by RJ Blain
A stuffed animal waited for me.
“What the…?” When I lifted it out, its weight startled me. At first glance, I wasn’t sure what it was, but the tag informed me the animal was a badger. It was dark with two pale stripes over its head, which made it resemble a badger someone had made in the dark with two left hands. I flipped it over and discovered a zipper on its belly with another tag attached bearing Marian’s signature. I set the stuffed animal on my coffee table and opened the second box.
It contained a pair of pocket holsters, several empty magazines and clips, a gun-care kit, and a thick packet stuffed with papers. My eyebrows rising, I opened the envelope and peeked inside.
Concealed carry licenses were a pain in the ass to acquire on a good day, requiring just cause, training, and an excessive amount of paperwork to be considered for the permit. Every state had different rules, but the government occasionally issued special permits allowing an individual to conceal a weapon in any state.
A laminated permit card fell onto my lap. It featured a picture of me wearing a suit; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn a suit, making me wonder where the hell Marian had gotten the picture. It wasn’t from the trial; I’d worn slacks and a dress shirt with tie and had opted against wearing a jacket. I opened my mouth, closed it, and retrieved the stuffed animal, pulling open the zipper and peeking inside.
Sure enough, inside I found a pair of handguns small enough to fit in my pockets. Both were black with white grips, matching the stuffed animal they were hidden in. Several folded sheets of paper accompanied the weapons, including the sales receipts, registration in my name, and a copy of the shipping label, which declared the package contained firearms.
A handwritten note advising ammunition was my own problem made me laugh. I picked up my phone and called my mother back.
“You’re such a brat. What do you want now?”
I laughed. “I want to run a scenario by you.”
“What sort of scenario?”
“Pretend you’re Dad or some macho man for a minute. Let’s say you’re single, you go to a bar, and you meet a girl. You part ways, but later she sends you a gift. What would you do?”
“Depends on what the gift is?”
“A pair of Ruger LCRx compact handguns and a nationwide concealed carry permit.”
“Marry her.”
Chapter Seventeen
Since carrying two guns around in my pocket would inevitably lead to disaster, I acquired an ankle holster and hid the second one in my boot. Carrying them would take a while to get used to, but I appreciated having a backup plan in case something went wrong. With no way to contact Marian to thank her—or make an idiot of myself and follow my mother’s blurted advice—I kept the mutant deformed badger stuffed animal on my bed and thanked it instead.
I even obeyed the woman’s orders and acquired ammunition for both guns and their spare magazines.
My next step would be going to the firing range and dumping hundreds of dollars down the drain practicing with both weapons and adjusting to shooting with only one eye. Before the accident, I’d been a good shot, but I hadn’t touched a gun since.
I was able to read between the lines. If Marian thought I needed two compact handguns and a carry permit for them, she was worried. Instead of a thank you, I would repay her by honing my shooting skills.
Bright and early the next morning, I took both guns to the range. My resignation from the force meant the range had been notified I was no longer a police officer, which earned me skeptical looks from the range’s manager and the handful of cops getting in their mandatory hours.
“Thought you resigned, Gibson,” Porter barked at me.
I tried not to take offense at his tone. The idiot had taken his mufflers off too often at the range, impairing his hearing, so he barked at everyone because he couldn’t hear himself. I dug out my wallet, pulled out my concealed carry card, and dropped it on the counter in front of him. “I’m looking to get in a couple of hours. I’ll need ammunition for a pair of .45s.”
“Someone likes you a lot, buddy. How the hell did you get one of these?”
“Christmas came early for me this year.” I pulled my Ruger from my pocket and slid it across the counter. “It’s got live ammo in it, safety on. A gift from a friend.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Your friend really likes you a lot. That gun’s tiny but fierce. You’re going to like it, Gibson. Your second?”
“Matched set.”
“All right. I can fit you in for two hours. That permit puts you in the rotation with the cops, so play nice with your former buddies, all right?”
