Author's Note: Three Marshals walk into a bar...
Aimpoint - Chapter Two
Art and Raylan were already seated at a table when Tim entered Molly's. Raylan kicked out a chair and Tim plunked himself in it.
The waitress came over and greeted them warmly. "What'll it be today, boys? Beer or bourbon?"
"Both," Raylan and Tim answered simultaneously.
"Jinx," said Raylan, and they grinned like school boys.
"Bad day?" the waitress asked.
"Bad attitude," Art replied.
She smiled and went to get their order.
"Well," Art said squinting at Tim, "I don't see any blood."
"Ms. Ootes wasn't there," Tim said, with a heartfelt grin.
Art's face fell. "But I spoke to the lady in scheduling just before you went down."
"It was a different psychologist," Tim explained.
"Where was horse-face?" asked Raylan.
Tim smirked at the reference and shrugged.
"Is the new one nice?"
"Yeah," Tim replied, playing with the cardboard coaster on the table.
"She?" Raylan prompted.
"Uh-huh."
"Was she young?" Art demanded suspiciously.
"Yep."
"Pretty?"
"Yep."
"Tim," Raylan huffed, losing patience with the minimalist responses, "start talking or Art and I are going to beat you stupid."
Tim hooked an arm over the back of his chair, tilted his head and looked challengingly at Raylan. "I never understood why they had you teaching weapons at Glynco when your interrogation skills are your real strength."
Raylan stood up and leaned in toward Tim threateningly. Tim threw his hands up in surrender.
"Okay, okay. It was fine. We talked. She was completely different from horse-face. She was…lovely. Lovely to talk to, I mean." The last sentence came out in a rush.
"I may have to pay her a visit," said Raylan, a little too eagerly for Tim's liking.
It was on the tip of Art's tongue to say that Raylan had to shoot someone to get to see her, but his age had made him circumspect and he bit it back. Raylan might take it as permission. Moreover, Art was not yet through worrying about Tim. He had to be a raw still about the shooting, although he hid it well.
He opened his mouth to say that Raylan could talk about his Daddy issues with her, but he bit that back too. It was too soon after Arlo's arrest and the revelation that followed. Raylan pretended he didn't care, but how could he not. Discouraged, Art swallowed his quips and waited for his bourbon and wondered when his office had gotten so dysfunctional. Fortunately, the waitress arrived at that moment with their drinks.
"Take his back," Art said, pointing at Tim. "He hasn't earned it."
A few rounds and some wings later, the Marshals started into training stories. Art and Raylan described some of the new recruits they'd trained together at Glynco. At one point Raylan had Art laughing so hard he was crying.
"I'm just glad I never had to deal with someone like you," Art said tipping his beer in Tim's direction. "I bet you were a snotty-nosed little shit with the instructors. Could any of them shoot better than you?"
"I wasn't a little shit," Tim said defensively. "Besides, I'm only better with a rifle."
"So what's the longest shot you ever took in Afghanistan?" asked Raylan.
Tim drew patterns in the water beads on his beer glass. "Most of the time we were engaging the enemy at over five hundred yards," he answered mechanically. "They liked to stay out of range of the standard infantry rifles. That's why they call it the snipers' war. I made some over a thousand, and a couple over eighteen hundred."
"That's over a mile," Art said in amazement.
Tim shrugged it off. "We had the right equipment. All the record breaking shots are from Afghanistan. It's the altitude. You're already four to six thousand feet above sea level, and higher when you're in the mountains. A bullet travels farther in the thinner air," he explained, steering the conversation into the technical aspects of shooting, keeping it at a safe distance.
"What a fascinating lesson in warfare and ballistics, Tim," said Raylan.
"And a wonderful display of your escape and evasion skills," Art added.
"What?" said Tim, pretending not to understand.
"We were hoping maybe you'd tell us about your longest shot," Raylan explained. "You know, a personal anecdote about your time in a war zone."
Tim went from relaxed and alcohol-hazy to sober and guarded in a flash and looked at the two of them warily. "What is this, an intervention or something?" he asked, glaring from Art to Raylan.
"Only if Rachel were here," Raylan replied with a smile, trying to calm Tim down. "We're just curious."
"Would it kill you to tell us a story?" Art reasoned. "Look at poor Raylan, he drags his personal history into the office every day. Hell, I'm considering booking us all into group therapy just to deal with his shit."
