Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(46)

Charlie took her empty training gun and set it aside. He reached into his holster and withdrew his own. The range fell silent as he loaded the chambers of the largest revolver I’d ever seen, snapped the cylinder in place, and passed the pistol to Mrs. Haggerty.

“Holy shit,” said one of the other instructors. “Charlie’s giving her his Magnum.” A few of the instructors huddled together, laughing quietly to themselves as Mrs. Haggerty hoisted the massive revolver.

“Is that really a good idea?” I asked Wade as she closed one eye, staring down the wobbling length of it.

Wade’s lip twitched around a mouthful of chew as Mrs. Haggerty pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, even through the earmuffs. Charlie caught her as she teetered backward on her heels.

“Hooo! That’s got some kick!” she said as Charlie set her on her feet. The instructors laughed, breaking into applause. Charlie leaned over her shoulder, pointing out the lone hole she’d shot in her paper. Mrs. Haggerty squinted downrange, trying to find it.

“Why does Mrs. Haggerty get a big gun?” I asked. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Don’t let the size fool you,” Wade said. “The bigger the gun, the more surface area to grip, the easier it is to control.”

Charlie grinned through the divider at Wade, a challenge in the crooked slant of his lips.

Wade eyed Charlie over the rim of his Coke can as he spit. He set it down and took my training pistol from me before I could finish loading it. His shirt rode up as he reached behind him into the waistband of his jeans, revealing a slender holster hidden inside it. He withdrew his gun, checked the magazine, and placed the weapon in my hands, adjusting my grip around the Glock logo.

The range fell quiet again as Wade pushed a button and my target zoomed another fifteen feet toward the opposite wall. “Double or nothing,” he said, loud enough for Charlie to smirk.

“What are you doing?” I sputtered. “I can’t hit that. It’s too far.”

“You can hit it. Keep your eyes open.”

“But everyone’s watching.”

“Which means they’ll all be talking about it in the faculty lounge when Mrs. Haggerty shows you up.” He nodded to the paper. “Center mass. Take him out.”

I gritted my teeth and adjusted my grip. The instructors murmured as Wade issued quiet commands and I lined up my shot. I pulled the trigger, eyes open this time. One of the officers let out a low whistle. Charlie tipped an imaginary hat to me as Wade recorded my score, awarding extra points for the added distance.

“Show’s over,” Wade called out. “Everybody back to work. Finish your boxes of ammo, tally your scores, and leave your clipboards with your instructors.”

“Why do you use a smaller gun than the other instructors?” I asked him when the pop of gunfire around us resumed.

“Did you know I was carrying before I showed you?” he asked. I shook my head. I hadn’t noticed the Glock in the back of his jeans until he’d reached under his shirt to remove it. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle—or don’t handle—a weapon,” he said, the subtle inflection of his voice suggesting he’d been making a few observations of his own. “Cops carry big guns where everyone can see them. My cover would have been blown the first day I went under if I’d been caught wearing one of those,” he said, jutting his chin toward the other officers. “You can’t look like a cop, talk like a cop, carry yourself or your weapon like a cop. The bad guys have to believe you’re just another bad guy.”

“Were you? A bad guy?” I asked, surprised and a little terrified that I had voiced the question aloud.

His lips quirked behind his spit can. “You asking me if I’m a bad guy or if I’ve done some bad things?”

I thought about that as I pulled the trigger. “Is there a difference?”

He seemed to consider that as he set down his can. “You do the job long enough, gets harder to tell. We’re all liars,” he said, taking the gun and reloading the magazine with a snap. “Some of us are just better at hiding it.”

I was still processing what he’d said, sifting through the nuances of it, as he returned the Glock to me.

“So who else do you teach besides PTA moms and Rotary Club grandmas?” I asked, parroting back his comment from the bar the night we’d met.

The corner of his mouth hitched up. “Why? Are you going to put me in one of your books?”

“Will you answer my questions if I say yes?”

“You shoot, I’ll talk,” he said, inclining his head toward the target. He waited until I’d discharged a few more rounds before answering. “Mostly, I handle testing and training for the department,” he said between pops of the gun. “Occasionally, I teach civilians and department employees who want to apply for a concealed carry permit—judges, secretaries, lab rats, the occasional attorneys.”

“Who’s the best shooter here?” I asked as I worked through my remaining rounds. “Besides you.”

He leaned in to correct my grip. “If you asked me a couple months ago, I would have said Sam.”

“Samara?” I asked, not bothering to mask my surprise. “I thought she specialized in cybercrimes.”

“She goes through the same training as everyone else. Joey’s not bad either. He looked pretty sharp the few times I’ve seen him out here. But it’s easy to hit a stationary target on a lighted range. It’s another to take out two active shooters through a smoke line in the dark. Damn near impossible after you’ve been shot twice.”