Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 17

The gun was far too big in her hands. Its weight felt disproportionate to its size. She chose it on purpose; she wanted to feel this power. It was an IMI Desert Eagle. A hand cannon.

The clunky metal was heavy to lift. The scent of gun cleaner carried off of it sharp as ammonia. She followed the instructions she was taught. Dealing with real power such as this made it important to follow the manual. Jake Hardy, the ex-Special Forces Sergeant who owned the gun range, had taught her the ropes. And proper safety was the sturdiest rope of all.

The air was crisp with a bite each time the wind gusted.

"It's a good thing," Jake had said, "to perform under distraction."

The field was long. During the spring she'd see it like a meadow. Wildflowers grew along the sides among tall, beige grass. But in the winter it was nothing but snow and ice, with targets protruding at different eye levels. The farthest was five-hundred yards away. That was for the snipers. Sometimes she'd watch them from behind as they'd prepare to take their shot. It was their preparation that was calming. Long and methodical. Even a slight breeze would have to be accounted for, or their shot would be ruined. They'd never succumb to the pressure. They'd let their training do the work for them, like they were tying their shoes. It was second nature.

With all the snow, Jake and his sons had set the targets as snowmen. Diane counted fifteen in all. She imagined them giggling the whole time as they rolled the snow, set the base, the torso, and put the head on. A few even wore top hats.

Most of them were already blown away; the regular targets stood behind them.

She took her time, waiting for Jake to make his rounds.

She wondered what it would be like if her targets were made of real flesh instead of melting snow. She wondered if she'd be able to pull the trigger when it counted, when adrenaline coursed through the body like electricity.

"How we doing?" Jake said, approaching her, his scruffy voice matched his beard. It was near thirty degrees, but Jake walked around in a t-shirt. His hardened body was immune to Jack Frost. He never slouched, always standing straight, as if his muscles wouldn't allow him to bend.

"Good, just getting ready to shoot, doing it how you told me."

"Let's see."

Her target was fifteen yards away. She stood sturdy. Her right foot dragged back to a forty-five-degree angle. Knees slightly bent as she readied to aim. Her trigger finger lay against the barrel, waiting for the proper moment, itching. Her hands joined together, the way Jake taught her, thumbs married on the other side.

"Looking good, Diane. Let me just make one adjustment," Jake said.

She felt him slide against her from behind. She closed her eyes and savored the touch. The bulk of his arms wrapped around hers. His calloused hands, rough on her biceps, loosened her arms. They were the hands of a man.

"You don't want your arms this straight. We're gonna bend them a little bit to give some flexibility. I'm still not sure why you chose the Eagle to shoot, but as long as you're prepared for the recoil you'll be fine."

Diane felt the eyes of Jake's wife on them. She was rifle shooting in the distance. Vanessa. The woman was gorgeous. Blond hair and hazel eyes, with the sporty body of a goddess. It was like she was manufactured instead of born.

Diane raised the gun to eye level and her body became alive with the memory. She was in California's Berkley College at the time, a dumb sorority girl, naive to the world. With the gun in her hands she felt the wooziness of the spiked drink she'd been given that night. She felt the sweaty grip of the boy on top of her. The confused thrusting. The paralysis. The sounds of the other boys chanting as they gathered around them. The confusion. The smell of his hot breath over her, reeking of pizza and cheap beer. She became part of the pledge's hazing, much like forced chores and hundreds of push-ups. The flash from the camera went off.