Done in One (9781466857841)

by Jerkins, Grant; Thomas, Jan

  “If we keep shooting regularly and you keep practicing your dry firing, it’ll become automatic.”

  “I was taught never to dry fire my weapon.”

  “Well, the department only buys us so much ammo, so it’s not like you can just blow a thousand rounds through your new rifle. It gets expensive to buy your own. And we’re not allowed to reload spent shells. So sometimes dry firing is the only way to learn your trigger pull and how it feels. If it bothers you, get a snap cap. A dummy round.”

  Kathryn nodded her understanding.

  Jacob looked at his own completed target. He said, “And remember, 99.9 percent of the time our shots are cold barrel shots. So the closer you can get your three-round group to your cold barrel shot the better. Ideally, you’d want them all in one hole.”

  Kathryn rolled her eyes in an as-if gesture, and he showed her his target. His three rounds were all in the same hole. Fuckin’Denton. She sighed, nodded, then collapsed the legs of the bipod on her weapon. She rose and carried the weapon to its case and put it away.

  Jacob laid back down and peered through his scope.

  Kathryn looked skyward. The sun, like a bullet, unforgiving.

  “So are we done?”

  “You seem to be.” His voice had a far-away quality. He was already down the rabbit hole. Seeking his perfect peace.

  “But you’re not?”

  “Nope.” Remote. Far away.

  “Well, let’s recap this day. We watched our captain gunned down like a dog in the street, put all of the officers we were supposed to be protecting in mortal danger by not taking out an armed maniac, played hide-and-seek in full ghillies at a hundred degrees. I just killed my lieutenant. Well, hell, the day’s young. Let’s practice for a few more hours.”

  Jacob kept his attention in the scope, downrange.

  Kathryn kicked at a clump of bunchgrass. “What?”

  Jacob didn’t look up. But he spoke.

  “Do you know how your weapon shoots at dusk? Do you know how changes in barometric pressure affect your ballistics? Have you ever shot when you’re as tired as you seem to be right now? Are you just going to walk away on a call-out when it’s been a long hot day? If so, keep walking. I can’t use you.”

  Kathryn unpacked her gear and settled belly down in the dust next to her partner.

  “Look, Jacob. Obviously I have a lot to learn. And no, I would not walk away on a call-out. I assumed you knew that or I wouldn’t be here. Mentally, I’m still stuck on your previous partner losing his mind and Captain Bryant losing his life.”

  Jacob pulled himself from the scope.

  “Fair enough. I know I’m pushing you but you’ll never complete Phase One until you know the answers to those questions. I’m not a total asshole, I recognize it can be too much at once. You just need to know your limitations. Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll train tomorrow afternoon and maybe after dark.”

  She nodded and lifted herself from the dirt. She’d shown herself willing and that seemed to be enough for him. For today.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t call me sir. And don’t expect me to stop pushing.”

  * * *

  Once he heard Kathryn’s car pull away, Jacob broke down his weapon. He’d had enough for one day as well. He wasn’t as young as he once was. He’d just wanted to make a point. He collapsed his bipod and started gathering his gear.

  The slanting sun swept the earthen parking deck that rested on a steep rise just above the training grounds. Jacob loaded the last of his targets and gear into the Ford Expedition, and paused a minute beside his vehicle to appreciate the view of the sun setting behind the hills that surrounded him. The embankment rose several hundred feet above the training grounds and served dual purpose as a firebreak. The sloping hill had nothing green growing on it and was striated with ridges and ditches to control soil erosion.

  Jacob got behind the wheel and shifted the Expedition into reverse. It was a good solid vehicle with plenty of power. It was a DAS vehicle—Dope Asset Seizure. Unofficially, it now belonged to the SWAT team, and even more unofficially, it was the sniper’s unit used for training and call-outs. All jurisdictions were different. Here, they would not spend the money for a dedicated sniper vehicle, but the Expedition just never seemed to make it to the seized assets auction, held quarterly. In these budget-tightening times, the only way to acquire a vehicle of choice was dope raids. Assets were seized and you grabbed the ATV or the bad-ass Dodge All-Wheel Drive as yours. Otherwise, you were at the mercy of a bean counter who thought he knew what suited your needs best. Jacob’s daily patrol stretched west from Folsom Prison to Cameron City, and then all the way to South Lake Tahoe and Camptown—the high country where they pretty much had their own laws, and where most deputies would not patrol alone.

  He needed a vehicle that could handle just about any terrain and any weather conditions Northern California could throw at it. From mudslides to brush fires, to snowstorms and black ice. With a push bar and winch on the front, studded snow tires in the winter, and mud and snow tires in the summer, the Ford Expedition fit the bill. It was a big-ass SUV, and Jacob could have had it tricked out, converting it into a marked unit with stars, badges, bells, whistles, everything. Even a P.A. to say “Pull your fucking car over NOW!” And if they didn’t, he could give them an attention-getting tap with a little push-bar nudge. But he did none of those things. The sniper’s code was anonymity. He had a bubble light inside in case he needed to suddenly drive code three. And that was it.

