“We’ll start with the Glock.”
I show her the basics first. The magazine and the trigger safety.
“I fired one like this,” she tells me. “And it wouldn’t fire a second time.”
That’s a conversation for another time.
“See this wee bit here. That’s the slide.”
I show her how it works and then explain the trigger.
“The weight of your finger needs to be evenly distributed. Ye need to fully depress this middle bit as well, or it won’t fire a second time. That’s the safety mechanism.”
“Okay.”
I hand it off to her.
“Aim it downrange and just get used to it in your hands,” I say. “The weight of it.”
She reaches out and grabs it, and it’s heavy in her small hands, but she handles it well.
“You carry this thing around on you all the time?” she asks in disbelief.
“Aye.” I smirk. “I do.”
“Jesus.”
“Bend your knees a wee bit.” I grab her hips and press a hand to her lower back. “Lock out your elbows and lean into the target.”
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“It feels good,” she says. “Now can I shoot it?”
Scarlett likes to feel powerful. There’s nothing more powerful than this. What she’s about to feel.
And I want to give that to her.
I teach her everything I’ve learned over the years. Everything Niall taught me. I show her the parts and how they all work together. I explain the difference between the revolvers and the semis and she feels the difference in recoil between them.
She’s a semi type of girl, she decides. And unlike the physical self-defense I tried to teach her, I actually have her full attention this time around.
Scarlett’s a good student. She’s by no means a pro, but I’m confident that she’ll be able to defend herself should she ever need to pick up a gun again. She learns quickly and follows my instruction well. Soon, the target has chunks of debris flying out as she hits it over and over again.
When we get to the AK’s, she’s surprised how easy they are to use.
“Why do ye suppose third world countries give them to child soldiers?” I ask.
She frowns, and I don’t want to dampen the mood, but I also need her to understand this is real. The lads and I have an arsenal, sure, but we don’t live in the Wild West and we don’t go around shooting them every chance we get.
We pack up, and she’s quiet.
“Ye did a grand job of it,” I tell her.
“I liked it,” she says. “You were right. It does feel like a high.”
I nod, and I know what she’s thinking about. Who she’s thinking about.
“I need their names, Scarlett.”
