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I say nothing.
It’s a joyful spot, all pockmarked concrete, water stains, and Confederate flags. It’s the kind of place that caters to a certain crowd. These aren’t the white-collar guys who view punching holes in targets as half sport, half therapy. No, these are the guys who jerk themselves to intricate fantasies of civil war and government overthrow. They have a worm’s-eye view of reality, and anything that challenges their preconceptions is immediately branded both fake and dangerous. In the Service, we’re always having to bust in their doors. They like to talk big about hating the president, and they don’t like to pay taxes. If you’re trying to get on the center of the Secret Service’s bull’s-eye, those are your two your best ways.
It’s not the kind of place I’d expect the right hand of the CIA director to hang out at.
Inside, I ask to speak to the range master. The girl behind the counter seems annoyed, but she grabs a set of ear protectors and enters the range, then comes back with an older, balding man in jeans and a plaid shirt. He moves with a limp but looks like he could break a baseball bat over his leg. The hat he’s wearing reads “Desert Storm Veteran.”
His eyes glide over Sheridan before landing on me.
“Help you?” He’s wary. There’s a difficult relationship between law enforcement and gun ranges.
“I’m hoping you can. I’m trying to track down a friend I met here. He was shooting two days ago on lane five. He helped me out when my weapon jammed, and I’d like to repay him. What’s he shoot? I’d like to buy him a box of his favorite ammunition. And, if it’s all right with you, can I leave it here for when he comes back?”
The range master sucks on his teeth. “Uh-huh. Lemme see some ID.”
Shit. We need to identify ourselves now. I pull out my badge and credentials and lay them on the glass gun case in front of him.
“And you.” The range master jerks his head at Sheridan.
Glum, Sheridan pulls out his own badge and creds and lays them down. The range master looks them over, looks back up at Sheridan, and shakes his head before turning his attention to me.“What kind of a sucker do you take me for?”
“I’m trying to avoid a fight, that’s all.”
“By walking in here and lying to my face?”
“All I want is one piece of information.”
“Hell, you want to know anything about my range, why don’t you ask him?” He points a gnarled finger at Sheridan. “Apparently, we’ve been under surveillance. He’s been shooting here for months. Didn’t take you for a fed, boy.”
Sheridan doesn’t answer.
“Whatever Agent Sheridan was doing here was on his own time. No one has been surveilling your range.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.” I take out the printed picture of Clint Cross and hand it over. “I only want to know about him.”
The range master studies Clint’s photo. “Why?”
“He’s missing. I need to find him.”
He tosses Clint’s picture down, then leans against the counter and glares at Sheridan. Sheridan, for his part, is staring into the corner like he’s back on post in the White House. His pulse is running wild, a frenzied, frantic beat that betrays him.
“Put that away,” he growls, pushing my badge back to me. “I don’t want anyone seeing me talking to you people.”
Sheridan and I put our creds and badges back into our pockets, and after a moment, the range master starts talking.
“You get a feel for guys when you run a range. You end up figuring out quickly who’s solid and who’s running around half-cocked. And then there’s the ones like him.” He jabs a thick finger down on Clint’s face.
Considering the place, that’s quite a statement.
“He was a guy on a mission.”
“A mission?”
“Yeah, one of the ones who got it in their head they have a duty or some special purpose. Most of them spend their whole lives training for it.” He rolls his eyes. “I pay attention to them, ’cause when they start talking about details, or timing, or start hinting that their mission isn’t just a fantasy they jerk off to every night, well…” He shrugs. “I’ve kicked more than a few weirdos out of my range.”
“Did you kick him out?”
