Boom.
Even with the ear protection, every shot reverberated through Gabby’s body, the danger and power of the weapon shaking her all the way to her core. Gunpowder burned her nose and strengthened her resolve. She didn’t have a choice.
Last time she’d been down here, it was different. She had been nervous, but not scared for her children’s lives. This time, it wasn’t theoretical—it was life or death.
While Gabby was on edge, Valentina moved smoothly, seemingly at ease with all-or-nothing stakes. “How are you so casual?” Gabby commented more than asked. All she could think of was the implications of this practice: death. Either the threat of death or causing death.
Valentina gave her a look that said, “Chill out.”
Together, they crowded into a single lane, Valentina’s musky floral perfume competing with the gunpowder for dominance. Valentina set the gun down in front of her with intent. “Do you know how to load the magazine and insert the clip?”
Markus had done that for her last time, so she shook her head no.
Valentina muttered, “Men. You can’t ask them to do anything,” and demonstrated how to put one bullet in the clip before ordering Gabby to do the rest. Gabby fumbled the bullet and it clattered onto the countertop. Her mind clouded with dark thoughts.
“Get out of your head, Agent Greene,” Valentina barked. “You are an agent for the Elite Operatives Department, and this weapon is nothing but a tool.” In a quiet but powerful tone, she said, “Load the damn gun.”
Gabby took a breath. Valentina was right. She focused and shoved the clip in with a metallic clunk. At the same time, something inside of her shifted. The gun was ready, and so was she.
“You’re right-handed, correct?” Valentina asked. When Gabby nodded, she said, “Pick up the gun with your right hand. Keep the finger off the trigger. Point the gun downrange.” She demonstrated with her own gun how to hold it.
Less emotionally than before, Gabby picked up the gun. Valentina showed her how to adjust her grip so the slide didn’t hit her thumb when the gun ejected the bullet casing.
“What happened last time? Was that the first time you had ever shot a gun?”
Gabby nodded. Guns were a ubiquitous part of life—squirt guns, Nerf guns, guns in the movies, guns on the news, but before the lesson with Markus, she had never held an actual gun, one that could take someone’s life. Heavy in her hand, cold and unfeeling metal, the harsh recoil, it had served to freak her out. Too much power. That’s why dudes wanted to be strapped—the power to take away life itself—and it was exactly why she had never wanted one.
Valentina nodded. “Markus should have had you try again right away.”
That was probably true.
“Your gun isn’t ready to fire until you chamber a bullet. Do you remember how to do that?”
Gabby pulled back on the slide. In the movies, guys were ka-chunking their guns all the time, pulling back the slides like they were toys. In reality, the slide was difficult to pull back, like getting a tough lid off a pickle jar, and the metal of the slide bit into her tender palm. Just chambering the bullet, she was slow and clumsy. In the field, she would probably already be dead.
“The more you practice, the easier it will be. When you’re ready, aim and pull the trigger gently.”
Just a week ago, she’d been in this exact spot, aiming at anidentical paper target of a man with a bull’s-eye over his sternum. Last week had been one thing—she had been scared, but unfocused. Her kids hadn’t been in danger.
Gabby had been frustrated by life plenty of times—her marriage that fizzled, lack of respect at home and in the office, lack of respect for herself. With all her feelings of disappointment and frustration, she had never burned with an anger so hot that she could take a man’s life. It wasn’t in her nature, but she grabbed onto her anger and stoked it.
Smirnov had threatened her kids. She held the gun firmly, took a deep breath, and released it as she slowly squeezed the trigger.
In the chaos—it was just all noise and recoil—she couldn’t tell if she’d hit the target. All she knew was that there wasn’t steam coming from the pipes. “Did I hit it?” she asked, squinting at the target.
Valentina gave her a slow nod. “Almost a bull’s-eye. Good work.”
Gabby whooped as Valentina yelled, “Finger off the trigger. Aim it downrange.”
An hour of practice later, the range was filled with the smoke from her shots, and there was a sickly-sweet taste in the back of her mouth.
“What is that taste, or am I imagining it?”
“Violence has an aftertaste, doesn’t it?” said Valentina dramatically.
“No really, what is that? Is it in my head?”
“It’s lead.”
