Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(45)

“Right, sorry. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—”

“Georgia’s sister and Nick’s piece. Got it. Sign this.” He turned the clipboard toward me and dropped it on the desk. I opened my mouth to object to being objectified as Nick’s anything, but Wade was already rummaging in a drawer.

I reached for the clipboard and began skimming the waiver but gave up after reading the same line three times. Something about Wade rattled me. It wasn’t just his gruff demeanor or his tattoos, or the fact that he was the only instructor in this place that didn’t feel at all like a cop. It was the way his eyes darted around me instead of over me. There was a shiftiness about him that felt out of place here. All the other instructors insisted on being addressed by their rank or “detective.” They all had the same direct gaze, had mastered the same stillness—the assured walk, the shoulders back, legs apart way of holding themselves. Everything about Wade felt evasive. Frenetic. And yet, as I stared down at the words on the waiver—as he dragged a tin of chewing tobacco from his back pocket and shoved a wad into his gum—I still had the sense I was being closely watched.

I signed my name on the form and passed the clipboard back to him.

“Let’s go.” He walked fast, forcing me to keep up as he pushed open the door to the shooting range. There was an oddness to his gait, something between a swagger and a limp. Without slowing, he grabbed a set of earmuffs and goggles from a hanging rack and dropped my tote on a waist-high shelf in the only empty booth. He passed me the ear coverings and goggles from inside my kit. “Put these on.”

“Then how will I hear the instructions?” He didn’t bother to answer as he slipped on his own set of earmuffs. “You’re a man of few words. Got it,” I said, donning my protective gear. I glanced through the plexiglass barriers separating the stalls and found Mrs. Haggerty in the one right beside me. She grinned up at Charlie as he loaded bullets into the magazine of her gun.

Wade slapped the box of ammo onto the shelf as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

“So you’re … not a police officer?” I asked as he removed the gun and its magazine from my tote. If my intrusive questions were going to piss him off, better to figure that out before he loaded it.

Wade’s jaw tightened around his chew. He angled the magazine so I could see the rapid, fluid movement of his fingers as he filled it and slapped it into the gun.

My mouth went dry as he held the pistol out to me. I stared at it, jumping at the sudden pop of gunfire from another stall.

“You seen a handgun before?” His voice was surprisingly clear, if a bit echoey, through the earmuffs.

I nodded. The last time I’d been this close to one, it had been pressed to the side of my head. I could feel Wade watching me, waiting for me to take it, but I couldn’t seem to make myself reach for it.

“Ever held one? Fired one?” he asked.

I shook my head.

With slow, careful movements, Wade placed it in my hand, using his own to show me where and how to hold it. His voice softened as he corrected the position of my fingers and thumbs. “I was a cop, for fourteen years,” he said.

“Why’d you leave?” I asked, welcoming the distraction.

“Bad knee. Among other things.” He raised my hands until the pistol was pointed straight out in front of me.

“Were you with OCN?”

“For a while.” He pressed a button on the wall that sent my hanging paper target racing backward on a track. “Started in a uniform, like everybody else. Made detective and rotated around for a few years. Spent the last four in OCN. Deep cover. Got made. Jumped out a window trying to save my own ass and busted my knee when I hit the ground. The rest is history.”

The nose of my gun dipped a little. Wade hadn’t just been undercover, but deep cover. That explained the tattoos and wild, unkempt hair, but it explained a lot of other things, too. My sister had told me about the deep cover cops, though never by name. I wasn’t even sure she knew who they were. They worked alone, no partners to watch their backs, no contact with family and friends as they submerged themselves in a world of criminals. One misstep and they’d end up in a shallow grave before anyone knew they were gone.

“Spread your feet,” Wade said, adjusting my stance. “Bring your shoulders forward. Relax your knees. Now extend your arms straight out in front of you. You’re going to line up your sights with the center of the target. Middle of the chest.”

“Not the head?”

“Center mass. You’re more likely to hit your target. When you’re ready to shoot, move your finger to the trigger, touch, and pull.”

I drew in a slow, shaky breath and let it out slowly, bracing myself for the sound as my finger slid to the trigger. My eyes slammed shut at the muted but familiar pop.

“Good,” Wade said. “Your nose was a little high, but not bad for your first try. Keep your eyes open next time.” I stole a glance at Mrs. Haggerty’s target as he recorded my score. “Eyes on your own paper,” Wade scolded me. “Try again.”

I emptied the rest of my magazine as Wade offered quiet corrections. I managed to keep all my bullets on the paper, though only half of them landed within the target. Wade showed me how to reload, and as I fed bullets into the channel, I peeked once more at Mrs. Haggerty’s paper. She’d fired every one of her rounds and hadn’t put a single hole in it.