"Smith and Wesson Model Ten, thirty-eight special, four inch barrel, blued finish, walnut grips. Six shots, one hundred fifty-eight grain round-nosed lead bullets, muzzle velocity eight hundred feet per second, muzzle energy two hundred foot-pounds."
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
Jamie gave me a commanding stare. "There are three rules you will abide by. First, this is a loaded weapon, even when it is unloaded - you get me?"
I nodded. "Always treat it as if it is loaded, yes."
"Second, only point this weapon at something you're willing to see destroyed."
"Only point at something I'm willing to destroy, got it."
"Third, your finger doesn't make contact with the trigger until you are committed to firing your weapon."
"Don't touch the trigger until I'm ready to fire."
Jamie held the revolver out to me butt-first. "This weapon might not be all that impressive, but you can snuff out a life in a heartbeat with one trigger pull. Just remember that every time you pick it up, and act accordingly."
I took the gun from his hand. I was surprised at how heavy it was; it felt like it weighed a couple of pounds. I carefully kept my finger held away from the trigger, and made sure the barrel was always pointed at the ground.
"Didn't think it'd be that heavy," I said.
"It's all wood and steel. More modern pistols use high grade polymers and ultralight metals, but that revolver's almost as old as I am, and still going strong."
I found myself trying to get a good grip on the butt of the revolver. Someone had taken a small knife or file and made a number of tiny grooves or notches along the back edge of each wooden grip.
"Is this to help get a better grip?" I asked Jamie, pointing to the marks.
He grunted. "No, the previous owner, ah, wanted to add a personal touch, that's all."
"Okay, so how should I hold it?" I asked.
"Settle it in so the backstrap - that bit of blued steel between the grips - sits in the web of your hand so that it's aligned with your wrist. That way when the gun recoils, the force is translated right back into the bones of your forearm and it doesn't torque your hand left or right."
I did as he told me, and the gun seemed to settle into my hand.
"Now what?"
"Shooting a handgun is all about two things; sight picture and trigger control. If you have a proper sight picture and maintain trigger control, you'll hit your target every time."
"Okay..."
Jamie put his hand under mine, on the butt of the gun. He raised it up so it was pointing at the bottle in the middle of the stump.
"Focus on the front sight. You want it to appear clear and sharp in your vision. Once you focus on the front sight, feel yourself naturally aligning the rear sight so that it cradles the front sight, just like you're fitting a tab into a slot."
I held the pistol out and focused on the tiny blued steel blade at the end of the barrel. As I held my arm out straight and looked down the gun, the natural alignment of arm, wrist, and revolver placed the front sight almost perfectly within the V-shaped notch of the rear sight. A few adjustments and I had mated the sights together as best I could, but found that the gun kept wobbling.
"It's hard to keep it steady."
"Don't worry too much about that, you've got to train your muscles to hold a gun steady over time. Now, once you've got your sight picture, keep the front sight in focus, let it stay nestled in the rear sight, and bring the gun to bear on the target. Once you have those three points aligned - rear sight, front sight, and target - you draw the trigger back in one smooth, controlled motion. Don't pull or jerk the trigger, just draw back smooth and slow."
I lined up my sight picture as Jamie instructed, and in spite of the slight waver in my gun hand, I put my finger on the trigger, took a couple of calm breaths, and applied pressure to the trigger until suddenly it shifted back half an inch, and the revolver bucked in my hand. I felt the overpressure of the gunshot slap at my face and ears, and a tiny puff of gunsmoke appeared. The bottle I was aiming at didn't break, but I saw an eruption of rock dust behind the stump, perhaps thirty feet away.
"Not bad, " Jamie said. "Your pull was a little wobbly though, and you drifted to the right at the last moment. Go ahead and touch off the rest. Just focus on maintaining your sight picture and keep your trigger pull steady."
"I can't seem to find a comfortable position on the trigger."
Jamie reached over and adjusted my grip a bit. "You want your finger to sit so that the trigger is between the pad of your finger and the first joint. Too close to the fingertip and you don't have leverage. Too close to the joint and you lose trigger control."
