“She’s in the pool, paddling around. Want me to pull her out?”

  Much as I wanted to hear my daughter’s voice, I didn’t want to take her away from pool time.

  “Just tell her I love her.”

  “Is that all? You sound distracted.”

  I thought about saying more, but settled on, “That’s all.”

  “Have fun with Gil. You two are such a cute couple. I’m glad you’re getting some time alone. I was worried you guys were drifting apart. Bye-bye!”

  She hung up.

  “So…” Harry said, “Sam is with Mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s good. It means Phin is going to come back. If he was planning on leaving you, he would have taken Sam with him.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s my cheat day, so I’m getting some peanut M&Ms. I got a craving for some reason. You want anything?”

  “A gun,” I said.

  “To shoot Phin? Or yourself? Or the old guy with the coke on his dick whose nailing your mom at Viagra parties?”

  I gave him a look.

  “The volume on your phone is kinda high,” Harry said.

  “None of the above. I’m going to focus on the job.”

  “Good call. That’s what I do. Bury my emotions until they start causing health problems. We can find something that goes bang when I get back. I’ve got all sorts of cool shit to shoot.”

  HERB

  When he woke up, Herb thought he was still a prisoner.

  Blessedly, he wasn’t. Instead, he and Tequila were clutching each other in the middle of a field, freezing and half-dead from exposure.

  Sure dodged a bullet there.

  Herb was shivering, but his friend was still. A bad sign. He touched his neck, feeling for a pulse.

  Slow. Much too slow.

  “Hey, buddy. Can you hear me?”

  Tequila’s eyelids fluttered. “Hammmmaterma.”

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  “Hammo…termia.”

  Hypothermia. “Right. We need to get you warm.”

  Herb went to stand up, but his joints felt frozen. He took a moment to stretch, squinting at the stunningly bright landscape surrounding him, and heard a bee buzzing.

  No. Not a bee.

  A motor.

  Craning his neck in the direction of the sound, Herb sighted a four-wheeler coming toward them, trailing a plume of kicked-up dirt. He crouched down, hoping he hadn’t been seen, but the ATV was beelining toward them.

  Are they tracking us somehow?

  That question could wait. Herb needed a plan. He looked around for something to defend himself with.

  All he saw was grass, and gravel.

  During their escape, they’d tripped over dozens of rocks. Large rocks, that would have made decent weapons.

  “What do you think, buddy? Grass or gravel?”

  Tequila didn’t respond.

  “Good call. Gravel it is.”

  Herb gathered up a handful of gravel, then hunkered down and waited for the guy to approach.

  Maybe he’s friendly. Maybe we’re about to be rescued.

  The guy turned out to be two guys, and the man behind the driver raised something up over his head.

  A net.

  So much for friendly.

  They came up fast. Herb took five steps to the left, drawing them away from Tequila while also getting the morning sun behind him. The all-terrain vehicle adjusted its course, speeding up, and Herb thought back to every missed opportunity he’d ever had to improve his fighting skills.

  “Which activity do you want to take?” Herb’s mother asked a ten-year-old Herb. “Karate or baseball?”

  “Baseball,” Herb had said.

  “Dude, self-defense classes at the YMCA,” Herb’s high school buddy told a sixteen-year-old Herb. “Or do you want to just sit here and watch TV?”

  “Green Acres is on,” Herb had said.

  “You need to improve your hand-to-hand combat skills, as well as your shooting skills,” Herb’s police academy instructor told a twenty-four-year-old Herb. “What do you want to work on, recruit?”

  “Shooting,” Herb had said.

  “I’m going to the dojang,” Jack Daniels had told her partner Herb, dozens of times over the last twenty years. “Want to come with and learn some tae-kwon-do?”

  “No thanks,” Herb had said. “At this point in my life, why would I need it?”

  And just as the flashback ended, the ATV was on him.

  Herb whipped the gravel as hard as he could, catching the driver in the face, causing him to turn abruptly.

  The ATV flipped, throwing the driver, and his partner, out of their seats and into the air.

