by A. J. Lape
There were two key rules for handling a gun. Number one, never point it at anyone; and number two, always assume it was loaded.
Roper claimed the easiest person to train was the person with zero experience because those recruits brought no preconceived notions on what to expect and no existing bad habits. Standing between Eugene Anthony and Grant Coker, I begged to differ. Anthony was the brown-noser, 4.0 grad with a law degree. He might know tort law and police codes, but he barely knew the difference between the action, frame, and barrel. Coker, on the other hand, had several tours of Army service from the Middle East under his belt. Holding a gun for him was as simple as holding his thingy when he took a pee every morning.
Roper and two other instructors quietly evaluated how Coker held his GLOCK—his particular setup, did he have what they considered bad habits—while contemplating if his military training would jell with the fast nature of life on the streets. Coker glanced over to me and winked a shrewd blue-green eye, acknowledging the microscoping was a little more than normal.
In the LAPD mechanized range, white targets in the shape of a torso lined up in front of us. We’d already been instructed where to shoot and shown what circle on the target to aim for, always going straight for the center. Coker placed the GLOCK in his right hand, cupped it with his left, and all of a sudden, every instructor on campus was yelling in his ear, trying to up the stress level. Do you think you can hang with us, soldier? one screamed. The LAPD is a hell of a lot scarier than a helicopter, another chimed in. And then Roper, the Benedict Arnold, belted out, You’re going to fail. You are not going to hit that fricking target one time. Coker didn’t even flinch, unloading his clip in several easy pulls. When he hit the button to mechanically bring the white target back to him, he’d basically cut a hole in the middle of the it with his bullets. The only bullet impacts they could count to score were three—out of a total fifteen shot. All remaining rounds were inside the small circle.
Coker was a crack shot.
All three instructors chuckled out a, “Pass,” in unison and attention then shifted to Eugene Anthony. Nothing struck cold terror in my gut like giving a gun to a person who couldn’t operate one—and didn’t appear to have good instincts. Anthony was the width of a light pole. His ears were large. His hands were large. His feet were large. One eye was wonky, and the guy had a nose that looked like it belonged on a coked-up snuffleupagus.
DNA: sometimes you get screwed.
Not only was he awkward in appearance, but awkward in setup. I closed my eyes, voicing a silent prayer on his behalf because his nerves were so thick I felt them like they were my own.
All of us wore earphones, but when Anthony gazed my way, I mouthed, “You can do this, buddy,” and gave him an encouraging smile.
Problem was, Anthony was either high or my prayer life needed an overhaul.
His gun jammed when he squeezed the trigger, and he nervously gazed down the barrel of the pistol. Lo and behold, the GLOCK then discharged in a loud boom. The kickback moved his aim, and the bullet struck the brim of Roper’s hat, blowing it right off his head—inches from sending him off to never-never land. The wind caught his hat, and after a trip north, it catapulted to the ground, rolling like a tumbleweed in the desert. Another instructor retrieved it as it rolled by, holding it to his chest like an armored vest. I could testify that sequence of events happened in a matter of seconds. All I knew was I found myself underneath Coker’s big body, trying to reconnect with my respiratory system.
Roper had a flat-out coronary that left Anthony in tears.
And I might’ve peed a little.
I shut down my lids for a moment, saying another God-help-him thing. Anthony was not released from the academy—although a huge possibility existed he would be—but when the dust settled, he quietly turned in his gun and left the range. Had he quit? Would he come back? He didn’t say…and no one had the nerve, or frankly physical ability, to ask.
Watching Anthony on that long walk of shame, I struggled to find my zen. My feelings were mixed. I wanted him to have another chance—to not quit so easily—but I also wanted him to be prepared. If he couldn’t get past the nerves of a firearm, then what would he do when a perp pulled on him or someone else? Needless to say, people began to drop like flies. The Superjock—who’d given my body a subpar assessment during the physical evaluation—literally strolled over to Roper, relinquished her firearm, and verbally checked out of the program during Anthony’s walk to his car.
I went for eye contact with those closest to me: Grumpy, Coker, Faulkner, and Sunny Swank. All silently gave me reassurance they would never quit. When I found Holland Hemming’s gaze, however, she mouthed, “Another one bites the dust.”
