Page 118 of Nash Falls
“I take it that was pre-tennis?”
Nash didn’t bother to answer.
Shock picked up a Smith & Wesson .45 revolver, gauging the weight and balance. He then put on ear protection and a pair of safety glasses, took aim, and fired the full six-shot load. When he hit the button to bring the target to him on the cable, Nash saw that four shots had hit the bullseye, one was right outside it, and another had struck the third concentric ring.
“That third ring strike was actually my first shot. I was calibratin’. After that, bullseye or second ring is acceptable.”
He reloaded the .45 and handed it to Nash. “You right-handed, like your daddy?”
“Yes.”
“The target has grids that will tell you what you’re doin’ wrong dependin’ where on the target you hit. Breakin’ wrist up, jerkin’, heelin’, anticipatin’ recoil, etc. It’s instructive. But clear your head, step up, and do what your daddy taught you to do all those years ago. You’ll be rusty but that’s okay. Just don’t shoot yourself. Or me!”
Nash stepped to the line and donned the ear protection and safety goggles. “Do I have to calibrate, or can I aim for the bullseye on the first shot?”
“You do you, Walter, and then we’ll see what’s what.”
Nash assumed the firing stance his father had drilled into him as a young teen, weight equally distributed to each leg and hip, knees and elbows slightly bent to eat the recoil, a two-handed grip, shoulders square. He eased out a breath, steadied his arms and hands, took careful aim, and banged off six measured shots.
As Shock drew the target to them, Nash opened the .45’s cylinder gate and dumped the spent, heated shells into a trash receptacle.
When he saw the targets he would have smiled under any other circumstance save the one he was in.
Five shots dead in the center and one on the line between the bullseye and the closest ring to it.
“Your daddy taught you well.”
“What’s next?” asked Nash.
“Shit, you think one round of shootin’ with one gun is enough?”
The next two hours were spent firing every weapon on the table multiple times. Nash’s accuracy deteriorated with every session as the fired rounds added up.
“Damn it,” he exclaimed when he didn’t bag one bullseye at the end.
“You got high expectations for yourself. I respect that. But don’t be stupid, either. This is day one of I don’t know how many.”
“So we’re done for today?”
“Hell, no. You’re gonna take apart each of those weapons and put ’em back together again. You gonna get to the point where you’ll be able to do it blindfolded in a tenth of the time it’ll take you today. And then you got more meals to eat and we got the mental side of this shit to start. And let me tell you, that be a whole lot harder than what you just done.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” said an exhausted Nash.
“Oh, you will, baby, you will. And today I went easy on you. From now on, it gets fucken serious.”
CHAPTER
56
LATER THAT WEEK NASH ANDShock sat at a small conference table in a windowless room. The place smelled of sweat and other body fug and maybe desperate feelings, if such things had an odor. The walls were bare, the floor concrete. It was cold in here and Nash, after another long day of physical labor, his sweaty clothes clinging to him, shivered. He would have showered and changed, but Shock said they didn’t have time to waste.
Binders were piled on top of each other and Nash was doing his best to concentrate despite being exhausted. And he could feel the soreness creeping into every muscle he had. He examined some of the binder spines. “Surveillance, communications, intel drops, internal security precautions, field tradecraft, detecting danger, room lockdown. I suppose you’re going to test me on all this?”
“You bet your ass I am,” said Shock.
Nash looked at another binder. “Making low-grade explosives from everyday items?” He gazed at Shock in confusion.
“You never know when a little boom will save your ass. But we need to discuss somethin’ else first.” Shock eased forward and said, “Besides your daddy, do you know who was the most lethal dude I ever met in my life?”