  A moment later they were cartwheeling across the ground, the ATV tumbling after them, catching up, and rolling over the net guy.

  Herb scrambled after the driver, dropping onto his back with both knees, then reaching down and locking his fingers under the man’s chin.

  Without pausing to think, Herb heaved up with everything he had, and there was a sharp CRACK! as the man’s head bent backward much further than anatomy intended it to.

  Then something was being looped around Herb’s neck, and he felt a jolt of electricity that was almost spiritual in the amount of agony it caused.

  Herb flopped onto his side, flopped like a landed fish, every muscle spasming, and then it stopped and he saw the net guy standing over him, holding onto a long, metal pole, the wire at the end encircling Herb’s head.

  Herb looked to the side and yelled to Tequila, “Now!”

  Tequila was lying there, passed out. But the net guy didn’t know that, and when he turned to defend himself, Herb brought both arms down, hard, on the pole, knocking it from the man’s grasp. In a clumsy but effective move, Herb managed to get onto his feet while tugging the loop off his neck, and when his attacker reached for him, Herb swung the pole like a bat and connected with the side of his head.

  The guy went down, and Herb, still in adrenaline-surging fight-or-flight mode, dove on top of him, and performed the same move that he had on the first guy. Hands under the chin, quick yank back.

  CRACK!

  No further movement.

  Herb waited for a few seconds, which might have actually been several minutes, shaking so hard he was worried he’d bite his tongue off.

  Then there was a brief period of hysterical, out-of-control laughter, mixed with deep sobs, and when Herb’s face was thoroughly covered with snot and tears he managed to get his shit together just enough to start stripping the men.

  Getting the clothing off of a corpse was much tougher than Herb could have imagined. Even harder was dressing an unconscious Tequila in the man’s gear.

  Herb then did the same thing for himself, right down to the socks and underwear, which was disgusting but better than freezing to death, and by the time he was finished, he actually felt warm for the first time in hours.

  Tequila, however, did not. His hands were frighteningly cold.

  Herb walked to the overturned ATV, rocking it upright.

  A wheel came off.

  Herb found this hilarious, considered the very real fact that he might have gone insane, dismissed the thought because insane people probably wouldn’t question their own sanity, then dismissed that thought as insane, then found the gas tank on the vehicle and twisted off the cap.

  He spent ten minutes gathering grass, sticks, and flammable parts of the ATV wreckage, made a pile surrounded by gravel, turned the ATV over onto the pile, dumping out several gallons of gas, dragging the ATV away, and then…

  Then… what?

  He patted down his stolen clothing, looking for a lighter. Or matches. Nothing.

  Nothing in Tequila’s clothes, either.

  Herb began to do that laughing/sobbing thing again. Then he stared at the ATV, wondering how he could use it to make fire.

  It had a battery. Hook up some wires, cross them, get a spark and—

  Wait. He already had something that made sparks.

  Herb picked up the catch pole, stuck the tip in his pile of gas-soaked debris, and pressed the button on the handle.

  There was a WHUMP! and the instant heat kissed his face like a long-lost lover.

  He pulled Tequila closer to the warmth, put one arm around him, and then scanned the horizon for more guards.

  They’d see the smoke. They’d be coming.

  Soon.

  And Herb doubted he’d have as much luck the second time around.

  JACK

  Heckle and Jeckle had left to check out the gas station diner, and McGlade had a two pound bag of peanut M&Ms up to his mouth like a feedbag.

  “Harry, far be it for me to comment on your lifestyle choices.”

  “What’s the gripe? The out-of-control spending? The sex addiction? The obsession with unusual pets?”

  “I was more concerned about the binge eating.”

  Harry stared at me, then stared at his candy.

  “You want the long answer, or the short answer?”

  I didn’t really want either. I wanted a firearm. But there was also a very real possibility that McGlade would suffer heart failure before we found Herb and Tequila.

  “How about a mid-length answer?”

  “I don’t like myself. So to take my mind off that, I distract myself with crap.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It beats what you do.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “You channel your self-loathing into hurting the people you care about. I prefer the penguins and M&Ms route.”