I nervously giggled. Unfortunately, it was audible.
There was a fifty-minute recess where Roper circled the wagons, reminding everyone of proper handgun safety and the fragility of life as we knew it. During that fifty minutes, no one said a word. We stood stone-faced, wishing we could rewind the hands of time for Eugene Anthony. When Roper instructed us to hydrate and line back up, I tried to find my happy place. When my eyes were closed and singing “Hakuna Matata” in my brain, someone touched me on the shoulder. I jumped like a flea on a hound dog, discovering Paddy and Detective Riley Shafer. Both had that look like the rumor mill of Anthony’s colossal blunder had already made its rounds at all the precincts. Again, Shafer was present. Evidently, he was one of those guys who couldn’t stay away from the job.
“Hawareya, doll,” Paddy murmured in his Irish brogue. He made a move to touch my face but dropped his hand, maintaining a professional stance. Paddy wasn’t much for self-restraint. In fact, Paddy wasn’t much for rules or regulations at all. When Colton Taylor had been shot by his partner, Paddy had just met Lincoln, who’d contracted him out for intel on a drug cartel on LAPD’s radar. Paddy was meeting Colton—who was pinch-hitting for Lincoln on that particular drug assignment—when he witnessed Colton get shot in the back by his partner. Evidently, his partner was dirty and did not want his drug habit exposed. Needless to say, Lincoln was eternally indebted, and Paddy eventually joined the force. Joining the force didn’t smooth out all of Paddy’s rough edges. In fact, it might’ve sharpened them.
“G-day, mate,” I mumbled.
The click in Paddy’s jaw told me his unnatural restraint was taking more effort than he cared to give. “Lincoln’s goin’ apeshit,” he said on an exhale, running a hand through his orangey-red hair. “He’s stuck in interrogation but asked me…no, told me…” he said, stopping to chuckle, “to come over and check on you and Bradshaw.” He paused, narrowing his brown eyes like he feared my nerves were about to crack. “You good? We heard you had a front row seat.”
No, I’m not good, I thought, but I swallowed those words down.
“I’m on deck,” was my answer.
“Then line it up,” Paddy coached. “Pull the trigger. Let the weapon do its job.”
Swallowing, I reminded myself this was not the first time I’d been in the path of a wayward bullet.
Paddy and Shafer withdrew to the background. “You’re up next, Walker,” Roper said. “Do you need some time?”
Again, he hadn’t surveyed the others if they needed extra time. I couldn’t tell if he genuinely cared about my chances of success or if he tried to detect an emotional weakness. “I need no time, sir,” I told him in a level voice. “I’ve had scarier things happen around me...and to me.”
Roper narrowed his eyes, trying his best to go Sigmund Freud and dive into my grey matter. After he appeared satisfied with whatever he found, he withdrew a few feet. Grumpy, Coker, and Faulkner stood behind me too, and all three willed me to hit the target—at least once. But I was better than an at-least-once type of shot. Grumpy and I had regularly visited the firing range with Lincoln and Paddy since we’d relocated to the West Coast. But right then, I understood how Eugene Anthony must’ve felt with all eyes on him.
Your mind might know what to do,
but given the right set of circumstances, your finger could have a mind all on its own.
My shoulders had gotten tight. Resting the gun on my left hand, I willed myself to relax and squared my stance. Closing my left eye, I zeroed-in on the sight and lined it up for the greatest impact shot. Channeling my inner-Annie Oakley, I whispered to myself, “Smooth, Darcy. Five pounds of pressure.”
Opening my lips for a deep breath, I squeezed the trigger slowly and smoothly on the exhale.
After I felt the release of the initial bullet, I realigned once more and forced my finger to relax, controlling a reset. Once in the zone, I pulled the trigger again…and again…and again…
…until I unloaded my entire mag.
There were many things that felt like they went on forever: a sunset, getting over a bad breakup, a to-do list, and waiting for the next paycheck. Nothing, however, felt quite like the length of time it required for an instructor to add up my score. My eyes were blurred with sweat, and my ears rang at a pitchy screech even though I’d been wearing noise reduction headphones.
