Chapter 3: Target Practice

Freddy eyed the target and raised his gun. A Beretta 92FS.

For the robbery, Joe Cabot had given them all firearms to be used just that once and then disposed of. Untraceable. Freddy remembered the old man pulling out the case and showing them a shiny row of Smith & Wesson automatics. Freddy had never used one before. 9mm model 5906, double-action, stainless steel – these guns had been fucking cool. They'd traded in their own weapons, Freddy handing over the revolver he'd used for his persona as a street tough, Pink relinquishing his Glock17, and Larry pulling out two .45s. It had been like fucking Christmas with the robbers grinning over their shiny new weapons.

Ever since Freddy had been a kid, sneaking out of bed with the other foster child Luke to watch cop shows, he'd wanted to fire a gun. It was the next-best thing to having a superpower, or that's what little Freddy had believed anyway. People respected you if you had a gun; they put up their hands and did whatever you said. That was appealing to the skinny-ass kid who might as well have been wearing a neon sign that said "bully me". And unlike superpowers, you could learn to fire a gun. It was one of the things he'd most looked forward to when he joined the Academy. He'd practically memorized the issues of Guns & Ammo, and he'd been among the top shooters in his class.

Not anymore, though.

Freddy clenched his jaw and peered down the sights of the Beretta, holding it in a two-handed grip. He'd hardly ever fired with two hands while on the job; that was for pussies. Using one hand looked way more badass. After waking from the coma, however, he'd had to work hard to regain his muscle coordination, and it was still at a point where he couldn't fire near as well as he could before the injury.

Breathe in, let the breath half out, hold it, and squeeze the trigger…

BLAM!

A tiny hole appeared in the paper target, four inches below the bulls-eye. Freddy let out the rest of his breath in a huff of exasperation. This was getting fucking ridiculous. He glanced through the bulletproof glass at the people on either side of him to see if they'd noticed, but they were intent on their own targets.

Shit, this should be second nature to him. Before the job he'd be able to hit this target with a fucking blindfold on. It was his long-honed reflexes that had caused him to shoot that woman, though. The first person he'd ever killed. Guns had been cool to him before, but that freak accident had changed everything. A woman with a bag of groceries in the front seat and a baby's carseat in the back – that definitely hadn't been his idea of the first person he'd kill in the line of duty. He hadn't been able to forget it either, replaying those few seconds over and over in his head.

Heck, but his reflexes had also allowed him to unload in Vega's chest, buying poor Marvin a few more minutes in this world. Freddy sighted once more. "C'mon, man," he muttered to himself. What with the loud firing and everyone wearing plastic earmuffs, he wasn't worried about being overheard talking to himself. "C'mon, you can do this. Just pretend it's Vic fuckin' Vega. That's his head you're aiming for, right between the eyes. Look out, you crazy motherfucker…"

BLAM!

One inch below. Better. Freddy smiled. He knew that going after Vega was out of the question, especially with him assigned to a different case, but it was still nice to imagine gunning down that psychotic bastard.

Thinking about Vega reminded Freddy of Marvin, which reminded him of his visit with Mrs. Nash. That had been an experience he never wanted to repeat. She'd been so surprised that she forgot to invite him in, so he'd been left standing stupidly at the door trying to talk about Marvin's last moments without actually talking about Marvin's last moments. At one point she'd started to cry, and Freddy had looked away out of embarrassment, but then found himself staring at the little kid in the crib. Mrs. Nash told him that Derek was six months old now, and to Freddy the baby had looked disturbingly like Marvin. Same dark hair, same chin, same wide innocent eyes with a look of "what the fuck?" in them.

Mrs. Nash seemed to be coping well enough. In their forced, overly-polite, fucking uncomfortable as hell conversation about nothing in particular, she'd told him she was working. Her neighbours took care of Derek while she was out because she couldn't afford daycare or a sitter. Then she'd asked him how he was doing, and Freddy had mumbled something about being back on the job, and tried not to think about how Vega had managed to escape again. Freddy had been face-to-face with that bastard, and somehow Vega had walked away. Freddy had let that psychopath run off, and had gotten shot in the foot for his efforts. Some fucking job he was doing.

Freddy tried to push these memories out of his mind, and aimed for the target once more. As he breathed in, he found himself wondering if he should help Mrs. Nash out a little, give the woman some money or something. In a way it was his fault that she was now a widow and that Derek was without a father.

