful of trips to the range, her fundamentals were solid and her groupings got tighter and tighter. I was impressed with how quick a study she was.

  “Don’t get excited,” she’d said. “I’ll never use it to shoot someone.” Just the idea made her sick. And with that, her days at the range were over.

  “C’mon, Mandy.” I took her outside, hoping she would do her business quickly. But Mandy had different ideas. She enjoyed smelling everything, so she needed to get a good sniff session in before she even considered doing her thing. When she was finally done, we went back inside. I decided it best to leave Sara alone as she got ready for work. Instead, I played with Mandy, made her breakfast, and waited for the boys to get up.

  We ate breakfast together every morning, hung out until it was time to leave, and then I drove them to school. Most mornings I enjoyed the routine.

  Today was not one of those mornings.

  For some reason, known only to the universe, Jordan and Brock both woke up in a mood. The yelling began before they were even dressed.

  “Stop it!”

  “No, you stop it!”

  How could they be arguing already? I asked myself. They just woke up!

  As if on cue, Sara walked into the kitchen.

  “Teenagers,” she said. She filled her Tervis tumbler with coffee, slung her bag over her shoulder, smiled, and made her escape from the looney bin.

  I, on the other hand, was trapped in the insane asylum with the two inmates.

  The arguing didn’t stop. Not while they ate, not while they packed their school bags, not even while they brushed their teeth.

  “I wonder where we should go for dinner on Saturday night,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the incessant bickering. The topic of food and going out to dinner usually got their attention. Immediately the suggestions started flying in. They each had their favorites, and I was hoping they would find some common ground without any help from me.

  No such luck.

  Before they started attacking each other’s ideas, I said, “If you guys can’t stop arguing, it’ll just be me and Mom going out to dinner. Now grab your backpacks and let’s go.”

  The threat of not going out to eat definitely got their attention. God forbid they miss a meal. The ride to school was delightful, as they talked nicely to each other about sports and video games.

  I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

  Chapter 10

  “You owe us a lot of money, Carlos.”

  He nodded, his head hanging down.

  The two brothers stood on either side of him, posturing in a way that was meant to intimidate, but they weren’t going to hurt him. They couldn’t afford to. They knew who would come after them if they did. They had other plans.

  But Carlos didn’t have to know that.

  “You made a mistake coming to us,” brother number one said.

  “And an even bigger one not paying us back,” brother number two added.

  “I’ll get the money,” Carlos said weakly. “I just need more time.”

  “You have forty-eight hours.”

  “Forty-eight hours?! How am I supposed to get a hundred grand in forty-eight hours?!”

  “I’m glad you asked, Carlos,” the first brother said. “I’ll tell you how. You’re going to rob a bank.”

  “Yeah, right...”

  “Did that sound like a suggestion?” asked the second brother.

  “You want me to rob a bank?! I’ll wind up in jail! Or worse, dead!”

  The second brother grabbed Carlos roughly by his long hair, pulling him backwards over the chair, on the brink of tipping over. He lowered his face close to Carlos and said, “And what do you think will happen when you don’t come up with the money?”

  He released Carlos with a jerk and straightened up.

  “Relax, Carlos,” said the first brother. “We have the perfect setup for you. There’s a bank just north of here, up in Boca. It has minimal security, no guard, only a handful of cameras, and should be an easy score.”

  “I don’t know anything about breaking into a bank!” Carlos said. “If the doors have locks, that’s enough to keep me out!”

  “Who said anything about breaking in?” asked the second brother.

  Carlos looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you an idiot?! It’s not rocket science! You take a gun, kick the door in, shoot up the place, and yell like a crazy man. Those rich pricks up in Boca will be terrified. They’ll do anything you say, and you’ll be outta there in under five minutes.”

  “But you have to do it on Friday afternoon. This Friday afternoon, at exactly five-fifteen p.m.,” said the first brother.

  “Why?” Carlos asked.

  “Because that’s when they have the most cash on hand. At the end of the week. And it’s right before they close. Five-fifteen, Friday afternoon. Got it?”