Removing the noise cancelling device, I opened and closed my mouth, swallowing twice. “Are you like the teacher’s pet?” I heard Sunny Swank ask.
Not exactly. But I was definitely something.
“No,” Holland replied for me, who had come to stand beside Grumpy. “I think because Darcy knows some heavyweights, they’re making her try harder…and that’s not fair.”
Okey-dokey. Maybe I liked Holland.
Roper had my target in his hands, showing me the rips where I’d hit inside the bull’s eye and those to connect right outside the center in the next two rings. “Good job, Walker,” he said in surprise. “Your score is actually one of the best of the day. And I must say, considering what just—”
Detective Shafer interrupted Roper. My instructor didn’t appreciate the cut off by the click in his jaw but let it slide, I assumed, because Shafer outranked him. “I thought you looked familiar that first day, Walker, and now I know where I recognize your face. You almost shagged a bullet at Ugly Pizza, right? Dragging that one guy back inside the building?”
I stretched and cracked my back, reliving the memory. The person had been a man named Sheldon Smith, and he’d only sought me out because I’d sent word for him to do so. Talk about a guilt trip. Smith had circled the drain for a while but was somehow still holding on from the gunshot wound to his head. He was talking in sentence fragments from what I’d been told but wasn’t accepting visitors. “Yes,” I answered. “That was me.”
“Ever going back to work there?” Shafer inquired.
“Oh yeah, pizza delivery is glamorous.” Said no one ever. “But to answer your question, yes. I’ve got bills to pay and some of my customers tip well. So if I get a call, I’m gonna go.”
“Sounds to me like you’re keeping your options open. What exactly are your career aspirations anyway?” That question came from Ezra Huxley.
I jerked toward his voice, my green eyes flashing all kinds of dead. “Outranking you for starters,” I quipped.
I’d avoided Huxley all day—during class, at lunch, the treadmill test, and here at the range, but the guy was like a case of athlete’s foot…hard to shake.
The corner of Roper’s mouth twitched at my return fire. Paddy fought a chuckle but buckled and laughed anyway. Shafer, however, did not.
“You’re an ass,” Shafer hissed at Huxley.
“You can’t say that to me,” Huxley dumbly fired back.
“I just did,” Shafer barked. “And furthermore, you need a tune-up in the manner’s department.”
“Are you challenging me?” Huxley sneered.
Listening to Huxley flap his yapper ranked up there with having a root canal without anesthesia. Apparently, Shafer felt the same. He stalked toward Huxley, bumping chests like Sumo wrestlers ready to throwdown. Huxley, the nimrod, wasn’t offended. “Let’s go, asshole,” Shafer snarled.
Paddy maneuvered himself between them and placed his palm on Shafer’s chest, backing him up a step. “Easy, boys.”
Shafer dialed into Paddy’s command immediately. Huxley, however, was content to ride that dumb cruise boat of professional suicide. “We’re good, Lieutenant O’Leary,” Shafer murmured, reciting Paddy’s rank with emphasis. “Right Huxley?” he said. His “Right, Huxley,” though, still contained a bite of viperous venom.
“Yeah. Yes, sir. We’re good,” Huxley said to Paddy.
“I wish I knew a scientist who was studying the effects of bee venom,” Shafer grumbled when Huxley and the crowd disbursed. “I have a test subject all lined up for him.”
I agreed. Huxley was a dark cloud. There was a beautiful day behind him, once he left. “Plans for tonight?” Shafer asked me as I watched Huxley stalk away. Roper was in the middle of pep-talking those behind me. He left them in the middle of his speech to head Huxley off at the pass. That couldn’t be good. My guess was he would remind Huxley what behavior was required when in the presence of a ranking superior.
“Netflix. Some fast food. A hot shower,” I said to Shafer as an answer.
“Wanna do a ride-a-long sometime soon?” he inquired. “Just for a few hours?”
Of course, I did. But was that allowed? Paddy gave Shafer the side-eye, questioning exactly what his plans were. Paddy was Dylan’s godfather. If Shafer didn’t know, Paddy would inform him on the way back to the station in case he had any aspirations of getting cozy with a recruit.
“I thought you were on vacation,” I told him.