“I intend to work on my shooting, get my slips showing my hours, and keep to myself. Don’t worry about it, Porter. I can handle myself.”
“You know how these girls gossip.”
I snorted, glancing in the direction of the loitering cops, most of whom I recognized though didn’t know by name. “Don’t let the actual girls hear you say that. Most of the ones I know might hesitate before they teach you what it feels like to be punched in the kidney. After the first few times, you learn to stay quiet.”
“It did only take me three or four times to teach you,” Michelle agreed from directly behind me, giving my side a gentle tap.
“Hi, Michelle.”
“What are you doing here, Gibson?”
Porter chuckled and waved my nationwide permit. “Gibson got himself a nationwide concealed carry permit.”
“No way!” Snatching my card out of Porter’s hand, she looked it over and presented her hand for a high-five. “Well done, sir.”
I gave her palm a gentle slap and reclaimed my card with a flick of my wrist. “I should have made you open the box from Dad.”
“Oh? The glitter incident?”
“Rigged compressed air can for maximum spray.”
My former co-worker threw her head back and laughed. “That’s so wrong.”
“I know, right?”
“Who did you have to hold for ransom to get that permit? That’s going to open some doors for you even short an eye.”
“Amazingly, no one was held ransom.”
“Getting in your hours?”
I nodded. “Going to start with two and see how it goes.”
“First time back to the range since the accident?”
Thinking about the whole mess from the loss of my eye to the CDC’s case soured my mood, but I forced myself to nod and smile. “Yeah. Got a new pair of guns I want to put through their paces.”
“What kind?”
“Rugers.” I reclaimed my gun from Porter, cleared the chamber and popped the magazine before handing it over to Michelle. “They were a gift.”
“Nice gift. Hook me up. I need a boyfriend.”
I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t spot Michelle’s partner anywhere. “What, not going to hook up with Stripes?”
“You’re joking, right? The guy jumps at his own shadow. If you think his reaction to lycanthropes is bad, you should see him face off against a spider. He’s nice enough, don’t get me wrong about that, but he has issues.”
Where there was smoke, there was fire, and judging from Michelle’s tone and expression, she had an inferno blazing away over something her partner had done. “Going to get in your hours while blowing off steam?”
“Fucking straight I’m going to fucking get in my goddamned hours while blowing off some fucking steam.”
When Michelle lost her temper, someone got hurt, and the other cops cleared out so fast I expected a vacuum where they’d been standing. I dug out my credit card and offered it to Porter. “All right. Hook us both up for two hours, and perhaps you should give Michelle the far stall. I’ll cover the ammo today if you solemnly swear not to shoot me.”
Michelle slapped her hand to the counter. “You’ve got a deal, Gibson.”
I already regretted my decision to haunt my old roost to begin getting my mandatory hours, but I hid my discomfort and went through
the process of checking in my weapons.
Michelle’s aim left a lot to be desired. I couldn’t tell if she was bothering to pick a target before dumping her magazines. I was grateful her gun of choice wasn’t an automatic; within two hours, she’d cost me a small fortune.
Unlike her, I took my time, picked my mark, and fired. Most of my shots hit the paper, although it took longer than I liked to adapt to the changes in my vision. By the end of the first hour, I’d found a new appreciation for the Ruger. Its small size hid a big payload while being large enough to grip reliably. It also packed enough of a punch to remind me I wasn’t playing with a toy.
Michelle gave up before I did, and I was aware of her behind me while I took my final shots, systematically targeting the kill zones before refilling my magazines and cleaning the sill.
Since I wasn’t quite ready to announce to the world I was hiding a spare gun in my boot, I kept the second Ruger unloaded and slipped it into my other pocket. The woman’s frustrated sigh worried me. “What’s wrong?”
“How the hell can a man with one eye and new guns shoot better than me?”
“It doesn’t hurt I wasn’t a bad shot before I lost my eye.”
