Special Operations (Badge of Honor 2)

Matt wondered if Washington was merely thinking out loud, or whether he was graciously showing him how things were done. The former was more likely; the latter quite flattering.

“I see you got rid of the horse pistol in the shoulder holster,” Washington said.

“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “I bought a Chief’s Special.”

“After I told you that, I had some second thoughts,” Washington said.

“Sir?”

“What kind of a shot are you?” Washington said.

“Actually, I’m not bad.”

“I was afraid of that, too,” Washington said. “Listen, I may be just making noise, because the chances that you would have to take that pistol out of its holster—ankle holster?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt replied.

“The chances that you will have to take that snub-nose out of its holster range from slim indeed to nonexistent, but there’s always an exception, so I want to get this across to you. The effective range, if you’re lucky, of that pistol is about as long as this car. If you, excited as you would be if you had to draw it, managed to hit a man-sized target any farther away than seven yards, it would be a miracle.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said.

“I don’t expect you to believe that,” Washington said.

“I believe you,” Matt said.

“You believe that ‘what ol’ Washington says is probably true for other people, but doesn’t apply to me. I’m a real pistolero. I shot Expert in the service with a .45.’”

“Well, I didn’t make it into the Marines,” Matt said. “But I did shoot Expert with a .45 when I was in the training program.”

“Do me a favor, kid?”

“Sure.”

“The next time you’ve got a couple of hours free, go to a pistol range. Not the Academy Range, one of the civilian ones. Colosimo’s got a good one. Take that Chief’s Special with you and buy a couple of boxes of shells for it. And then shoot at a silhouette with it. Rapid fire. Aim it, if you want to, or just point it—you know what I’m talking about, you know the difference?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then count the holes in the target. If you hit it—anywhere, not just in the head or in the chest—half the time, I would be very surprised.”

“You mean I should practice until I’m competent with it?” Matt asked.

“No. That’s not what I mean. The point I’m trying to make is that Wyatt Earp and John Wayne couldn’t shoot a snub-nose more than seven yards, nobody can, and expect to hit what they’re shooting at. I want you to convince yourself of that, and remember it, if—and I reiterate—in the very unlikely chance you ever have to use that gun.”

“Oh, I think I see what you mean,” Matt said.

“I hope so,” Washington said. “My own rule of thumb is that if he’s too far away to belt in the head with a snub-nose, he’s too far away to shoot.”

Matt chuckled.

“Where the hell are we?” Washington said. “We should be in Canada by now. Pull in the next gas station and ask for directions.”

Route 212, a two-lane, winding road, was fifteen miles from the gas station. They

had no trouble finding the dirt road 4.4 miles from the intersection of 611 and 212. There were a dozen cars and vans parked on the shoulder of the road by it, some wearing State Trooper and Bucks County Sheriff’s Department regalia, and others the logotypes of radio and television stations.

A sheriff’s deputy waved them through on 212, and advanced angrily on the car when Matt turned on the left-turn signal.

“Crime scene,” the deputy called when Matt rolled the window down.