BLAM!

Shit. Missed entirely. Cursing under his breath, Freddy tucked the Beretta into his holster. The clock on the wall behind him indicated that his hour was up. He flipped an electric switch and retrieved the target.

Walking down the corridor with that incriminating piece of paper in hand, he tried not to look at the row of cops all firing much fucking better than he was, and left through the air-lock door. Back in the foyer he removed his safety glasses and earmuffs, just catching the last sounds of gunfire before the door swung shut again. He strolled over to the front desk.

"Hey Freddy," greeted Oscar, the range master. "How'd it go?"

In answer Freddy slapped the target down on the counter. Oscar pulled it towards him and scrutinized the holes. "Distance?"

"Twenty yards. Pretty good for firing with my eyes closed, huh? Too bad they were open."

"Hmm." The range master looked up. "Well, you're improving anyway."

"Yeah like that's really tough, given how I've been shooting the past couple weeks," Freddy retorted.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Just shut up and listen, Freddy. You're improving. You gotta give yourself some slack, kid. If you think a bullet to the head doesn't fuck up your aim a bit, then you're a fucking idiot."

Freddy grumbled a bit but couldn't hold back a wry smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Oscar. Really. Your words are truly inspiring."

"Freddy…"

"It's true, man. Whenever I leave this place I'm more fuckin' relaxed than after a session with the fuckin' psychiatrist. That ain't no joke."

The range master smirked. "It's not me. See, you're one of those punk-ass kids with a shitload of problems carrying over from your childhood, y'know? A guy who never lets out those raging emotions until he fires a gun. That's why you feel better."

Freddy blinked. "Very insightful, man," he said dryly. "You got me all figured out."

Oscar cuffed him on the side of the head. "Didn't you learn to respect your elders? Anyway, I don't give a shit if you're obsessed with guns – I'm the fucking range master for Chrissake. But it's a good thing you're on this side of the law, Freddy, or you'd be a fucking liability."

"I'll try to take that as a compliment." He returned the safety glasses and plastic earmuffs, exchanged friendly good-byes with Oscar, and left the shooting range.

Just outside the door he crumpled up his target and tossed it into the trash. Despite Oscar's encouragement, the last thing he needed was a reminder of his incompetence. Fuck it, if he ever came across Vega in his walks around town he'd just unload the full clip and hope that a stray bullet or two hit him.

It was a hot and sunny day, and Freddy paused on the sidewalk to put on his shades. Just as he was about to slip them over his eyes, something caught his attention: an arm carrying a bag of groceries. An arm with a tattoo… a snake tattoo? Something in Freddy's memory stirred, and he squinted at the owner of the arm. It was a cute little Asian chick in a tiny skirt. He stared at her, trying to remember where he'd seen her before.

She looked up and caught him staring, and seemed to slow down, clutching the paper bag of groceries to her chest with a strange expression on her face. Freddy suddenly remembered where he'd seen her: Smokey Pete's bar in Gardena. She had been wearing a yellow dress, and they'd checked each other out before Freddy had gotten a call from Holdaway about Vic Vega. That had only been a couple weeks ago, but it seemed like a year.

As they drew closer to each other, Freddy's mouth opened. He wasn't sure what to say, or even if he would say anything. But before he could even think about starting a conversation, Oscar came running out of the shooting range and grabbed his arm.

"Freddy," the range master said urgently, "you got a phone call from Holdaway. He said you weren't at home and didn't answer your cell, so he called the range."

"Thanks, Oscar." They hurried back to the door of the range. Freddy glanced over his shoulder at the girl, who was disappearing into the crowd, still shaken by that weird moment of contact. Then he started wondering what was so urgent that Holdaway had to talk to him right now.

It could only be about the job, maybe about Jeff's upcoming undercover work. Truth be told, Freddy was fucking nervous about that, though probably nowhere near as nervous as Jeff was. Freddy would gladly have done the work instead, nerves and all, but thanks to a certain bitch reporter he was potentially a known cop. No more undercover jobs for him. Freddy didn't know whether he wanted to kiss that reporter or strangle her.

Oscar handed him the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Freddy? We're on."

A/N: Yes, the same Asian girl from the first story. And if you haven't read the first story yet, I suggest you give it a look, if only for clarity's sake.