ladies. We’re a little slow this afternoon so I can give you adjoining lanes if you…”
Sandy began, “Well, I was…”
“Why that’d be just precious, Sugar.” Martha smiled hugely, pronouncing the endearment as “Sugah.” She flashed her driver’s license and signed the hold-harmless release without reading it. “Girls’ night out, at the shooting range,” she enthused.
At that moment Sandra Carmichael abandoned any thought of meaningful practice.
“Lanes four and five,” Masterson said, accepting Sandy’s registration slip.
“Thanks, Ed,” she intoned. “Ay-ed” was long gone as she went all squinty-eyed in anticipation of the impending battle.
Watching the two women stride toward the glassed-in shooting bay, Ed mused that it was gonna be a combination gunfight and catfight and, if it strayed to the cafeteria next door, likely a food fight as well.
Taking their positions beside one another, the SSI operatives were separated by a Plexiglas barrier to stop flying brass. Neither spoke as they loaded magazines: Carmichael using Blazer .45; Whitney Wolf 9 mm.
With fewer rounds to load, Carmichael finished first. She activated her remote target console and picked up two targets. “Silhouette or bull’s-eye?”
Whitney suggested, “Why not both, darlin’?”
“Why not?”
From two previous encounters, Sandy knew that she was more accurate but Martha shot faster. The tacit agreement seemed headed for a tie: Sandy would likely take the bull’s-eye contest and Martha the “combat” segment.
They ran their targets out to fifteen meters, pulled on their glasses and ear protectors, and went to low ready. Sandy’s Kimber and Martha’s Glock touched the bench in front of them. “Ten rounds,” Sandy said.
Martha nodded.
“Ready, go!”
Thirty-two seconds and a reload later, Sandy laid down her Kimber, the thumb safety engaged.
Martha finished four seconds later, the Glock 19’s slide locked back.
“You usually shoot faster than that,” Sandy ventured.
“Baby, I’m shootin’ for score this time.”
They reeled in their targets and counted scores. Sandy won, forty-two to thirty-nine. “You got bigger holes,” Whitney observed. “Those.45s turn nines into tens.”
Sandy beamed. “Sure do, Sugar.”
“Well, honey, the first man I killed didn’t know the difference ‘cause I put six out of six in his sorry ass.”
Sandy shrugged. “First man I killed only took two.”
Martha ignored the retort, knowing that her rival had shot two armed intruders in SSI offices less than a year before. “Then the next time… well, the next time I done smoked two of ‘em. I’d tell you ‘bout it but it’s still classified, don’t you know.”
“We gonna talk or shoot?” Sandy taped up her silhouette target and ran it out to ten meters. Martha did the same.
Sandy picked up the Pact timer and set it for delay start. “Five rounds, rapid fire.” She pressed the button and three seconds later the beep went.
Whitney pushed the Glock’s black snout straight out from her body, locked her arms in an isosceles triangle, and went to work on the trigger. Allowing the trigger to reset after each shot, she dumped five rounds into the torso in less than three seconds. The hits were scattered in a buckshot pattern, but they were all there.
Sandy brought the .45 to eye level in a Weaver stance, left elbow low, and took nearly five seconds to put five rounds into a melon-sized group in the target’s solar plexus. “More recoil,” she murmured unnecessarily.
In the lobby a small crowd was gathering, all fascinated, all male. The observers stepped close to the safety glass partition for a better look.
“What’s with the women?” asked a revolver shooter.
“Catfight,” explained Ay-ed.
“Who’s winning?” queried a Sig advocate.
“Looks about even,” the wheelgunner opined.
Sig turned to Masterson. “Well, who are they?”
“Oh, a coupla ladies who work for a Beltway outfit.”
“Dang,” Wheelgunner exclaimed. “I never saw a black gal shoot before.”
“Not like that you didn’t,” Masterson said.
The conversation lagged while the women resumed firing. The next string was timed head shots.
The string after that was strong hand only, fifteen meters.
The string after that was support hand only, ten meters.
“Looks like they’ve done this before,” Sig observed.
Wheelgunner nodded. “Looks like they’re plumb serious.”
Masterson knew something about Colonel Sandra Carmichael, U.S. Army, retired. “Serious as it gets, Earl.”
When the range session ended the crowd parted as the women hung up their earmuffs. The parting words were Whitney’s:
“Hey, girlfriend, your Kimber’s dandy but my Glock is the ultimate in feminine protection!”
12
The United 777 had barely begun debarking passengers when Bosco strode down the jetway. He overtook the first-class passengers, bumping a dignified woman old enough to be his mother and then some. Barely missing a beat, he barked, “Excusemema’am,” took her valise from her without being asked, and solicitously carried it to the security gate.
“Bosco!”
“J. J. my man!”
The two mercenaries exchanged male-bonding hugs accompanied by considerable back slapping. As Johnson stepped back, he grinned conspiratorially. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Bosco looked around. “Like what?” Then the light dawned. “Oh, hell, I ain’t gonna say, like,
With an exaggerated motion, Johnson pointed over Bosco’s left shoulder. The gray-haired lady stood with a bemused expression, her pale blue eyes sparkling at the boisterous pair.
Bosco blushed visibly — a rarity for him — and sheepishly handed back the valise. “Sorry, ma’am. I sorta forgot…”
She patted his muscled arm and leaned close. “It’s quite all right, young man. I heard you say that you love your partner.” She winked. “My godson is gay, too.”
Bosco watched the sympathetic lady walk away his jaw at half mast.
“What’d she say?” Johnson asked.
“Uh… she… uh.” He looked at the carpeted floor. “I couldn’t understand her.”
As they walked to the baggage claim Johnson enthused, “Hey I’m goin’ trout fishing in a couple days. I have a buddy from LaGrande— ex-Marine who says they’re biting real well at Horsethief. I can fix you up with everything you’d need. I hear that Chironomid and Woolly Buggers are workin’ real well.”
Boscombe shook his head in wonderment. “What language is that?”
“Hell, man, it’s fish talk. What do you think it is?”
Bosco shrugged his big shoulders. “Klingon?”
Johnson nudged his friend with an elbow. “C’mon, man. It’s not far north of here. We could have a good time. You catch ‘em and I’ll clean ‘em.
“There’s that language thing again.”