  He didn’t really, but nodded anyway. “Okay.”

  “We don’t want to hurt you, Carlos. You know that. Do this, and you’re off the hook. If you don’t… well, that’s when things get messy.”

  Carlos leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. With a soft sob he said, “I don’t believe this.”

  The second brother placed a hand on his back and leaned in. “This is what happens when you keep putting that white shit up your nose, Carlos. Now get the fuck out of here, and don’t come back without our money.”

  Chapter 11

  Present day...

  “You wanna tell me why your men slammed my client on the ground, jumped on top of him, stuck a gun in his face, and zip-tied his hands together like he was some sort of common criminal?!”

  “You mean besides the obvious answer, counselor? He fired a weapon inside a bank! Oh, and one more thing... he killed a man!”

  Hearing the words out loud made my stomach churn.

  “He was defending himself! And everyone else in the bank! This man is a hero! He saved dozens of lives! You should shake his hand, thank him for a job well done, and be on your way. He did nothing wrong.”

  “Then why are we here, counselor?”

  Here was the hospital. Before answering any questions or giving any information to the police, I had requested to be taken to the hospital. I was shaking uncontrollably and needed to get out of the bank.

  It’s also what I’d been trained to do.

  Whenever a police officer is involved in a shooting, he is immediately removed from the scene. He speaks to no one for at least five days. Not even the police investigators. This is to give the officer time to calm down, think, clear his head, and give an accurate recounting of events.

  I wanted the same courtesy. Ingo and my other trainers had pounded into me exactly what to say if I was ever involved in a shooting. I just never thought I’d actually be saying it. I identified myself at the scene, confirmed that the pistol on the ground was mine, and nothing more.

  “I am more than willing to comply and answer all of your questions,” I’d said. “But right now, I wish to invoke my right to remain silent and I want my attorney. And I need to go to the hospital.”

  Once SWAT realized I was not part of the attempted bank robbery and not a threat, they cut the zip ties from my wrists. With the help of an EMT, I walked slowly to the ambulance and laid lay down on the gurney in the back. He started an IV and gave me something to help calm me. When the doors were closed and I was secluded from the police, I called my attorney.

  I’d met William Alter several years ago at a networking event, and I liked him right away. He was the right amount of arrogant, while
still maintaining a relatively likeable personality and a self-deprecating sense of humor. We’d met for lunch a few times, mainly so I could thank him for the patients he’d been referring to me. Sadly, I had never returned the favor.

  When he gave me his card, I couldn’t imagine ever needing his services. Nor did I know anyone who might. He was a criminal defense attorney. In my mind, he represented the worst of the worst—murderers, rapists, drug dealers, scum. I was a Jewish optometrist living in a suburban neighborhood in Boca. It seemed unlikely our professional paths would ever cross.

  Until now.

  He was thrilled to get my call. Not because I was in trouble, but because, unlike most of his other clients, I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

  “Even when you’re innocent, saying the wrong thing can land you in hot water. Months, or even years, later,” he said.

  William loved to argue. What lawyer didn’t? But William took it to a whole other level. I once witnessed him argue with the manager of a restaurant for almost ten minutes over the appropriate number of shrimp in a seafood salad. Now, he was arguing for me. He stood at my bedside in the hospital room, going back and forth with a detective, making sure I didn’t say something stupid. We had never discussed his hourly rate, but at this particular moment, I didn’t care. He was one of the more popular and, I imagined, more expensive, defense attorneys in the state.

  Right now, that didn’t matter.

  I really didn’t want to go to jail and I was terrified that, somehow, the police would find a reason to send me there. I still wasn’t thinking clearly and had no idea of the legal ramifications of what I’d done. The scene kept flashing back in my mind, and I struggled to believe any of it was real. I didn’t know who I shot, why it happened, or what was coming next. All I knew was I was exhausted and I just wanted to sleep.

  William, on the other hand, was ready for action. He put on his sparring gloves and said, “We’re here, Detective Lawton, because my client has been through an incredibly traumatic event and he needs to rest.”

  “And I have a job to do. There are questions that need to be answered.”