Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

“First off, here’s the reason so many accidental shootings happen with semiautomatics.” He clicked a latch, and the clip dropped out of the gun’s grip. Then he slid back a release, revealing the bullet still in the chamber. “Losing the clip doesn’t mean the thing’s empty.”

He tipped the gun, knocking the bullet into his hand. Closed the release. “Now it’s safe.” He pointed to the target, pulled the trigger a couple of times, and nothing happened.

“Rule number one, never point a gun—empty, loaded, whatever—unless you plan on firing it. If you point it at a person, it means you want to kill them.” He slipped the spare bullet back in the clip, put the clip back in the gun, pulled back the slide, chambered the round. Live and loaded. Rock and roll. Shit.

“Rule number two, if you need to kill someone, make sure the thing’s loaded.?

? He grinned.

“You’ve been hanging out with Cormac too long,” I said.

“Yeah, well,” he said, and left it at that.

“Who taught you all this? Rule number one, rule number two.” He handled the weapon like he’d been doing this his whole life. Maybe he had. He’d grown up on a ranch on the northern Front Range.

“My father.”

“Your freaky militia father who’s in jail?” Yes, my boyfriend had quite the history. Two of his three closest relatives were doing time.

“Yep.” He smiled. He handed me safety equipment. “Put these on.”

How the hell did I ever get mixed up with him? I was a nice girl from the suburbs. I put on the glasses and earphones, which mostly muffled my hearing, but I could still hear him as he instructed.

Hold it like this, sight along these two points on the barrel, don’t jerk at the trigger—squeeze slowly as you exhale. He fired, then fired again. The gun exploded with noise.

I flinched. Nothing good ever happened when I heard that sound. I was glad of the ear protection in this enclosed concrete space. We looked across to the target—he’d made two little holes off center, within the black circle.

“Now, you try.” He handed the thing to me.

I took it like it was alive and had teeth. Sighing, Ben stood behind me, cupped his hands around mine, and guided them into place, showing me how to hold the thing: right hand on the grip, left hand underneath, steadying it. Our bodies pressed close together.

Okay, this part was kind of sexy.

“Don’t brace your arms,” he said by my ear. “Relax. Now, breathe out, tighten the trigger—”

Supersensitive, it felt like it only moved a millimeter before it clicked and the gun jumped in my hand. Boom, loud as an explosion, I felt it in my bones. My whole arm tingled. My heart was beating fast for no good reason.

“Hey, I think you actually hit the target.” He pointed to a white tear on the edge of the paper, far outside the circle of black.

“I don’t think I was even aiming.” I furrowed my brow at the weapon.

“I couldn’t tell,” he said sarcastically. “Try again.”

He reminded me to aim along the sights, but he didn’t guide me this time. I was on my own. I fired. It still made my arms tingle, but I was ready for it this time. Again, I hit the target, but not the black circle.

“Again.” So I did, again and again and again. Went through four clips, fifteen rounds each, so that I was standing in a mess of brass casings. I got used to the noise, got used to the way the shots rattled my arms. And that was the point.

By the last clip I hit the black circle every single shot. I regarded my handiwork with grudging admiration. I didn’t want to feel proud about this.

Ben crossed his arms and nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Now pop the clip. Check the chamber, make sure it’s empty.”

I did, dutifully, like I was some kind of army trainee.

“Now, don’t you feel better?” he said.

“No. Can we go now?”

Back in the car, I asked, “You’re not going to make me carry a gun around with me all the time, are you?”