Note: Similar to Finch, I don't like guns very much.

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One Year and Eight Months Prior

I raised the pistol, clicked off the safety, exhaled, and fired. One shot, two—I could tell already that my aim had been blown, because my hands were trembling and I had winced at the first shot, again, and then at the second and third shots too, but I kept squeezing the trigger, over and over again—three, four-five—

The heavy hearing protection around my head reduced the sharp cracks of the gun to dull, muffled pops.

—six, seven—

My wrists were getting sore.

—eight-nine—

Ten shots. When I pulled the trigger for the eleventh time, there was nothing but a click. The slide had gone back all the way. My hands gripped the gun as though it was a drowning swimmer's lifeline. I didn't want to let go. I kept it out in front of me, held it there, as though I could will one last bullet from the muzzle with sheer, primal thought. The barrel trembled and wavered.

After a long, long time, I relaxed my arms, clicking the safety on as I did so, just like Mama had taught me so many years ago. I released the magazine and set it and the gun on the counter, keeping the barrel pointed downrange.

I wonder how many hit this time, I thought glumly.

Turned out, I managed to hit the target five times. Once in the shoulder. Twice in the chest. Once in the finger. In the finger, right at the tip of the pinky. Once in the neck—all right, it was a graze, but it still counted.

And once right between the eyes.

It felt pretty good until I realized that as many bullets had missed the target entirely than hit. Thankfully, there was no one else in the place but the range officer to see that, and he was sixty feet away.

Damnit, I thought. Even worse than last time. Maybe I should move the target closer...

So I put up a new target and sent it out only twenty feet this time. Checked downrange. Slid a new magazine into place. Pulled back the slide. Raised the gun. Clicked off the safety.

"Come on, Mama," I whispered. "Help me here."

Squeezed the trigger.

One, two—

For heaven's sake, I thought. You blew it again.

This time, seven of the bullets found their mark. Sighing, I set the safety on the gun and set it down on the counter. Took off the bulky ear plugs.

"You know," said a familiar crooning voice behind me, "you're allowed to take a break between bullets."

I spun around, and sure enough—"John!" Leaning against the back wall, arms folded across his chest, looking like he owned the place. (Could he possibly look any other way?) The yellow-rimmed safety glasses protecting his eyes did nothing to diminish his presence.

"Hello, Elizabeth," he said.

"How long have you been watching?"

A tiny shrug. "Oh, the past twenty minutes or so."

I felt the blood rush to my face. So he had seen me when I had missed the target with all but one bullet.

"I'm not very good," I muttered. "I just—needed an outlet."

"The RSO says you've been coming here two or three times a week for the past three weeks."

"Yeah..." I glanced at the gun. "At first, I just wanted to see if this thing still shot. I wasn't planning on being a repeat customer."

John unfolded his arms, ambled over to the station, and motioned to the gun. "May I?"

"Uh—yeah."

He picked up the pistol. His movements were smooth, confident, yet safety-conscious—not all overcautious and nervous like I was when I picked up a firearm, telling myself over and over: don't point the barrel where you don't want a bullet to go, don't point the barrel where you don't want a bullet to go...

"Ruger Mark II," John said, hefting the pistol. "Nice beginner's weapon. Old one, but in good condition."

"It was my mother's," I said. "She gave it to me when I moved to New York. Said she wanted me to be able to protect myself." I laughed, but it was not a pretty sound—a short, high-pitched cough. "Did me a lot of good, didn't it?"

"You just need practice, Elizabeth. Would you like some tips?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

John checked to make sure the chamber was empty, slid in an empty magazine, then handed the gun to me. He stood beside and just slightly behind me. "No bullets at first. Hold it out like when you shoot. Finger away from the trigger."

Uncertain, I held the gun in front of me. Without the bullets, it was noticeably lighter, and slightly unbalanced.

"Don't lean back," he said. His voice was neutral—not judgmental, not critical, just giving advice. He tapped my sneaker with his foot. "Spread your feet just a little more. That's good. Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees slightly. That's good. Now, in a minute, you're going to shoot. And you're probably gonna lock your knees, or lean back, or tense up your shoulders. That's okay. Don't worry about it. We have lots and lots of bullets and you can try again as often as you like."

I laughed again, and this time, it sounded a little more like the real thing.

"The important thing is that you become comfortable firing your weapon...one bullet at a time. Now, put out a target and put your ear plugs back on."

Once I had the heavy hearing protection over my ears, John had to speak louder. But somehow, his voice was still gentle.

"Check the range and load your weapon. Keep the safety on and don't shoot until I tell you."

I slid in a magazine. Pulled back the slide. Felt it move forward and stop with a thunk. Kept the gun pointed downrange, barrel up.

"Here's what's going to happen," John said. "I'm going to tell you to shoot, and you're going to take your time. Don't rush. Wait until you're ready, then shoot—once." He held up his index finger. "And you'll wait until I tell you before shooting again. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Gun up, safety off."

John stepped a little further behind me. I held out the gun, flipped the safety with my thumb. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the way the barrel wavered. I hoped John couldn't see it.

"Fire," John said.

I squeezed off a single shot immediately, winced, then began to berate myself—I had meant to wait! The ejected shell bounced against the floor with a near-inaudible clank.

John waited several seconds. "Fire."

This time, I took a long, deep breath, then exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Another shell fell to the floor. The target twitched as the bullet passed through it.

And then I realized I was leaning back, because John had placed his hand on my shoulder and was gently but firmly pushing me forward until I was back upright.

A pause.

"Fire."

A breath. A shot.

"Fire."

The target fluttered. I could hear my pulse pounding steadily in my ears.

"Fire."

Look at me now, Mama, I thought.

"Fire."

Breathe. Squeeze the trigger.

"Fire."

