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“I guess so.” I fiddle with my eyewear. “I can’t really tell.”
He tightens my goggles and adjusts the earmuffs. “Good. You can take them off for now. Let’s go into the shooting range.”
Falcon opens the door and I step in ahead of him. The heavy door shuts behind me with a solid thud, sealing off the world outside. The air is cool and still, and two shooting lanes, each a narrow corridor with targets at the end, stand before me.
Fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead, casting a clinical glow on the two shooting stalls, their outlines marked by red paint.
“This targeting system is state-of-the-art,” Falcon says.
Like I’d know, but I nod. Down the lanes, the paper targets hang still, their surfaces smooth and uninterrupted, the concentric circles unbroken by bullet holes. The quiet is profound, the kind of hush that feels almost heavy, expectant.
At each shooting station, there’s a small bench. Falcon gestures to one and sets my gun and my protective gear down.
The ear protection seems superfluous in the silence, but I slip it on, the soft click of the muffs muting the already muffled world of this safe house.
“Watch me,” Falcon says. He loads my gun with the first magazine. “Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Now, let me show you the stance. I want your feet shoulder width apart.”
“Okay.” I obey.
“Make sure you distribute your weight evenly on the balls of your feet to counteract recoil.”
I breathe in deeply. “Okay,” I say again.
“It will be second nature to you before you know it.”
Great. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I never wanted firing a weapon to be second nature to me, but Falcon is right. This is something I need to practice in order to protect myself. And to protect him.
“Extend your arms fully without locking your elbows,” he says.
“I don’t have my gun yet.”
“That’s right. I want you to get familiar with everything before you actually pick up the gun.”
He’s acting like I’ve never done this before. I sigh. I get my arms into position, facing the target.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks.
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Both.”
“I’m good.”
He hands me the gun, careful to keep it pointing in a neutral direction. “Take this. Use your dominant hand to grip it, but keep those fingers off the trigger.”
I take it from him, hold it.
“Vannah,” he says gently.
“Yes?”
“I know you don’t mean to, but you’re pointing the gun directly at me.”
“Shit!” I drop the gun, and it clatters to the floor. I truly am out of practice.
