Page 61 of Hoofin’ It

“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.