  Wow. That was too on the nose. “I… don’t loathe myself.”

  Harry gave me a look like, really?

  “Pass the M&Ms,” I said.

  He handed them over. They tasted like self-doubt and sadness.

  “If I liked myself,” Harry said, “I wouldn’t need a streaming webcast to get the anonymous approval of strangers. And if you liked yourself, you wouldn’t need to push Phin away. It’s obviouspants. Since neither of us want to deal with our issues, let’s move on.”

  “You think I push people away?”

  “Name a single friend you have that isn’t a former co-worker.”

  I grasped for a straw. “My next door neighbor. Sheila.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “It’s, uh, Johnson.”

  “Johnson is your fake last name. Do you really want to get into this now? Or do you want a gun?”

  I opted for the gun.

  Harry flipped up a hidden keypad on the wall, pressed a few buttons, and a panel opened in the floor.

  “I know,” he said, nodding. “This is some James Bond shit.”

  The revealed arsenal wasn’t quite James Bond shit, but it was pretty impressive for a recreational vehicle. Nestled in foam enclosures were two AR-15s, a Remington 870 shotgun, a Marlin 1895 Lever Action rifle, several Glocks, a Springfield M1A, and three revolvers. The revolvers caught my interest.

  One was a Smith & Wesson 460, which looked like a .44 Magnum, but about twice as big. It was a ridiculously heavy gun, which shot a ridiculously large .460 cartridge. I’d fired one, once, and it felt like slapping a car speeding by at sixty miles per hour.

  The second was a Ruger Super Blackhawk Alaskan. It fired .454 Casull rounds, which were also larger than .44 Magnums. Roughly as comfortable to shoot as catching a swinging baseball bat.

  I considered making a joke about McGlade overcompensating for something, decided not to open up the doorway to that discussion, and reached down for the last revolver, a Taurus 66. This was chambered for .357 Magnum, which was a much friendlier round to shoot than .44s and their larger cousins. But .357s also had a cool ability; they could also fire .38s, which were my cartridge of choice.

  My go-to gun used to be a Colt Detective Special, a snub-nosed .38. Then I carried a Colt Python, but that was too heavy for an everyday pistol, so I’d given that to Phin and bought a smaller Colt Cobra, which had all of the qualities I was looking for in a concealed carry. It was a revolver, so it never jammed, and it could be easily reloaded with my eyes closed (try loading a 9mm magazine in the dark). It also had a great balance between weight and target damage, and carried well in shoulder, waist, or purse holster.

  The Model 66 was bigger than my Cobra. The cylinder held seven rounds rather than six, and the barrel was two inches longer. It also weighed nearly a pound more.

  “Really?” Harry asked, eyeing my choice. “Over a Glock 19?”

  “Do you really want to compare the two?”

  “Bigger capacity with the Glock,” Harry said. We’d had the revolver vs. semi-automatic argument many times before.

  “If I can’t destroy it with seven rounds, I shouldn’t be carrying a weapon.”

  “Glock fires faster.”

  “Bullshit. You want to shoot and see?”

  “I still suck lefty.”

  “You sucked when you were a righty. How do you even chamber a round with a robot hand?”

  Harry picked up a Glock lefty, lifted a foot, and then worked the slide by pressing the gun sights against the sole of his shoe and pulling back.

  He smiled like a canary-eating-cat, then lost his balance and fell on his ass.

  I ignored the chance for ribbing, because he was giving me a gun. “Do you have .38 rounds?”

  “I’ve got a few boxes of .38+P.”

  Plus P cartridges were the same size as .38s, but had 20% more muzzle velocity.

  “Holster?” I asked.

  “Paddle.”

  “Leather?”

  “Polymer. Faster draw than leather.”

  “Sold.”

  Harry rooted around in his arsenal for the holster and ammo, and I switched the gun from one hand to the other, getting the feel of the cylinder release and ejector rod. The gun was heavy. Maybe too heavy. The loaded Glock 19 was probably ten ounces lighter, and I was considering a swap when Harry found the holster. I fitted the paddle in my waistband on my hip, holstered the weapon, and drew.

