Back to the shooting range.

Not that I minded, I loved the range. It was fun. Qualifying was always. Or it coulda had something to do with the blonde instructor who had a body that put Pam Ander5son to shame, and she could shoot and tell me what a catalytic converter was, and where it was located, and what it did.

She let us use whatever the hell ammo we wanted so long as we qualified with every weapon required.

Sanderson drove us to the range, but her red corvette was not parked in the handicap space like usual.

But I didn't think anything of it, instead Sanderson and I headed in the indoor range while he told me all the B.S. he had made up and told the shrink before he was kicked out of the office.

The man was a genius.

"And then, the final nail in the coffin was when I told him I had married a Arab man and we adopted eight Japanese children so they would all become Doctors and lawyers and support us, so we could retire and live in Key West." Sanderson explained, hefting his bag further up his arm, reaching for the door, but it opened.

I was about to congratulate him on his accomplishment, but the man who had flung the door open glared out at us, a very unhappy Delta, Larenz. A black man about my age from Baltimore. Clean-shaven but he wore his hair pulled back in a ponytail.

He had a nametag on his chest, Gibson.

I stared at my nametag on his chest while Sanderson asked, "What's up?"

Larenz held the door open for us, "WE have a new shooting instructor. And since we didn't wear our jackets or camo tops with our name tags, we have to wear name stickers."

I stared, Larenz shoved a sheet of stickers with two different names. "It's ninety fucking degrees out Larenz, why the hell would we wear more then we have to? Who the hell is he?"

Larenz threw his hands up, "I don't know, the old man is like five feet tall and some old Army Vet. He's in there confiscating anything that is not a glock. I hate glocks. I haven't fired a glock since I went to Baghdad."

"What? Are you saying we are not allowed to shoot anything that is not a glock?" Sanderson cried, his bag was loaded up with goodies. Mine too.

Larenz nodded, "Umhmm. So pick a name tag and meet us in the range."

I took the sheet while Sanderson stared in horror.

Rodriguez and Lambross.

I looked to Sanderson, "Who do you wanna be?"

He looked down at the stickers, "You look more like a Lambross, gimme Rodriguez."

I gave him Jose's nametag and put Pete's on my chest.

Our first act of disobedience towards out new instructor, who I was horrified to see when I walked into the indoor range. It was the nosey old man with bad wig from the hospital.

Behind me Sanderson groaned, "Shit."

And he recognized us both, then looked at out name tags, "Your late."

I was tempted to tell him to fuck off, but I didn't wanna make a bad impression, or get Lambross in trouble for mouthing off to a higher ranking officer. Lambross who was seated in a chair with Sam's nametag on his chest, was speaking in Spanish to Jose who had planted his less then happy ass on the floor.

Sanderson and I put out bags down then found a seat.

Apparently there was some form of meeting. Chairs had been lined up in front of the range that just called out to me. I didn't listen as he was yammering on about how the targets worked, like I cared.

I stared out at the long tracks that ran along the ceiling, movable targets.

At least 200 feet back, it was a huge building.

The range was maybe ten feet away.

I was not the only one who had dozed off or was ignoring the man, because he pulled out a fucking whistle and blew it. I thought Paddy was gonna have to be peeled off the damn ceiling. Sanderson jumped in the seat beside me, muttering, "I'm gonna shove the whistle down his fucking throat."

"Amen," I muttered.

The old man continued yapping, "Now, I want each of you to put a round in the chest and head. A round. Then bring your target back for me to look at, then we'll put it out a hundred feet, and bring it back for me to look at…" A hand flew up beside me.

This was just plain old bullshit, I was not gonna shoot two rounds and bring the damn target back for him to inspect.

The old man looked to Sanderson, who asked, "Why don't I just put three rounds in the target from here and call it a day?"

The man, who was wearing a pair of khaki pants with a top that really needed to be buttoned the rest of the way up, crossed his arms and asked Sanderson, "Do you know what the most dangerous thing in the world is?"

I stared, then looked at Sanderson, and muttered, "My girlfriend armed while she's got her damn period."

Sanderson grinned then shook his head.

A couple of the Deltas muttered amongst themselves, the man then told us, "The most dangerous thing in the world is thinking you know more then you really do."

I just stared at him.

Behind me someone asked, "What is this a fucking philosophy course?"

The man began to yammer on about something else, I groaned and put my feet up on the chair in front of me. It was empty. This was the worse damn qualifying I had ever been to.