Another shot. Again, John's hand on my shoulder. My body quivered.

"Fire."

I was obviously hitting the target each time, but I couldn't see where.

"Fire."

There was one more bullet left. I waited for John to give the order to let it fly.

"Cease fire."

I squeezed the trigger.

Shit! I thought, just as the gun went off. The tinkle of the brass hitting the floor sounded like a shattering vase. The barrel of the gun was really shaking now. I had to work up the nerve to look over at John, but he didn't seem angry. He had his usual impassive stare on his face—maybe an eyebrow quirked just slightly.

"That was kinda unfair," I said, clicking on the safety.

"Guns are unfair, Elizabeth. If there had been someone out on the range just then, you might've killed them. That's hardly fair."

It was a good point, but it didn't make me feel much better.

"Let's see how you did before we try again."

Turns out, I did pretty good. All ten shots hit the target, although it looked more like someone had been firing a shotgun than a pistol.

"Not bad, Elizabeth. Let's do it again..."

This time, I listened to John much, much more carefully.

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We went through dozens of magazines' worth of bullets. John stood behind me, his warm hand on my shoulder as he offered patient words of advice and encouragement, boosting my confidence, my accuracy. His voice was soothing, relaxing. After a time, it put me into a trance—the only things in my little universe were me and the voice and the gun and the target, nothing else. There came a point where I missed the target only once or twice out of every fifty shots, even as John set the target back further. My hands still shook around the gun, but not nearly as much. I was learning to relax. To keep myself from flinching at each shot.

John threw in a "cease fire" every few dozen shots, just to keep me on my toes. Each time, I tilted the barrel up, clicked on the safety, and waited until he gave me permission to shoot again. John seemed pleased with my progress, and hinted that he would teach me more another day, so long as he wasn't caught up playing Batman.

Near the end, I asked him to show me how well he could shoot. He shrugged, picked up the pistol, and put all ten rounds through the target's head. At 75 feet.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know where he had learned to use a gun like that.

When we walked out of range it was four o'clock in the afternoon; I had shown up a little before noon. I felt much more relaxed, much more at peace than I had when I had woken from yet another suffocating dream that morning.

In the parking lot, John said, "You want a cup of tea?"

He drove my car. We stopped at a little cafe about five minutes away, a place called the Zhatigan. Not one of those fancy, expansive, ultra-modern coffee shops, the ones that existed only to sell overpriced coffee and teas to people that couldn't taste the difference between good drinks and swill; no, this petite cafe was a narrow hole-in-the-wall, tucked between a small crafts store and an insurance agency. Crumbling brick walls, low lighting, improvisational jazz music playing from battered speakers. The walls behind the counter were lined with square jars of tea leaves. I rather liked the place.

I ordered black tea—with one honey—and John ordered plain coffee. I tried to pay for my own drink out of principle, but John wouldn't hear of it.

"Think of it as a thank-you for helping with Benoît Raphael," he said.

We sat at a spindly metal-wire table on the sidewalk outside and sipped our drinks. For a little while, we watched the cars drive down the avenue and the people stroll down the sidewalk.

"How'd you know?" I asked John suddenly. "About Benoît. How'd you know he was going to go after his wife?"

"I'm observant," John said. He kept his gaze on the street.

"Uh-huh. And me? How'd you know a lil' ol' geek like me was in trouble?"

"I have my sources."

"Tease. You're not going to tell me about these sources, are you?"

"I can tell you that they're never wrong. Nothing else."

"Kinda of an I'd-tell-you-but-I'd-have-to-kill-you thing?"

"I wouldn't kill you, Elizabeth," John said. He turned his head to look at me. "But other people would. I don't want that to happen."

"Oh," I said, for lack of a more intelligent response. It was hard to tell if John was being serious or not.

A cell phone rang—not mine, because I kept it on silent. John reached up and tapped his ear. "Yeah?" he said. There was several seconds of silence, a brief "Will do," and he tapped his ear again.

Looking closely, I realized that he had some sort of wireless earpiece—one of least obvious I had ever seen—connected to his phone. I hadn't even know they made Bluetooth receivers that tiny.

"Duty calls," John said. He stood and chucked his drink cup into the garbage can. "Sorry, Elizabeth."

"Someone else in trouble?"

"Seems like it."

"Can I help again? Anything you need. I'll do it."

He seemed to consider this. "Not this time, Elizabeth." he said at last. "Enjoy your tea." He patted my shoulder twice and walked away, heading down the sidewalk. He turned a corner and was gone.

I couldn't help but pout all the way back to my apartment.

#####

"Mr. Reese," Finch said, "I'm not sure I approve of your relationship with Miss Ruben."

Reese circled the computer desk as Finch tapped away at the keyboard, querying countless databases for information on their newest number.

"It's not a relationship, Finch. She's an asset."

"So is Detective Fusco. It took you two years to buy him so much as a doughnut. It's been less than four months since you rescued Elizabeth Ruben and you've already bought her tea twice. Not to mention instructing her in the use of deadly firearms."

"She did help us with Raphael, Harold. And if she owns a gun, she should know how to use it responsibly."

"Yes, but—"

"Harold, you're not upset at Elizabeth because you still haven't been able to hack into the network at her library, are you?"

Finch glared up at Reese, irritation evident on his face. "Where did you get this preposterous notion, Mr. Reese?"

"Why, Harold, there's no need to be snappy. I'm sure you'll get it one of these days. After all, you can hack the Pentagon, the Department of Defense, and the entire New York cellular network. A simple wireless network set up by a young college intern shouldn't be any trouble for someone who can make every ATM in the city simultaneously beep Bohemian Rhapsody—"

"Mr. Reese, while this conversation has the potential to become very memorable, I suggest we focus on our newest Number."

"Whatever you say, Harold..."

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