The gun range was surprisingly crowded for this early hour of a Sunday morning. Gibbs had expected it to be fairly empty. He normally brought Leigh in on Saturday afternoons or weekday evenings, but she'd had an all-day soccer tournament the day before and had begged both him and her mother to be allowed to go today instead. Leigh had even agreed to get up for early Mass with Abby in exchange. To get any sixteen-year-old out of bed voluntarily on a Sunday was something of a miracle so Abby had readily agreed. Besides, they both knew Leigh loved going to the range with him and saw no reason to deny it.
Even now as she crawled out of the car, she was practically bouncing on her feet. She'd shed her church clothes in favor of a hooded sweatshirt and battered jeans. Her newly shortened was pulled up in a stub ponytail, electric blue bangs hanging over her forehead. She followed him into the building with the ease of long familiarity, signing in and chatting amiably with the manager. She'd been coming with him for about a year now, and many of the regulars had quasi-adopted her, equal parts amused and delighted by a teenage girl who actually wanted to learn to shoot.
The range itself was crowded, mostly filled with a large group of older men around Gibbs's own age. If he'd had to guess, he'd put them as retired military or law enforcement, security guards or corrections officers maybe. That said, he'd bet his last dollar that none of them had ever seen real combat. Desk jockeys, the lot of them. They were loud, boisterous, and damned cocky. They lacked the ingrained seriousness that a combat soldier had when he picked up a gun. He leaned against the wall and watched them while he and Leigh waited. They were decent shots and one or two of them was actually pretty good. They handled the guns with competence and long practice, though he wasn't particularly impressed. Nearly anyone could do the same with a little training.
Finally, a couple of younger men at the end of the row decided to pack it in, shooting exasperated looks at the group of men as they did. When Gibbs and Leigh moved into position, one of the desk jockeys took one look at Leigh and dissolved into an arrogant guffaw. "Look here, boys, the little girl wants to learn to shoot. You be careful there, little girl, guns aren't toys."
Leigh shot him a scathing look. "Really? You don't say?" she said dryly, never taking her eyes off her weapon as she carefully and competently disassembled, checked, reassembled, and loaded it. For most people, that alone would have been enough for them to realize she wasn't a rookie, but the desk jockey, unfortunately, wasn't the brightest crayon in the box.
"Watch out now," he continued. "That thing kicks like a mule."
Had Gibbs been inclined to be objective – which, since it was Leigh, he wasn't – he would've understood the skepticism. A fifteen-year-old girl with electric blue hair wasn't typically someone who had any business handling a police issue handgun, but Leigh was not and had never been typical. From the looks of it, Leigh wasn't any more inclined to take it kindly than he was. Before Gibbs even got a chance to speak, something flashed, hot and dangerous, in Leigh's eyes, and he knew he had to move damned fast, or this was about to get ugly. Part of him wouldn't have minded watching Leigh take the idiot apart verbally. She would have, of that he didn't have the slightest doubt, but he probably didn't need to set a precedent of letting her get away with that with regard to an adult in a position of authority, even if he was an idiot. Instead, he clamped a heavy hand on her shoulder and murmured, close to her ear, "You can show them better than you can tell them."
He saw the minute his meaning dawned on her. The heat and fire in her eyes turned to a wicked mischievous gleam. Very deliberately, she laid the gun down on the ledge in front of her, picked up the earplugs that were hanging around her shoulders and tucked them into her ears, and took aim. The first shots went high and wide, landing about shoulder height on the man-shaped target. It wasn't a bad shot, but he knew it wasn't what she was aiming for. She could do better, a lot better.
Behind and to the left, the desk jockey was still chattering. Gibbs barely resisted the urge to ask him if he had a death wish. Distracting a man or woman holding a gun was so utterly dangerous as to be completely stupid. Luckily, thanks to the ear protection, Leigh wasn't hearing most of it. Gibbs stepped up and stood beside her, saying nothing, just breathing slowly and deeply. After a moment or two, he saw her catch the rhythm and breathe with him. He knew then she had it. He stepped back behind the firing line. Leigh didn't immediately fire. The desk jockey assumed the strength of the blast had rattled her and was chattering on with what he supposed was meant to be encouragement, though it was so patronizing it fairly dripped with it. Gibbs knew better. She was counting, settling into her own body rhythm.
After a moment, she lifted the gun again and fired, emptying the clip into the target. This time, when she pulled the target to her, the shots were grouped in a respectable cluster near center mass. She didn't yet have total accuracy, though she was good enough he had considered taking her to an outdoor range and seeing what she could do with a rifle as opposed to a handgun, but she was good, damn good for sixteen, and considerably better than the loudmouth desk jockey, who had now fallen into stunned silence.
"Not bad for a little girl, huh?" she said over her shoulder. No one bothered to answer. When she turned around, the desk jockey had quickly and quietly disappeared.
She sidled a sideways look at Gibbs, grinning. "Bull's-eye," she said quietly and reloaded her gun.