Then the old man blew his fucking whistle again.

Sanderson was just getting more and more pissed off.

The Old Man then told us, "Ok, I have three rules for my range. One, there will be absolutely no swearing."

What the fuck?

Sanderson raised his hand and I pulled it back down.

The old man continued louder since we were getting louder, "There are many other words in the English language you can use other then vulgarities."

He finally had to blow his whistle again, Lambross raised his hand but Jose pulled it down.

"Rule number two, you will address me as Mr. West."

Mr.?

Oh fuck no, I stood up and asked, "You're a civilian?"

He looked at me and shook his head, "No. I am a retired Marshal and former Army Sergeant."

The guys were speaking amongst themselves again, Larenz who was seated behind me stood and asked, "Are you enlisted in the Military or on the Police Force?"

Again the man shook his head, "No."

"How did you get this job?" Larenz asked off the bat. The old man or Mr. West told him, "Your new base commander trained under me and wanted the best."

Oh wonderful.

Then he blew his damn whistle, ok, I was gonna shove the damn thing down his throat. But Sanderson grabbed my pants and pulled my ass back down in the chair before I got too far. I looked to him, "Are you listening to this shit?"

Larenz leaned between Sanderson and I and whispered, "Man, if we plan this right, we could make his death look like a suicide."

The homicidal suggestion was looking good when he told us, but better when Mr. West named his third rule.

"Only guns I approve may be used in qualifying."

Then the sadist named his next demand.

We had to line up along the line alphabetically.

Which took some time since we al had different names name tags. After checking out own nametags and everyone else's, we managed to line up somewhat alphabetically.

Then he had the nerve to go through and check our tags!

So instead of moving we would just change our nametags with one another. So I was no long Lambross, instead I was Jefferson.

Mr. West was less then pleased.

While he went over how to hold and operate the weapons, I stared at the ceiling and counted tiles. Or I would have been very unpleasant.

Larenz who was on my left leaned over, he whispered in my ear, "Gimme some hollow points."

I just moved my head, I looked over at him, "What makes you think I have some?"

He just stared at me.

I gave up, "Fine. How many?"

"One."

So I reached down into my pant leg pocket and found all my bullets, there were dozens and dozens of bullets. I ran my thumb over the tips till I found a hollow tipped one. Then I gave it to Larenz.

Who opened the slide on his gun, took out the bullet and put it in his pocket, he slid the bullet I gave him, which looked normal except for the dip in the tip which would cause a hell of a lot more damage upon impact. Almost silently he closed the slide.

"All right Gentleman, you may fire one round."

I was gonna fucking die, but I fired one, just one. But I hit my target right between the eyes, beside me Larenz simply destroyed the entire paper target with the hollow point.

Mr. West came running over, he looked at what was left of the target, shreds of paper. Then looked at Larenz, "Give me your clip."

He did, but there were just regular rounds in it.

One by one Mr. West emptied every last bullet out and inspected the tips. Down the line someone shouted, "Mr. West, it was my fault, I sneezed."

I couldn't hide my grin.

I apparently looked guilty, because West looked to me and told me, "Empty your pockets."

"What?"

"You heard me Jefferson, empty your pockets!" He then held his hand out for my possessions.

Fine, I holstered my weapon then began to empty out all my pockets. My change from my front pockets and car keys. My wallet from my back pocket. My leather man and knife, about sixty different bullets, a small case of oil, a rag, a house key, a can of mace, three extra clips, one full of hollowed tips, and of course some condoms since Diana had this thing about me in camo pants.

Mr. West just stared at me like I was nuts.

Larenz looked at the condoms and grabbed them, reading the back of the packet.

Then Mr. West dumped all my stuff back in my arms, but kept my wallet, he flipped it open, then looked at me, "Mr. Gibson?"

While Larenz and Jose helped me put all my stuff back, though half my bullets were missing and I only got one clips back, I didn't even see the condoms again. Mr. West then told me, "I'll dock ten points off your score, Mr. Gibson."

He held my pissed off gaze.

As if he expected me to argue or something, I wasn't going to plea with the man, so I told, "I don't give a fuck, take ten more."

So he did.

Then he had us give him our wallets, and then he lined us up alphabetically. Since Garrett had broken both his arms and his left legs in four places in a water skiing accident that put me between Fowler and Gustafson.

Which just made the day more memorable.