Mac was silent. Rodriguez was truly worked up about this. “Nick,” he said, using the man’s first name, something he rarely did. “I’ll call the office so they know where I am. I’m carrying. I’ll call you back when I’m done. If I don’t call you back in two hours, then send in the cavalry — preferably someone who would be on my side not his. OK?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rodriguez said. “Hell, if you can’t take care of yourself against Malloy? That would be embarrassing.”
“It would,” Mac agreed. “Now let me get off the phone so I can have this same conversation with Janet. By the time I’m done, I’m going to face rush hour traffic all the way home.”
“Be careful, Mac,” was all he said as he hung up.
His prediction that Janet would have similar worries proved true.
“Be careful, Mac,” she said finally, the worry still in her voice.
“Yes, mom,” he said. She laughed.
By the time he’d concluded that conversation, he was sitting in the parking lot of Malloy’s Gun Range, and a vaguely familiar man with a flat-top was standing in the entrance with his arms folded across his chest.
Mac moved his Glock from the bottom of his backpack to his jacket pocket, and got out. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder.
“Thought you might be having second thoughts about coming in,” the man said.
“Nah, called into the office and couldn’t get them off the phone,” Mac said. “Must be nice being your own boss.”
Mac stuck out his hand. “Mac Davis,” he said. “Reporter for the Seattle Examiner. Craig Anderson called you?”
Andy Malloy looked at Mac’s hand. For a moment Mac thought he was going to refuse to take it, but he did. And then tried to turn it into a competition of who would wince first. Mac didn’t play. He just released his hand.
“Yeah, he called me,” Malloy said. “You want a tour?”
“I’d appreciate it.” He fell in step with the ex-cop.
Malloy had the spiel down. And it was a sweet set-up for a range. If it were closer, he’d sign up himself. And he said so. Malloy gave a short nod.
“So, Craig said you’re asking questions about my certification program?”
“Yeah. Let me tell you about my morning.”
“Not the gun’s fault,” Malloy said predictably.
“Nope. He’d have gone for a butcher knife if he hadn’t the gun. They’d still be dead, and the only difference would be the amount of blood splatter,” Mac said. He believed that. Kind of. “So, he had these team photos on his wall but with AR-15s instead of a basketball, and I got curious. He’s some kind of desk jockey, after all. A friend recognized Craig, and I came down. He told me about your certification program.”
Mac shrugged. “It sounds like a good idea, so I figured I’d come see you. Do a feature about what you’re doing.”
“Why are you really here, Davis?”
“I’m looking to find out why a bunch of desk jockeys have weapon stockpiles. They pulled 100 guns out of that guy’s house this morning,” Mac said. “It’s the third stockpile by a guy like that in the last month. But that’s the long-range question. Short term? My boss will want me to have a story for tomorrow’s paper. And a feature on a guy who’s teaching people to use guns safely? She’ll like it. So, tell me about it. And you can also tell me why all these guys want hundreds of guns.”
Malloy snorted. “Not sure why. They say it’s for when SHTF. But where they got that notion? Beats me.”
“So how does your program work?”
Malloy walked him through it, and gradually warmed up to talking more about it. “Shit, it’s weird,” he admitted. “Team photos. I expect they’ll be selling each other T-shirts next. They already have one of mine. They think they’re tough because they stood in a photo with Craig Anderson. But I figure if they’re going to be obsessed with guns, they ought to get training on them. And if they bought those guns through Craig? He makes sure the paperwork is done on all the sales. Bunch of law-abiding fuckers stockpiling guns.”
Mac jotted it all down. He took some photos.
“You said SHTF?” Mac asked.
“Shit Hits the Fan,” Malloy said. “It’s a big thing online. They’ve got lists of the best weapons to have — and the list is usually 10 or so weapons long and includes AK-47s.”
“So not preppers, really, but kind of?” Mac said, making a note to check it out when he got back to the office.
“Yeah, I don’t think they plan to live off their stores of freeze-dried batshit,” Malloy agreed. “With the weapons they want to have, they’re looking at rampaging and living like some kind of overlord.”
Mac considered that and shook his head. “Somebody’ll take their weapon stash on day three,” he said. Hell, it might be him.
Malloy laughed. “You got that right.”
Mac started walking back toward the entrance. He looked around. It was a clean, well-managed range. He was impressed.
“So, these guys have a Sensei of some sort? They ever mention a name?” Mac asked. He looked back, Malloy had fallen a few steps behind and was now pointing a Sig Sauer P228 at him. Nice gun, too bad they don’t make them anymore, was his first thought.
“Jesus, Malloy,” Mac said. “What the fuck?”
“Get off my property,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot you for trespassing.”
Mac started backing toward the exit. “I’m leaving, already. You going to tell me why you’re pissy after we’ve been talking for nearly an hour?”
“You think I buy that you’re here to look at a gun range? You? Nah. You’re looking to pin those men’s stockpiles on me. What? Get some revenge points?”
“Nothing wrong with them stockpiling,” Mac observed. He shrugged his backpack over his left shoulder. “I’m looking for a story, not revenge, man.”
Malloy snorted. “Then why are you asking about Sensei? Huh?”
Mac put both hands in his pockets, as he
