Blood Orchid (Holly Barker 3)

There were twenty positions, putting Holly right in the middle. She set down her bag, unzipped the pistol pouch, and removed the Beretta. Then she had a thought and returned to the window. “Do you have a tank?” she asked. “I’d like to get a sample.”

“Just a minute.” The woman picked up a telephone, dialed a three-digit extension, and spoke into the phone. A moment later a man entered the booth and motioned Holly toward a door next to it. He met her and let her in.

“Hi, I’m Jimmy,” he said. “This is my place.”

“Hi, I’m Helen.” They shook hands.

“You want to fire it yourself, or you want me to do it?”

“I’ll fire.”

Jimmy led her across what appeared to be a storeroom and pointed at the tank, a container a few feet long filled with water.

Holly shoved the magazine into the Beretta, worked the action, flipped off the safety, and fired two rounds into the tank.

“Just a minute,” Jimmy said. He went to the other end, opened a flap and, using a flashlight and a pair of tongs, retrieved the two slugs. “Here you go,” he said, handing them to her.

“Thanks,” she said, dropping them into her purse.

He nodded and let her out of the room.

She went back to her station and flipped a switch that moved her target back to fifty feet. She put on ear protectors, took up a combat stance—knees bent, pistol held out before her with two hands—and emptied the magazine into the target. Then she removed her Walther from her handbag and emptied anot

her magazine into the target. She flipped the switch and brought the target back to her.

“Nice grouping,” a voice said from behind her.

She turned to find Jimmy standing there. “Thanks.”

“That’s a really good grouping with the Walther.”

She examined the target. The 9mm shots formed a tight group at the bull’s-eye, while the .765 shots were a little more dispersed. “I haven’t shot for a while,” she said. “At that range, I ought to be able to fire just as tight with the Walther as with the Beretta.”

He put another target up for her, and she moved it to 100 feet and fired both pistols. When the target came back, the groupings were looser, but still good.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” Jimmy asked.

“My father taught me when I was a kid—he’s a lot better shot than I am—then I was in the military. I did the twenty.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Nice little business you’ve got here.”

“Thanks.” He put another target up for her, and she moved it to 150 feet. The groupings were wider, but the man-shaped target had taken all the slugs in the chest.

“I’m impressed,” Jimmy said.

“Think I’ll take a break, then see if I can improve my groupings,” she said. “Can I buy you a beer?”

“We don’t sell it here, but I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” He indicated for her to follow him. A moment later, she was seated in his office and he was pouring her a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the cup.

“You live around here?”

“No, up the coast.”

“What brings you to my place?”