Shooters and Cissies
PROLOGUE
Owings Mills, Maryland
Industrial Republic of North America
December 21
IRNA Navy Petty Officer Stephen de la Cruz (Hispanic/Caucasian Industrial)
IRNA Navy Petty Officer Kaitlin McGuiness (Caucasian Industrial)
IRNA Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Sam Woods (African Industrial)
The three Maryland natives were inseparable their entire lives, growing up in the same suburban D.C. neighborhood, through grade, middle and high school. Even after they went their separate ways into their country's armed forces, they kept in touch through the UniNet.
Their grandfathers served the old United States of America, their fathers in the navy of its spiritual successor.
Against the odds, all three had gotten leave for the holidays, and after a joyous family reunion at Baltimore International, the three decided to spend an evening together doing one of their favorite activities:
Target practice.
"I don't remember this place," McGuiness said, as de la Cruz pulled his Expedition into a semi-out-of-the-way industrial park.
"Blame Sam," de la Cruz replied, putting the vehicle into park.
"Found it on the Shooters app," said Woods, holding up his MacPhone, which had the app on full screen. The app showed the address to Mark's Shooting Range, promising a 'full shooting experience, indoors, unaffected by weather'.
"I thought Roger Holston was still open?" McGuiness asked. "How many times did we go there...Stevie. Remember when I nearly shot you in the ass?"
"You weren't supposed to shoot at me while I was in the field, Katie," he said, as the three stepped out of the vehicle. "And you missed."
"Did I?" she teased, then rubbed her arms. "Good thing this place is indoors...it's freezing out here."
"We did 15 above before, Katie," de la Cruz said. "Sam did it in upstate New York."
"No comment," said Woods. Even among friends, he didn't like talking Marine Corps missions even if he did spill a few more details than he should have to Katie and Steve.
"You sure about this place?" McGuiness asked, as de la Cruz walked up to the counter. The burly man looked at the 40% off coupon on the app - scanning the code on the MacPhone - and after Jones paid the $60 discount, told them they had the run of the place until closing.
"Sweet," McGuiness said.
"Sam, you wanna place a bet? Katie only makes 90 percent," de la Cruz said.
"Please. You're talking to a trained sniper," she dismissed. "100 percent all the way."
"Then, Miss Kaitlin, do you want to bet you'll make 100 percent?" de la Cruz said.
"Wanna double it?" McGuiness replied. "Sam? Want to get in on this?"
"Yeah, Gunny. Get in on this. And make sure you side with me. Won't lose your money."
"Pleeeaaassseee. I'm already spending the money I'm gonna make off this, sailor."
"I'm staying out of your pissing match," Jones said. "Too busy working on my own perfect score...I ain't in the Marine Corps just to look good."
"Then how about another bet: highest score buys drinks. O'Halloran's."
"Deal."
Three hours later, closing time came, and all three were raving about the range.
"This place really is as good as advertised," Jones said to the burly guy at the counter, as he and his friends prepared to leave.
"That so?" the man replied.
"25 users, four to five stars each. They weren't kidding!" Jones said. "Five stars from us, too. Pass that along to your boss."
"Have a good one," de la Cruz said, as the trio left.
"I"ll pass somethin' along all right...boy," the burly guy growled under his breath.
The trio saw an F-350 pickup that wasn't there before, two spots from their Expedition. They didn't see anyone else in the range.
A couple of men - wearing Dover Demons leather jackets - stepped out of the truck and headed for McGuiness, who was quickly trying to open the passenger door.
They grabbed both her arms.
"Where's the stash?" said the taller one, wearing a crimson cap with a stylized 'A'. And speaking with a decidedly Southern accent.
"Hey! Hands off the lady!" Jones said, flying from the driver's side to help his friend. He got shoved into the pavement for his trouble by the stockier fellow, wearing a red cap with a black G within a white oval.
"This don't concern ya, boy," said another guy, built like a linebacker, wearing an overcoat that said 'CRACKERS' across the front.
"I think it does," said de la Cruz, running across the front of the Expedition to McGuiness's aid, getting between her and the tall guy with the crimson cap. "We don't have any quarrel with you. And we don't have any 'stash'."
"Oh we have a, what was it Bubba, 'quarrel' with you Industrial sons of bitches," said the tall guy.
Jones got up, and stood next to McGuiness. He figured they were outnumbered, and that through she could fight, she was at a disadvantage one on one against any of these guys. "You shove me again, I'm gonna have a quarrel with you."
"I can oblige you, boy," said the guy in the 'CRACKERS' overcoat.
McGuiness made the connection. The overcoat, the caps, the accents.
These were definitely Confederates. They may be Cissies looking for an easy kill.
She stepped past de la Cruz - to his and Sam's surprise - and struck a pose, just as her C.O. had taught her in case she found herself in this kind of situation.
"I got your stash, sweethearts," she said, sweetly. "Let the fellas go. I'll show ya where it is."
Oh God no, Jones thought. This is NOT going down...it ain't going down.
"Kaitlin-" was all he got out before being hit by a baseball, which bounced off the side of Sam's head, upwards and into de la Cruz's hands. He looked at the baseball - SANCTIONED BY DIXIE LEAGUE BASEBALL, CLIFTON M. LANDIS III COMMISSIONER - and a chill went down his back.
"What do you want?" de la Cruz said. "What do you Confederates-"
He was hit in the back of the head with a Kentucky Slugger by the burly counter guy - who had snuck out of the establishment - and crumpled to the ground.
"Shut up, you dirty Mexican," burly guy spat, before belching.
McGuiness began to fear for her life, but she would stand her ground. She would not abandon her friends.
To her surprise, none of the four - nor the other two wearing C.S. Air Force leather bomber jackets who snuck out the passenger side - made a move on her.
"You can have my body," she said, defiantly, as she was told three brave Plainsian women had done to save their male loved ones during their country's war with the Confederates in the late '50s. "Do with me as you wish. Leave my friends alone. Spare their lives."
They didn't make a move. Just stood there and glared at her.
"Please," she pleaded, silently, then saw the burly guy brandish his baseball bat.
"You ain't worth it, you damn Yankee whore," she heard from her right.
Anyone else in the vicinity would have heard short bursts of gunfire, followed by the F-350 peeling out of the parking lot.
After the truck left, they would have seen the Expedition with its driver's door open, the shooting range's front door left wide open.
And three bodies laying in blood on the parking lot, next to the Expedition.
-NCIS—
Note: many thanks to Chipperback at for his graciously allowing me the run of his Willa Catherverse for this alt-NCIS story!