Turning toward the door, he grabbed the double shoulder holster and his worn out Texas Rangers cap from the pegs. He slipped the shoulder holster over his arms and settled it into place, clipping the leading edges of the hold-downs to his belt and adjusting the fit of the holsters under both arms, then he donned the cap.
Bobby walked outside and soaked up the early morning sunlight. The smell of honeysuckle hung thick in the air and the bird calls were loud in the heavy woods surrounding his home. Bobby had long ago given up on “normal” life and bought this remote patch of wooded acreage deep in the heart of Wood County Texas right after he quit working for Uncle Sam. He’d spent too many years in the military and even more years as a private contractor for various federal agencies doing things that he was no longer proud of. At the time, he’d felt it was a necessary evil. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
No longer trusting his government, nor himself, he relegated himself to a life of seclusion. He cut himself off from the creature comforts that many now consider necessities and chose to live in this slightly modernized version of a cave–a hand built, earth-bermed house that, from nearly every angle, appeared to be simply a grassy hill in the middle of the forty acres of woods.
Bobby’s only tie to the modern world was an antiquated cell phone which was anything but smart. Pre-GPS, the phone could do two things: make phone calls and rudimentary texting. Barely. And that was more technology than Bobby Bridger was comfortable with. That’s not to say that he didn’t know his way around most forms of electronics; he could set up computer systems, install, program and maintain the most sophisticated of security systems and knew all about miniaturized tracking and recording devices. He’d worked with them for years. He simply didn’t want any of those things around him. Paranoid, perhaps. Cautious, definitely.
Bobby stood outside and stretched, feeling the cramps slowly work themselves out. Too many hours sitting behind a glowing screen had given him a literal pain in the neck. He slowly made his way to his makeshift shooting range. He could feel the blood slowly work its way back into his extremities as he approached the log bench.
Bobby stared at the stumps at the 50-yard mark and noted the splintering and hollowed out body of the stumps. He had found two old-growth oaks and cut them off at the four-foot mark. These were his target silhouettes. Soon, he’d have to replace his bullet catchers and the closest trees of notable size were nearly seventy yards out. He smiled to himself and thought, nothing like making things harder to keep you sharp in your old age.
Bobby pulled the dual Glock 20s and laid them on his homemade bench. He slid the magazines out and checked that they were fully loaded. Satisfied that each had fifteen rounds loaded, he slammed them home and chambered a round. He slid the pistols back into their holsters and put his shooting glasses on. He squeezed the foam ear plugs and pushed them into his ears. He knew what to expect from the 10MM monsters. The recoil was a welcome kick in his hand and the noise would be deafening without the plugs.
Bobby stared at the two stumps across from him and tried to imagine a scenario where both were advancing, armed men. He mentally placed himself into the frame of mind he knew he’d need to kill again, and in one fluid motion, drew both weapons and fired at the stumps while sidestepping, making himself a harder target for another shooter to hit. His eyes didn’t truly focus between the stumps, but his peripheral vision observed as both stumps exploded. Bits of wood, bark, pulp and hot metal flew from the main body of the dead trees. He tucked low at the end of the bench behind the solid log cover of the support and switched magazines then stood and fired again as he crossed the bench in the other direction.
When he was finished, he stood and stared at the smoking midsection of the stumps, the slides locked back on both pistols and his barrels emitting wisps of spent powder. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
Bridger spun, his body immediately taking a defensive posture. He relaxed visibly as Scott Evans, Sheriff for Wood County, slowly approached from around the side of his home. “You should have announced yourself, Scott.”
“I tried. Sounded like a damned machine gun going off up here.” Scott smirked as he nodded toward the dual pistols. “Like I said, remind me not to piss you off.”
Bobby chuckled as he released the slides and retrieved his dropped magazines. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I gotta have a reason to come out and visit a buddy?” Scott leaned against the bench and studied the destroyed oak stumps. “What the hell did those trees ever do to you?”
“They tried to advance on my home without announcing themselves.” Bobby shoved the empty magazines back into his holster and leaned on the bench next to Scott. “Now, as I said, to what do I owe the pleasure? The last time you called on me, a very prominent business man died under rather strange circumstances.”
Scott paled slightly. “Nothing quite so dire. At least, I hope not.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Bobby.
“What’s this?” Bridger unfolded the paper and stared at it.
“Came across the wire this morning.” Scott turned around and leaned backward against the bench. “Thought maybe you should see it.”
“What the…” Bobby’s voice trailed off as he read the announcement. “I was put on a watch list?”
“That’s the way it looks. What the hell did you do? Did you send the president hate mail or