“Come to think about it, I’ve never watched you shoot before.”
“Few have.” I shrugged, tucked the spent ammunition boxes under my arm, and headed towards the lobby. “If you need to sharpen your skills, talk to Ed Housin on the east side of town. He operates a gun shop in Lower Chicago and gives lessons. He’s good, and he won’t cost you a fortune.”
“We’ve been trying to bust Ed for years on illegal gun trafficking.”
I snorted. “I wish you the best of luck with that. You’re going to need it.”
“Why?”
“Because Ed’s Ed. He’s obsessive compulsive, knows the rules and regs better than anyone I know, and likes his guns more than his children or his wife. Could he be trafficking? Hell if I know. I needed to improve my skills, so I bought lessons, and there’s nothing illegal about taking lessons from a certified instructor. But if you want to learn how to handle a gun better, he’s a good teacher.”
She frowned. “How good?”
“I’ll show you. Let me ask Porter a question.” I headed to the counter and handed over the spent ammunition boxes. “Hey. You happen to have a real gun I can rent for fifteen minutes and some ammo? I want to show Michelle something.”
Porter straightened. “Are you going to try a demo?”
“May as well.”
“Beretta, Glock, S&W, or other?”
“Hook me up with a semi that has some punch.”
“I love it when you talk dirty, Gibson.”
My shoulder wouldn’t appreciate trick shots, but I’d work my left hand more than I had. Playing a game of oneupmanship against Michelle wouldn’t earn me her friendship, but maybe it’d motivate her—or get through the skulls of the other cops loitering around the range that a low magic rating or lycanthropy wasn’t a euphemism for useless. In a way, I hoped I had an audience.
Unlike some, an audience made me better, honing my focus and raising my awareness of everyone and everything around me, which made hitting my mark easier. I’d surprised Ed, which I considered my crowning achievement with the instructor.
Ed didn’t surprise easy.
Porter loaned me a Smith & Wesson, a popular gun among the CPD, and a weapon I’d used before. Instead of using the closed range, he led Michelle and me to the auxiliary range, which lacked stalls and featured a single target, serving as a classroom for larger groups before they went to the main range for individual shooting time. The auxiliary range was also a place to practice shooting on the move, which was what I’d be doing.
Sure enough, the loitering cops followed, and I ignored their presence, checking the pistol. “All right, Porter. I’m going to want five magazines for this.”
Five magazines would let me do a full run of the common trick shots Ed had taught me and still leave me with a few tricks tucked up my sleeve. Porter’s grin widened; he loaded the magazines and set them on the range’s single table near the entry. “Want me to toss them to you when you’re ready?”
“Sure. I’m not responsible if they break.”
“If you break them, I buy them.”
“Just don’t throw like a toddler today. If I wanted a lob, I’d go play softball.”
My small audience chuckled.
“I’ve missed your nasty mouth, Gibson.”
I snickered. “You’ve just missed my money.”
“That, too. Go set up your playground while I get these kindergarteners their mufflers so they don’t end up as hard of hearing as I am.”
In the back of the range were stands for mounting targets, allowing for paper, steel, or clay targets. I preferred the clays, as I’d seen too many trick shots ricochet off steel targets for my comfort. The box of clays would add an extra forty to my range adventures, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t mind spending a little money to prove a point, although I might regret my choice in a few months if I didn’t find a new job. Twenty minutes later, I had set up a line of fifty targets ranging from six inches to six feet in height. To hit them all, I’d have to jump, roll, duck and slide while firing. I’d regret my close acquaintance with the concrete floor long before I crossed from one side of the range to the other.
Porter handed me a pair of mufflers and chuckled at my handiwork. “Feel like you need some exercise?”
“Yeah.”
“Ten says you miss ten or more before you run out of ammo.”
“And if I don’t miss ten or more, you’re paying me ten bucks and you’re covering the ammo, targets, and rental fee.”
