“There are moving ones?” I ask excitedly. That fits far better with my internal reference for practice shooting, courtesy of the montages from dozens of cops shows. “Like where they pop out from walls and stuff, and you have to hit the bad guys but not the pregnant women with strollers?”
There’s a resigned tilt to his eyes when Yuri crouches low enough to stare directly into my face. “Not for you, there aren’t. As I was saying…” He redirects my attention to the range. “They have sensors inside to let you know when they’re hit.”
“So, we’re using blanks?”
“The reports come through instantaneously.” He points to a laptop encased in more safety gear than me. “Once you’ve finished firing, you can check your accuracy over here.”
My visions of stuffing exploding from the distant targets dissolves into yet another daydream. “I thought there’d be more…” I wave my hands, trying to demonstrate what I don’t have words for.
“There’ll be plenty of…” He waves his arms even more aggressively than mine.
“Okay. What else?”
“You need hearing protection so from now on, look at me for instructions.”
He takes out a plastic packet of ear plugs, tears it open, and hands them over. I wriggle them into my ears, trying for the snuggest fit. The aural world recedes to a series of dull thumps barely legible over the increased volume of my pulse.
Each time I think we’re about to start, Yuri has yet another pantomime to pass along safety instructions. Finally, he fits a pair of safety goggles over my eyes and steps back. Way, way back.
I’d feel insulted if there was room over the wriggle of excitement in my belly.
The first shot—or shots because they come in a burst—knock my shoulder so hard that I feel like it’s been whacked. A result that wasn’t worth the effort when the laptop also tells me I missed.
“This is some bullshit,” I grumble, not bothering to shout it loud enough for Yuri to hear when he taps his ear. With a shake of my head, I gesture for him to try next.
Watching him plant himself steady, and pick off the targets one by one, makes me a mix of aggravated and awed.
The laptop gushes out his results and even my competitive spirit is happy to sit back and just enjoy the view. This version of Yuri seems much more in his natural environment than the man who reluctantly trails me inside the house.
“I see what you did there,” I mutter as he joins me, his cartridges spent. “Think I can’t hit what’s right in front of me?”
Nope. I can’t.
My body tenses in anticipation of the recoil, and flinching is apparently bad for aim. Either that or my eyes don’t work properly. Or my fingers. Or my arms.
“I can do it,” I snap when Yuri tries to adjust my position. Obviously, that’s a lie, but I’d rather fail while trying it my way than listen to more of his advice.
My way is indeed a failure. The bursts aren’t long enough for me to spray the target area with bullets. Three shots are just enough to highlight that I’ve missed each aimed discharge very badly indeed.
Yuri flicks a setting near the trigger, and it becomes even worse. Single shot mode leaves me even farther away than the bursts.
I manage a couple of hits right before we call it quits for the day, but the late victory comes after so many defeats that it just serves to highlight how bad my overall performance was.
“You’ll do better next time,” the bodyguard tells me as we replace the guns in their lockbox. “The first is just to get used to holding the weapon.”
“Hm.” It seems more likely that it’s just an opportunity for him to shine in comparison. “Can I ask you something?”
“You ask me questions non-stop whether or not I answer them.”
“Yeah, this is more personal.”
“Then it’s even less likely I’ll answer.”
“How old is Baxter?”
Yuri smirks as he helps me limp to the cart for our return journey, which doesn’t point to an appropriate numerical answer.
“What sort of women does he usually go for?”
