I stepped back to let him lead as the path narrowed, but he waved me on again.
I said, "So you need to know how it will affect your reflexes and your judgment. How to counter the liability. Like shooting at night."
The path forked. Jack's fingers pressed against the back of my jacket, prodding me to the left. Ahead I could see a moonlit clearing.
"Might never need it," he said. "But gotta know how. Perfect chance comes? Nighttime? Or had a beer? A coffee? Know how to compensate? Won't lose the opportunity."
He stopped in the clearing, put the rifle case on a stump and opened it. Inside was a takedown rifle and nightscope. He handed me the scope.
"Holy shit," I said, turning it over in my hands. "I've got scopes at home, but this is high-tech. James Bond territory. Yours?"
"Nah. Gadgets and me? Don't mix. That's Felix's area. And his scope."
He held out the rifle for me to attach the scope, but I was still examining it, a slow smile creeping onto my face.
"Thought you'd like that," he said. "This is done? We'll talk to Felix. Get you some stuff."
I could feel my grin stretching, thoughts of the opera house fading, almost gone now--belonging somewhere back there, in the city. Here was the forest, with its reassuring sense of home, of calm and order. And here was something for me to learn, to focus on, to enjoy. A diversion. Which was, of course, the point.
I finished setting up the rifle and played with it for a while under Jack's tutelage. Once I had the hang of it, he tried a few rounds, then we put it away. Onto the handguns. That was the real practice. I'd used nightscopes--if nothing so fancy--but I had little experience shooting a handgun in the dark. Night-vision goggles would help but, as Jack had said, this was more about preparing for found opportunities, those times when you see the chance to hit a mark, but something is less than perfect, like the lighting or your blood alcohol level.
"Need a target," Jack said. "Something we can see..."
"Hold on."
I ran back to the campfire pit and gathered all the silver-label cans, took them to the clearing and let them clatter into a pile by the stump.
"Now, to do this in proper hillbilly style, we're supposed to drink the beer, then shoot the cans, but we'll have to settle for empties and whiskey."
"Works for me." He squinted into the darkness. "Set 'em up over--"
"Uh-uh. This is supposed to be a challenge, remember?" I drew back my arm, ready to pitch the can. "Whenever you're ready..."
"Fuck no."
I turned a grin on him. "You think this is too challenging? Wait for the whiskey shots."
He laughed, a low rumble that was an actual laugh, maybe the first I'd ever heard from him. Then he took out his gun. "Five bucks."
"Oh, getting serious now, are we?"
His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. "Nah. You want serious? Wait for the whiskey shots."
I laughed and threw the can, closing my eyes as I did, hearing the crack of the gun, then the sharp ping of the can. When I looked, he was walking to the beer can pile, moving with his usual slow, deliberate gait, never in a hurry. He bent...then whirled fast, whipping the can without warning.
"Cheat!" I yelled as I fired.
The bullet zinged through the can. Jack shook his head. "Fuck."
"If you want an advantage over me, you're going to need to do better than that."
I passed him the bottle. He uncapped it and took a slug, then paused, letting the alcohol settle into his stomach before handing it back.
"Ten bucks," he said.
"You got it."
He got the can, too.