“And engaged,” Paddy threw out into the universe with a grunt.
Shafer chuckled and elbowed Paddy. “Not that way, big guy. Besides, I’m aware of the reputation of who Walker’s dating, and I don’t exactly have a death wish. In all seriousness, I only would like to get to know her a little better.” He paused. “I like her.”
Glancing at Paddy, he gave me a little nod of approval. But I made note…it was a minuscule nod at best. Again, he protected Dylan’s turf as if it was the battle line between civility and anarchy. “Sure,” I said, “but only if you’ll ride-a-long during my side hustle when I pick up an extra shift.”
Chapter 15
I TRIED TO CREATE A DOPAMINE EXPERIENCE.
I needed to sleep for a month…or two.
“I’m so tired I feel like I’m hallucinating,” I told my father as I opened the refrigerator and removed a bottled water. I’d just returned from the academy, and no matter how much fluid I’d drunk today, I still felt dehydrated.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Murphy murmured.
“All’s quiet on the western front.”
“Silence is golden, kid.” He paused, and I heard him take a sip of something. “Why don’t you sound so golden though?”
“I’m afraid of failure.”
“Aw, kid. Look at what you’ve accomplished already.”
Murphy referred to the fact I had been ranked as the first female recruit, seventh overall. A feat I still hadn’t wrapped my head around, but God knew I’d given every competition the old freshman try. “I know what the stats say, but I fear it was all a fluke. That one day I’m going to be at the back of the pack and wind up in mall security…eating doughnuts and chasing shoplifters.”
My successes and failures could be charted like the ups and downs in the stock market. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in myself. It was merely that my good to bad ratio of experiences had tipped toward the bad so much I’d learned to expect it. If I expected it, then it didn’t feel like such a sucker punch when catastrophes happened. I could brace myself…be ready.
“Fear nothing,” he told me. “You have power in your gait. Your whole presence is a beacon to not be messed with, mentally or physically.”
I opened the pantry to locate a can of soup. “It is?”
“That’s what my self-help calendar said this morning. I claimed that for myself and for you. It beats shooting people I don’t like at work.”
Murphy’s words were de
livered as a joke, but there was a, Hush child. Believe in yourself underneath.
I nuked a bowl of Campbell’s chicken and rice and had dinner in my room, catching up with my father. I’d like to say I’d been paying close attention, but I was distracted. Number one, with Clyde Sargent; number two, with a*shole Kirby York; and number three, with my good friend and favorite UCLA frat boy, Bodhi Kessler. When Bodhi realized how deep in debt our friend, Boozy White, was—and to whom—he went on a bender resulting in a marriage to his on-and-off again girlfriend, Amnesty Stine. Bodhi had phoned while I pulled out of the academy parking lot, telling me his drunken union was virtually all but dissolved. That was a major W in the Kessler camp because Amnesty was a minion from Hell. In retrospect, maybe she was a minion’s minion with her entitled I’m-old-Hollywood-money crap. I’d expelled a metaphorical sigh of relief…but something—something to come—still gnawed at my bones. And I wondered if Bodhi was headed for some other catastrophe…or perhaps someone else was.
Silence isn’t always golden, I reminded myself. In my experience, it usually meant someone was planning an attack.
The time was eleven-eleven. I made a wish and kicked off my shoes, crawling underneath the one thousand thread count sheets on the bed Dylan slept in when he visited. It was on the far end of the hall next to Lincoln and Alexandra’s room. I’d managed to remove my contacts, but I still wore a salty but dry swimsuit from swimming with Pixie earlier.
Sleep was chasing me like a slasher, so I thumbed Dylan’s FaceTime before I nodded off. “Talk dirty to me,” he murmured on pickup.
My eyes raked over him. Dylan’s hair was modern-messy—totally delectable on chiseled cheeks and sleepy, amber-colored eyes.
“Hey, lover. How’s it hangin’ in the 352?”
My voice was low, like I’d just smoked three cigars. Even Lucky thought it sounded rough because he tilted his head to the side before he jumped up on the bed. Hopping overtop my legs, he licked me with his doggy breath and parked himself in the crook behind my knees, letting out a bored sigh.