"Why, thank you Art for being so sensitive," Raylan responded and shook his head at him.
"I run a caring office."
"One story," Raylan cajoled, turning the attention back to Tim. "And if you want we'll turn our backs and not look at you."
Tim sighed and looked down at his hands, thinking back, but every interesting story brought to mind a face he wouldn't see anymore, or a scene he didn't feel comfortable describing in a bar in Lexington, Kentucky. The rest of it was boring, jokes that were only funny at the time to tired soldiers, or the grind of waiting, sleeping, sitting in the back of a truck, or scrambling over rocks.
"Fine," he relented, not sounding very enthusiastic. "I'll tell you about my most famous shot."
"Your most famous shot?" Raylan responded sarcastically.
"Uh-huh. Fa-mous." He smiled. "We were doing a recon sweep along a route the supply convoys used. Every fucking road in Afghanistan narrows into prime ambush territory at some point. So my spotter, Pete, and I…uh," Tim faltered. A flash of sorrow creased his forehead as he thought about Pete. He collected himself and continued, "We were assigned one of those ambush points and we spent two hours watching it, looking over every possible sniper hideout on the hills on both sides. We didn't see any movement. Nothing. So I picked a position I liked and we moved forward to set up."
"There was an easy way into this position, up over the ridge, but you don't ever, never, ever walk the ridge line. You're dead outlined against the sky like that. So we worked our way, all careful and quiet, across the hill face to an outcropping where we could squeeze between two rocks to get to the spot. I took point and as I cleared the rocks, fuck if there wasn't a Taliban sniper already set up there. He was so well hidden we never saw him. It was a good position. That's why we were going for it."
He stopped and took a drink.
"What did you do?" Art asked.
"I pulled my sidearm and shot him, point blank. It freaked us out. The whole time I'm there, I'm only seeing these guys through a scope. It was surreal. And of course, it became the running joke. What was Gutterson's longest confirmed shot? Half a yard. I never heard the end of it," he grinned, embarrassed.
Art and Raylan grinned with him. They could appreciate a good combat ribbing. It was the basis of their relationship.
"I don't get it. If it was such a good position, why didn't he see you?" Raylan asked after thinking about the story for a minute.
"We came around at a bad angle for him, from behind, halfway up the hill. He was looking for activity on the road, and we were quiet. That's why we always travel in pairs, a shooter and a spotter. You need someone watching your back while you've got your eyes glued to your scope."
Raylan's phone rang. He checked the display and frowned then excused himself and got up to walk outside and answer it.
"Want to bet that's Harlan calling?" said Tim.
"Might be Miami wanting him back," Art suggested wistfully. "Thanks for the story, by the way. Were we a good audience?"
"There aren't many folk who'd find shooting someone at point blank range funny," Tim commented.
"Good point," Art conceded. "I think you're safe with Raylan, though."
"And you?" Tim asked, looking pointedly at his boss.
"I've been in the business long enough not to be too judgmental in situations involving loaded guns," Art responded. "And I've never been in a war zone."
He pulled out his wallet, left some money on the table and stood up. "I should head. You got a way home?"
"I'm walking," Tim answered.
"All right then. I'll see you Monday." He patted Tim's shoulder on the way past.
Raylan walked back in a few minutes later and sat down, a troubled look on his face, twirling his empty glass of beer in the pools of water on the table.
"You want another one?" Tim offered.
"Why not," Raylan replied and signaled the waitress.
"Trouble?" Tim asked nodding at Raylan's phone still in his hand.
"Somebody knocked over Audrey's," Raylan explained. "That was Ava." He looked at Tim, his eyebrows going up and his eyes widening. "She sounded some pissed."
"Audrey's?"
"It's a bar," Raylan explained. "Ava runs it. But the bar's just a front for prostitution and, I suspect, drug dealing. Part of Boyd's new empire."
"Why'd she call you?"
"She recognized one of the gunmen," he said. "Someone we both know. She's hoping I'll run him down for her."
"They're treating you like private security," Tim grumbled. "Are they trying to get you in trouble again? Not that it wasn't fun dealing with the Feds."
Raylan didn't answer, but sat playing with his empty glass. The waitress dropped off another round and Tim and Raylan sat in silence, sipping their drinks, lost in their own thoughts.
Tim eventually broke the silence. "You ever think of transferring out?" he asked Raylan.
"At regular ten-minute intervals," Raylan replied.
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