  Awkward. I was too hippy for a side carry.

  “Try it in front.”

  “Cross draw?” I moved the holster to above my left front pocket, then drew and aimed.

  It was smooth. And quick.

  “Ammo?” I asked, sighting the gun down the length of the RV.

  McGlade took a long, rectangular box out of his hidey-hole, set it aside, and began to look for the .38+P rounds.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “Huh? Oh. AT-4.”

  “I don’t know that model rifle.”

  “It’s not a rifle. It’s an anti-tank weapon.” He opened the box lid.

  I gaped, incredulous. “A rocket launcher.”

  “Three hundred meter effective range, 84mm exploding projectile, can penetrate fifteen inches of RHA; rolled homogenous armor.”

  “Why do you have one?”

  “Why don’t you have one?”

  Harry found the ammo. I ejected the .357 rounds he’d already loaded, swapped with .38+P, stuck the box in my jacket pocket, then holstered the weapon. McGlade packed everything else up and closed his secret Bond hatch.

  “Ready to practice?” he asked.

  I nodded. The only way to get used to a new gun was to shoot it.

  McGlade led me outside, keeping the animals in the RV, and we walked around to the side. He unlocked a panel door, and wheeled out a large autofeed trap. I tagged behind as he muscled the hand truck-sized contraption fifty meters off road, into the plains. It looked like an old-time generator. Stacked on top were six columns of clay discs.

  Trap shooting, a variation of pigeon shooting and skeet shooting, was one of the oldest shooting sports. The skeet were 108mm frisbees that were launched, singly or in pairs, between fifty to a hundred meters. The goal, obviously, was to shoot them before they landed.

  The standard firearm for trapshooting was a shotgun. Shotguns had long barrels, usually over eighteen inches, and fired multiple projectiles that spread out, making it much easier to hit a small, moving target.

  My Taurus had a four inch barrel, and one projectile, so I wasn’t confident this was the proper way to practice. It was unlikely I’d hit anything. An indoor range with a stationary paper target was the right way to train with a handgun.

  “You know this is impossible,” I told him.

  “For you? Naw. You never miss.”

  “Could you do this?”

  “I can’t do this with a shotgun. But this isn’t about my limitations. It’s about yours. Let’s send one flying, let you zero out.”

  He stepped on a pedal and the skeet launched. It landed really far away.

  This was impossible.

  “C’mon, Jackie. Can’t hit the target?”

  “Can you even see the target?”

  “It’s that bright orange dot, about the size of a raisin.”

  There was no way. I took my stance, gripped the revolver with both hands, and aimed at something much closer; a steer’s bleached skull, roughly twenty meters away.

  My first shot missed, and the gun kicked hard. While you can’t ‘zero-out’ a revolver, like McGlade said, you can adjust your grip and aim to properly line up your eyes with the sights, in order to get a feel for the bullseye spot. I lowered the barrel a fraction of a degree, and squeezed the trigger again.

  The steer’s right horn came off.

  Then I shot the left horn.

  Then I put two between the eyes.

  Then I located the orange clay pigeon, ridiculously small in the distance. I let out a slow breath and fired.

  Missed. But I kicked up dirt several inches to the right.

  “Wind,” McGlade said.

  Wind wasn’t normally a factor in handgun shooting, where targets were sixty feet or closer. But wind, and drop, became important when hitting objects at longer range. To imagine drop, think about dropping a metal slug from shoulder level to the ground. The time it takes for that to happen is the same amount of time it takes a bullet, fired perfectly straight at shoulder level, to hit the ground.

  That may sound counter-intuitive, but gravity pulls on stationary objects with the same force as it pulls on moving objects. The way to counter this was to adjust the barrel angle. Shooting higher than parallel meant the bullet would travel in an arc, like a football pass. Some of the bullet’s energy is stolen by gravity, but you can shoot farther.