  Even though he knew he was alone, out of habit he checked his rearview as he backed out of the space. A spark of light caught his eye. In the mirror, he saw a pinpoint flash in the brushy hillside. He dove down onto the floor. The sniper’s bullet slammed through the back window and shattered the rearview mirror. The battered mirror frame bounced around and fell on Jacob’s shoulder. He picked up the twisted remnant, looked at it, and tossed it away.

  That’s when he remembered he was moving. The car was rolling backward. He had not yet turned the steering wheel to angle out of the parking space, so the Expedition was rolling straight back. Straight toward the unvegetated slope of the parking deck. It was easily a three-hundred-foot embankment. He couldn’t simply sit up and press the brake without exposing himself to more sniper fire. And his body was angled across the floorboard so that his boots were too tangled in the well to do him any good. So he shifted his body position, working to bring his head and shoulders to the driver’s seat and press the brake pedal with his hand. But he didn’t move fast enough. He felt the gentle thlump of the rear tires sinking over the paved lip of the deck. The vehicle picked up sudden speed. He had his hand to the brake pedal when the rear tires went into the first erosion ditch. The jarring movement slammed his whole body into the console and back into the footwell. The vehicle rocked as the tires rolled through one ditch after another. Jacob was wedged into the footwell, but still getting banged around pretty good. Near the bottom of the hill, the soil in one of the ridges gave way and caused the vehicle to shift so that it turned horizontally along the hillside. Jacob had righted himself once again and had his hand on the brake pedal when he felt the two passenger-side wheels slip over a ridge. The sandy soil gave way with a stomach-dropping finality. The Expedition rolled. Just one revolution, then it was at the bottom of the embankment. Resting on its four wheels like a child had picked it up and set it back down there. The roll bar had done its job. The vehicle was dusty and a little dented but fine. As was Jacob.

  Before the shock absorbers had even finished swaying, Jacob imagined himself opening the car door and rolling out while drawing his .45 automatic. But it would leave him exposed. He was actually safer in the vehicle.

  Crouched low on the floorboard, he retrieved his cell phone and dialed.

  The lieutenant answered simply, “Cowell.”

  “So, Joe, what’s the latest on that whole sniper/murder thing?”

  “Cortez and Hasa
n brought Lee Staley in for questioning. Noncooperative. Kicked him loose.”

  “It’s not Oz.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Someone just took a shot at me, and I rolled the Expedition. I’m at the training range. Bottom of the parking embankment. Waiting to see if there’s more fire coming.”

  “What?”

  “Someone just took a shot at me, and—”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Look, I watched this guy in action with Bryant, so I’m guessing that I’d probably be dead right about now if that’s what he wanted.”

  “Sonofabitch. I’m sending units. Stay in your vehicle. Stay low.”

  “No kidding.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Once he’d given his account and the medics had cleared him (he’d bruised a rib, but that was it), Cowell had called again and ordered Jacob off the scene. Told him to go home. He reminded Jacob that he could use the rest because he had the psych eval next week. Jacob told Cowell that he’d rather be shot at, but complied. One of the deputies took him back to the S.O. so he could get his personal vehicle.

  On the way home, he debated the pros and cons of telling Jill what had happened. That somebody had taken a shot at him. Thank God he’d been in the Expedition. He didn’t know how he’d explain the missing back window to Jill if he’d been in his own truck. It would be hard enough hiding his tender rib. She rarely missed anything. If she sensed him holding back, or lying, it could be ugly. Things rarely got ugly between them because they were always truthful with one another.

  Here he was, having been shot at, but not hit, for the second time today. This was a deliberate action by the shooter, just as it had been at Captain Bryant’s house. He made a mental note to review the interrogation room sign-out logs tomorrow. Just to see for himself if Oswald had still been in for questioning when the sniper had been setting up his shot. Even though he didn’t believe his friend was behind this, he needed to know if it was possible.

  He knew Jill needed to know for safety reasons. Death threats often came with the job, and he’d always passed on information of recently paroled felons or shown Jill pictures of people to watch for while she was out and about. The worst case scenario was someone showing up at their home. Jill was armed and prepared. She had guns all over the house and almost always carried concealed. But in this case, he could scarcely wrap his head around what this shooter was doing tailing him, and making a fucking game of it. This was the first time Jacob had been specifically targeted. These were uncharted waters he struggled in, and before he knew it he was turning into their driveway.

  He sat in his truck a moment longer, still unsure. He decided he needed more information from Cowell and the officers at the range to compare what had happened there with what had happened at Bryant’s house. He didn’t want to spook Jill with only part of the story. He would wait until he got the latest intelligence from the investigators still working the range site. He finally decided he wouldn’t tell her. He sighed and got out of the truck.

  He had only ever had one secret from her in all the years of their marriage and that was his collection of spent shells. He hid that from her. But it was just a private thing. Jake himself didn’t understand the significance of those shells. But he held on to them. Ghoulish mementos, he supposed. Watercolored memories, his old mentor, Lee Staley might have said. Of the way we were. Of the way they were. The seventeen people those brass casings stood for. They used to be alive. Now they were dead. Because of Jacob Denton.

