“That’s how they make everyone feel,” he assured her with a wink.
He led her to a counter in the back where two guys with holsters on their hips were doubled over watching what sounded like ultimate fail videos on a phone. Behind them, security monitors streamed footage from the indoor range.
Nick dropped the bag on the floor and threw an arm around her shoulders.
“Nicky Santiago.”
A tall, round woman with broad shoulders and graying hair scraped back in a ponytail appeared through a door behind the counter. She was wearing khaki pants and a khaki vest over a Lenny Kravitz t-shirt. There was a rotund black lab on her heels.
“Johnny,” Nick said.
“Haven’t seen your face around here in a while,” Johnny said.
“Been busy,”
“Yeah, caught that bit about the mayor.” If she had any opinions on the gunfight they’d been part of in downtown Harrisburg, Johnny kept her opinions to herself.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Riley jumped.
Johnny gave her a once-over and a raised eyebrow. “Brought a newbie with you?”
Nick leaned an elbow on the counter, perfectly at home with the gunfire and the bearded, gun-toting crowd. “Yeah, this is Riley. Riley, Johnny,” he said. “We’re gonna need a lane and some targets.”
Johnny elbowed the guys away from the cash register. “You’re the one from the fountain. The psychic,” she said, shooting her another look.
Riley really needed to start wearing a hat and sunglasses, she decided.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Uh. Yeah,” she said weakly. She braced for the typical reaction. What number am I thinking of? Insinuations about scamming people at carnivals.
“Heard you threw a gun at the mayor.”
Riley winced. “Yep.”
Johnny leveled Nick with a look. “Shoulda brought her in a long time ago.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re here now. Can we have a lane?” He released Riley to give the lab that had wandered out to sniff them a good scruffing. The dog leaned into Riley’s leg and looked up at her with mournful doggy eyes as if to say everything would be just fine. She stroked his silky ears and didn’t even flinch when someone fired off another few rounds on the range.
“Lane seven,” Johnny said, licking her thumb and peeling off several targets from a stack. “What are you shooting today?”
Nick listed off several words and letter-number combos that sounded more like code than names of firearms.
They turned over their IDs and signed waivers with language that reactivated Riley’s nerves. And then Johnny was directing them toward a door marked Indoor Range. Nick pulled her to a stop before the door and unzipped his bag. He slipped a pair of large headphones over her ears. He grinned. “You ready, Thorn?”
His voice came through the speakers sounding tinny and far away.
She nodded. “Yeah. Teach me stuff.”
“Don’t let her quit ’til she’s got a good target,” Johnny called after them. Nick tossed a salute in her direction and led the way into the vestibule.
The gunfire was louder between the two doors even with the hearing protection. She followed him through the second door and into a long room. At the far end of the range was a middle-aged dad with—judging from the delighted squeals—two teenage daughters. Two lanes down was an elderly Black man in a golf shirt and shorts loading a pearl handle revolver. Each lane had vertical partitions and a waist-high counter. Nick hefted his bag onto the counter and unloaded two serious-looking handguns, several boxes of bullets, and two pairs of safety glasses.
“Okay, Thorn, let’s get you comfortable with a gun.”
He proceeded to provide a concise tutorial on firearm mechanics and responsible handling. Riley did her best to absorb the information. He handed her one of the guns—a Glock if she remembered correctly—and coached her on loading the magazine and racking the slide. They worked on her stance and grip for a few minutes. Then he had her release the magazine and rack the slide again, expelling the chambered bullet. He had her do it until the magazine was empty, then made her reload it with all the bullets.
