Page 23 of Deadfall

I nodded. “My dad showed me how to use a .22.”

I could feel his attention while I stared at the gun. I was conflicted about touching firearms again. Partially because of the memories they evoked about my childhood, but mostly because of the trauma of staring down the barrel of one and being shot.

Sacha picked up the gun. “I’m going to start at the beginning. If you want to progress through anything, let me know.”

Sacha proceeded to take the gun apart. He explained each piece before he put it all back together and slid it toward me to do the same. We spent the next hour getting me reacquainted with a nine-millimeter and a forty-five, doing nothing more complicated than taking them apart and putting them back together. At the end of the session, I definitely wasn’t ready to shoot one, but I no longer had the visceral fear of holding them that I’d had before coming down to the armory.

For a week we kept up the same routine. Sacha would show me a gun, take it apart, put it back together, and then make me do it until it felt like muscle memory. I took apart everything he had in his armory—handguns and rifles—nothing was left untouched.

However, I didn’t touch ammo until the second week. Sacha showed me how to load magazines. I did it until my fingers were raw and torn, and only then did he hand me a gadget that made the process a breeze. I scowled, but knew there was a lesson there so I didn’t protest. I thought it would take me longer to want to shoot one, but on the afternoon of the seventh day, I abruptly set down the mag I’d been loading, thoroughly bored.

“When can I shoot?”

Sacha was perched on a stool, cleaning his hunting rifle. He stopped and looked up with a glimmer of something in his eyes like maybe he’d been waiting for me to ask him that.

“Grab a gun and those mags you just loaded,” he said.

We walked outside to the back meadow. It was an unusually clear, crisp winter day. The snow crunched under our boots and glittered like thousands of diamonds in the sun. Sacha pulled an orange cloth from his pocket and attached it to a tree about ten yards away. He came back and gave me ear plugs and a set of clear glasses for eye protection. Once I put them on, he nodded toward the tree.

“There’s your target.”

I gripped the gun with palms that were sweating in my gloves. There was no way I’d ever forget the first time I pulled the trigger of a gun, but this felt similar. Back then, my hesitation was because I hadn’t known what to expect. This time, I think I was hesitant to hear the sound.

I opened and closed my fingers and found a grip I liked, then jammed a mag in and raised the gun downrange. The scar on my head tingled. I took a deep breath—

And, another.

I placed my finger on the trigger—then took it off and lowered the gun.

I couldn’t do it. The anticipation of hearing the gunshot made my skin clammy from stress. I turned to Sacha who stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He’d been staring downrange, but his attention slowly drifted to me. I couldn’t read the expression behind his stony frown.

“Problem?” He asked.

I licked my dry lips. I didn’t dare tell him I couldn’t do it.

“It’s kind of far.”

It wasn’t. We both knew it.

It was a testament to how well I’d gotten to know his mannerisms the last few months that I even caught the quick flash of amusement in his eyes before he resumed his usual stoic features.

He shrugged. “Then move closer.”

I turned back toward the target and chewed on my lower lip. I had to do this—if I wanted to one day get revenge on whoever had hurt my family, I needed to be able to handle a gun. The frustration with my own self-inflicted hesitation pushed me back into action.

Quit being a baby.

I raised the gun downrange again and settled my hands around it.

“Don’t just pull the trigger—squeeze it. Feel the weight of it against your finger, but don’t anticipate the kick,” Sacha said quietly.

I adjusted my feet and slowly put my finger back on the trigger. I released the breath I held, and squeezed. The bang was loud and sent chills across my skin, but the relief after the first shot made the next one easier. And the next—until the slide popped as I fired the last bullet.

I dropped the empty mag and slid another one in. I pressed the lever I knew depressed the slide to chamber one. This time I tried to aim and Sacha provided a few pointers. I hit the tree, and everywhere else but the orange fabric. At the end of the mag, I lowered the gun and glared downrange at the perfectly intact orange cloth blowing gently in the breeze. I heard the huff of something very close to a chuckle from over my shoulder.

“Align the sights down the barrel and keep your grip steady so when you squeeze the trigger you’re not pulling the gun one way or the other. You’re also anticipating it a bit toward the end of the rounds, so your aim is high and to the right.” He tapped my thumb. “Align your thumb down the barrel toward your target.”

We made a few adjustments and I managed to get a closer grouping with the next few rounds. When one of my shots finally hit the orange fabric, I made a small sound of victory and my lips curled into a rare smile.