  He would make the shooting range incident secret number two. It would be wrong to place a burden of stress and fear on Jill’s shoulders. He didn’t want to do that to her. She was his center, but she had not been the same—mentally or physically—since the accident that had ended her medic/firefighter career. That career was how she had defined herself. They’d met on the job. They’d seen each other through a rain-spattered ambulance window. Just a glance. Then four years passed before they saw each other again, but they both remembered. And they fell in love. And now, these years later, although they still had no children, they were as close as a man and woman could be.

  It occurred to him that if it were not for Jill, he would have lived his life as a loner. He would fit a profile. He existed on the far side of a spectrum that included folks like Timothy McVeigh and Ted Kaczynski. Even though he was one of the good guys, when he looked at McVeigh or Kaczynski—the urge to be apart from society, the inability to comprehend that society—he saw that he had things in common with them. Not a pleasant thought. But Jill brought him out of himself. He cared about her. And through that he saw that he cared about the world, too. Still wanted to be a part of it.

  * * *

  Jill was bustling in the kitchen with dinner under way. Jake dropped his big camouflage bag on the floor near the kitchen counter. With a dish in one hand, a spoon in the other, and her foot propping open the refrigerator door, Jill leaned toward Jake. He met her halfway and they kissed quickly.

  “Hi, honey,” she said and closed the refrigerator with her foot.

  “Hello, beautiful, nice moves. Kitchen ballet,” Jacob said as he went about his routine. He pulled his .45 from his holster and laid it on the countertop. Then he unzipped the bag and pulled out a thick stack of targets. He put them on the counter just as Jill said, “Did you shoot today?” She was stirring red sauce on the stove. It smelled nice and garlicky.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said and moved to the refrigerator and took out a Corona.

  Jill clicked the spoon on the pot, closed the lid and wiped her hands on a towel. She went to the counter and said, “Well then, let’s have a look.” She started thumbing through his used targets. “So … how are you?” she asked without looking up. “By the way, I had to defend your honor today. Again. Susan? That student of mine? She asked me how I could live with a professional killer.”

  “Wow. Harsh. What did you tell her?”

  “I told her if she saw you naked she’d know how.”

  “How what?”

  “How I could live with a professional killer. If she saw you naked, she’d know. Get it? Are you with me? I don’t think you’re here with me tonight.”

  Jake realized that he was thinking about his day, not paying attention to Jill.

  “I’m here,” he said. “That was a good comeback. You writers call it a quip, right?” He moved to the stove and peeked in the steaming pot. Spaghetti sauce bubbled.

  “Right, a quip. That’s assuming, of course, that she hasn’t seen you naked.”

  “Not this week,” he said.

  She lifted her head from the targets and he winked at her. She held up one of the targets. It was a sheet of 8½ by 11 paper with concentric circles and in the center, a black bull’s-eye no bigger than a quarter.

  “Ten rounds, 200 yards?” The center was almost completely shot out and no rounds had escaped that boundary. “Not bad,” she said as if there were plenty of room for improvement.

  Jake sat at the bar while Jill reviewed his targets. He was just starting to feel comfortable settling into their normal routine, when out of nowhere he heard, “So you don’t have anything to tell me?” She lifted her eyes and stared right at him. “Nothing? At all?”

  He started to open his mouth and stopped.

  Jill tapped the targets into a stack and spoke, not necessarily to him, but at him. “You know, I’d like to think after all these years you would trust me enough to know you can tell me anything. Anything. I was a firefighter and a medic, remember? Before I got hurt? I can take bad news. It only makes it worse when I have to hear it from someone else.”

  “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said.

  “Don’t bother. I already heard about it from Jeannie Cowell.”

  Cowell must have told his wife, and Jeannie must have called Jill. Cowell was usually far more discreet than that. Jacob felt betrayed.

  “Look at me,” she said quietly. He looked up. She walked over to him. “You know with
my background I’m not some timid little mouse who has to be coddled. I know there’s ugly, evil shit out there. I’ve seen it often enough myself. But the only way to handle this stuff is the way we’ve always done it. Together.”

  He nodded. She lifted her hands to his face, held his head in her hands and said, “I just want to say this and then we don’t even have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I am so sorry about Captain Bryant. I know how close you two were when he was still on SWAT. I’m sorry you’ve lost your friend.”

  She pulled her head away and looked up at him. “Okay? So are we clear?”

  He nodded again, and said, “Crystal.” He’d been so far inside his own head, he had forgotten to tell her about Captain Bryant. He felt bad for not telling her right away—as he normally would have done—and for withholding the incident at the shooting range.

  Jill walked back over to look at his targets, and he got up to taste the spaghetti sauce. He took the spoon, dipped it into the pot, brought it to his lips and said, “Hmmm.” He knew for Jill, it was over. She never held a grudge, and once something was discussed and behind them, that’s where it stayed.

  Jill kept going through his targets. It was part of their ritual. He’d killed no one today, but the process of making the abnormal seem normal was a continuous one. The next target had a dime-sized bull’s-eye.

  One slightly misshapen hole was in the center.

  “Three rounds, hundred yards?”

  Jacob nodded, smiled, and took a drink. The next target was a woman’s face with a man’s face half visible behind the woman.