Wade’s jaw tightened around his chew. He angled the magazine so I could see the rapid, fluid movement of his fingers as he filled it and slapped it into the gun.
My mouth went dry as he held the pistol out to me. I stared at it, jumping at the sudden pop of gunfire from another stall.
“You seen a handgun before?” His voice was surprisingly clear, if a bit echoey, through the earmuffs.
I nodded. The last time I’d been this close to one, it had been pressed to the side of my head. I could feel Wade watching me, waiting for me to take it, but I couldn’t seem to make myself reach for it.
“Ever held one? Fired one?” he asked.
I shook my head.
With slow, careful movements, Wade placed it in my hand, using his own to show me where and how to hold it. His voice softened as he corrected the position of my fingers and thumbs. “I was a cop, for fourteen years,” he said.
“Why’d you leave?” I asked, welcoming the distraction.
“Bad knee. Among other things.” He raised my hands until the pistol was pointed straight out in front of me.
“Were you with OCN?”
“For a while.” He pressed a button on the wall that sent my hanging paper target racing backward on a track. “Started in a uniform, like everybody else. Made detective and rotated around for a few years. Spent the last four in OCN. Deep cover. Got made. Jumped out a window trying to save my own ass and busted my knee when I hit the ground. The rest is history.”
The nose of my gun dipped a little. Wade hadn’t just been undercover, but deep cover. That explained the tattoos and wild, unkempt hair, but it explained a lot of other things, too. My sister had told me about the deep cover cops, though never by name. I wasn’t even sure she knew who they were. They worked alone, no partners to watch their backs, no contact with family and friends as they submerged themselves in a world of criminals. One misstep and they’d end up in a shallow grave before anyone knew they were gone.
“Spread your feet,” Wade said, adjusting my stance. “Bring your shoulders forward. Relax your knees. Now extend your arms straight out in front of you. You’re going to line up your sights with the center of the target. Middle of the chest.”
“Not the head?”
“Center mass. You’re more likely to hit your target. When you’re ready to shoot, move your finger to the trigger, touch, and pull.”
I drew in a slow, shaky breath and let it out slowly, bracing myself for the sound as my finger slid to the trigger. My eyes slammed shut at the muted but familiar pop.
“Good,” Wade said. “Your nose was a little high, but not bad for your first try. Keep your eyes open next time.” I stole a glance at Mrs. Haggerty’s target as he recorded my score. “Eyes on your own paper,” Wade scolded me. “Try again.”
I emptied the rest of my magazine as Wade offered quiet corrections. I managed to keep all my bullets on the paper, though only half of them landed within the target. Wade showed me how to reload, and as I fed bullets into the channel, I peeked once more at Mrs. Haggerty’s paper. She’d fired every one of her rounds and hadn’t put a single hole in it.
Charlie took her empty training gun and set it aside. He reached into his holster and withdrew his own. The range fell silent as he loaded the chambers of the largest revolver I’d ever seen, snapped the cylinder in place, and passed the pistol to Mrs. Haggerty.
“Holy shit,” said one of the other instructors. “Charlie’s giving her his Magnum.” A few of the instructors huddled together, laughing quietly to themselves as Mrs. Haggerty hoisted the massive revolver.
“Is that really a good idea?” I asked Wade as she closed one eye, staring down the wobbling length of it.
Wade’s lip twitched around a mouthful of chew as Mrs. Haggerty pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, even through the earmuffs. Charlie caught her as she teetered backward on her heels.
“Hooo! That’s got some kick!” she said as Charlie set her on her feet. The instructors laughed, breaking into applause. Charlie leaned over her shoulder, pointing out the lone hole she’d shot in her paper. Mrs. Haggerty squinted downrange, trying to find it.
“Why does Mrs. Haggerty get a big gun?” I asked. “That hardly seems fair.”
“Don’t let the size fool you,” Wade said. “The bigger the gun, the more surface area to grip, the easier it is to control.”
Charlie grinned through the divider at Wade, a challenge in the crooked slant of his lips.
Wade eyed Charlie over the rim of his Coke can as he spit. He set it down and took my training pistol from me before I could finish loading it. His shirt rode up as he reached behind him into the waistband of his jeans, revealing a slender holster hidden inside it. He withdrew his gun, checked the magazine, and placed the weapon in my hands, adjusting my grip around the Glock logo.
The range fell quiet again as Wade pushed a button and my target zoomed another fifteen feet toward the opposite wall. “Double or nothing,” he said, loud enough for Charlie to smirk.
“What are you doing?” I sputtered. “I can’t hit that. It’s too far.”
“You can hit it. Keep your eyes open.”
“But everyone’s watching.”
“Which means they’ll all be talking about it in the faculty lounge when Mrs. Haggerty shows you up.” He nodded to the paper. “Center mass. Take him out.”
I gritted my teeth and adjusted my grip. The instructors murmured as Wade issued quiet commands and I lined up my shot. I pulled the trigger, eyes open this time. One of the officers let out a low whistle. Charlie tipped an imaginary hat to me as Wade recorded my score, awarding extra points for the added distance.
“Show’s over,” Wade called out. “Everybody back to work. Finish your boxes of ammo, tally your scores, and leave your clipboards with your instructors.”
“Why do you use a smaller gun than the other instructors?” I asked him when the pop of gunfire around us resumed.
“Did you know I was carrying before I showed you?” he asked. I shook my head. I hadn’t noticed the Glock in the back of his jeans until he’d reached under his shirt to remove it. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle—or don’t handle—a weapon,” he said, the subtle inflection of his voice suggesting he’d been making a few observations of his own. “Cops carry big guns where everyone can see them. My cover would have been blown the first day I went under if I’d been caught wearing one of those,” he said, jutting his chin toward the other officers. “You can’t look like a cop, talk like a cop, carry yourself or your weapon like a cop. The bad guys have to believe you’re just another bad guy.”
“Were you? A bad guy?” I asked, surprised and a little terrified that I had voiced the question aloud.
His lips quirked behind his spit can. “You asking me if I’m a bad guy or if I’ve done some bad things?”
I thought about that as I pulled the trigger. “Is there a difference?”
He seemed to consider that as he set down his can. “You do the job long enough, gets harder to tell. We’re all liars,” he said, taking the gun and reloading the magazine with a snap. “Some of us are just better at hiding it.”