“You’re on.”
We slapped hands to seal the deal, and I left my Rugers on the table in Porter’s keeping. The M&P22 had a twelve round capacity, which gave me very little wiggle room in my accuracy.
If I hit forty, I’d be more than satisfied with the run—and prove my point, making it well worth the investment to give Michelle a taste of what someone could do with time, effort, and determination. My demonstration would also remind the other cops minimum hours and minimum qualifications didn’t necessarily mean someone was good with a firearm. I’d poured enough sweat, tears, and blood into my shooting skills to pass muster with Ed, and I’d never be as good as him.
He lived and breathed guns; I’d plateaued at good enough to be sure of my shot so I wouldn’t hurt someone unintentionally.
The real trick was balancing speed and accuracy. The faster I went, the lower my accuracy, but if I could control my body, keep my eye on my target, and be aware of my every movement, from my breaths to the quiver of tired muscles, magic would happen.
It wasn’t magic like most thought of it; I couldn’t whisper flame into being, knit bones back together, or do anything most viewed as magical. For a brief period of time, when my world narrowed to the feel of a gun in my hand, my target, and the resistance of the trigger on my finger, I understood Ed and his adoration for firearms.
My limited field of vision didn’t hamper me as much as I feared, even in motion. My hand and eye still worked together, I could still judge distances, and from my first step and first shot, I forgot about Michelle, Porter, and the other cops. The feel of the concrete on my back when I rolled, the sting on my knees when I found my balance and surged to my feet, and the recoil of the gun in my hand consumed all my attention, my rhythm broken only when I dumped an empty magazine and caught a fresh one with my left hand.
I had missed eleven targets after forty-nine shots. When I rolled to a halt on one knee, I twisted and closed my right eye out of habit rather than necessity. I emptied the magazine behind my back, one of Ed’s favorite tricks, which he’d taught me to force an awareness of the gun in my hand. My grip on the weapon and the way I pulled the trigger factored into my aim, and when I kept my hold proper and true, I simply needed to see my mark to hit the target.
The first two rounds went w
ide, but the rest of the clay targets shattered, leaving behind shards and little else. Rising to my feet, I checked the chamber was clear and strolled to Porter, picking up the four magazines I’d abandoned on my run from one end of the range to the other. I removed my mufflers and held out my hand. “Pay up, buttercup.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be crippled and rusty?” Porter complained, digging out his wallet and slapping a ten dollar bill onto my hand. “I was sure two months off the range would have put an end to that nonsense.”
I chuckled and pocketed my prize, handing over Porter’s gun so I could retrieve my Rugers. “It’s only nonsense because you can’t figure out how I do it.”
“You weren’t extending all the way, and you were slow.”
Maybe instead of buttercup, I should have addressed him as Petty Porter. “You said nothing about timing me for the bet.”
He glared at me. “You’re a smug bastard sometimes, you know that?”
“Only when he’s earned it,” Marian said from right behind me, close enough her breath tickled my neck.
I headed for orbit, landed several feet away, tripped on the turnaround, and hit the concrete hard. At least I didn’t smack my head into the floor, although my shoulder was rather unhappy with me. “Jesus Christ!”
“That was some nice shooting, Mr. Gibson.” While FBI agents didn’t have specific uniforms, I recognized the slacks and suit jacket as something they often favored on duty. Marian canted her head and smirked. “You’re a bit flighty.”
Porter turned on the woman, straightened to his full height, and barked, “Who let you back here?”
Marian flipped open her badge and shoved it in Porter’s face. “FBI. The gentleman at the counter pointed me in this direction. I need a few minutes with Mr. Gibson.”
Too many questions rattled in my head, with wondering how Marian had found me topping the list. I got to my feet, dusted off, and checked to make sure my wallet, keys, and both of my new guns were in my pockets where they belonged. I glanced at Michelle, who was targetting Marian with her worst glare.