Page 60 of Hoofin’ It

“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?”