With Jamie's help, I fired the remaining five shots, breaking two of the four bottles. I was pretty happy with myself, and even when I missed, I could tell that the shots came relatively close to the target. After Jamie showed me how to eject the spent casings and reload the cylinder, I replaced the broken bottles and asked Jamie to demonstrate for me how it's done.
Jamie shrugged. "Just remember, I've been doing this for over thirty years. I've got some practice under my belt."
I nodded and smiled. "Okay, so you're old and gray. I'll take that into account when you miss."
Jamie gave me a comical glare, then turned and fired the revolver six times as fast as he could pull the trigger. I actually missed seeing the first two shots hit; I only caught a glimpse of half a broken bottle disintegrating in mid-air before the next four bullets shattered the three remaining bottles. The second to last shot kicked the top half of a broken bottle into the air before the final bullet knocked it apart, just like the first bottle.
I looked from the stump, covered in broken glass, to the smoking revolver, to Jamie, who stood there gun in hand, calm and cool as a cucumber.
"Holy shit, that was amazing."
Jamie turned and reloaded the pistol.
"I can't believe you just did that."
Jamie smiled. "A lot of long hours and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into that. You don't serve on a SOG recon team without knowing how to shoot straight and shoot fast."
I just shook my head. "That wasn't straight and fast, that was a whole other world of awesome. I wouldn't have believed someone could do that if I didn't see it."
Jamie just shrugged. "You could get that good some day, if you really worked at it. I've seen men with a real gift for pistol-craft who could have done that in half the time, and at twice the range. What you just saw, that was nine tenths practice."
"Can I try again?"
Jamie held the pistol out. "Hold on a second while I set up some more bottles."
It took us half an hour to exhaust Jamie's recycling bin. I fired several more cylinders' worth of cartridges with extensive coaching, but later on Jamie allowed me to cut loose and try firing as fast as I could. My batting average wasn't exactly major league, but by the end, Jamie reassured me that I had good reflexes and a sharp eye, and with practice and training I could some day get as good as he was.
By then it was getting dark, and we cleaned up our mess and drove back to the cabin. Before putting it away, Jamie demonstrated for me how to clean and oil the revolver after firing. I didn't see where the revolver had come from or gone off to, and I think that was deliberate. Jamie might trust me, but only so far, and I understood that perhaps he kept his guns someplace hidden that he preferred I not know about, so I respected his privacy and didn't inquire.
Jamie and I made sandwiches for dinner, washed them down with more beer, and just relaxed in the pleasant quiet of the evening. Eventually though, I could tell Jamie was growing somber, and he finally looked away from his view of the lake in twilight and turned to face me.
"So, you're still committed to your plan?"
"More than you can imagine," I said.
Jamie nodded. He got up and went into his bedroom, and when he returned a minute later he carried in his hand a battered leather address book. Jamie sat down next
to the phone, propped his address book open on his knee, and dialed a long distance number. I heard the line ring twice, before a muffled female voice answered.
"I'm calling for Richard," Jamie said.
I couldn't make out the reply.
"Tell him it's the Hangman calling. Yes, he'll know who that means. Yes, I'll hold while you establish the connection."
There were perhaps two minutes of silence while Jamie waited. Then I heard a click from the handset.
"Richard, it's Lynch. Yup. I know, been awhile. No, I'm offering a contract instead. Not me, no. Someone else. Yes, he's solid. Yeah, I can vouch for the money, it's solid too.”
Jamie listened for a moment.
"Yeah, if you can come up, that'd be easier. Can you fly into Bangor? We can meet you there. Tomorrow? Oh, okay, sure. Didn't think you'd get here that fast. Chartered jet? Well, aren't you living the dream."
There was another brief pause.
"Yeah, we'll meet you at the airport. There's a place where we can grab some grub close by, nice little bar and grill. Yeah, I know. All right, I’ll see you then."
Jamie hung up.
"He'll be coming in to Bangor tomorrow around five in the evening. We'll meet him at the airport and go someplace quiet to talk things over."
"What does 'Hangman' mean?" I asked.
Jamie grunted. "That was my nickname back in 'Nam. Hangman, Lynch, get it? Some gallows humor back in the day, literally. I met Richard not long after I got back to the States, so it was still kinda fresh and the nickname stuck."
"So...what exactly did you and Richard do together?"
Jamie glanced away. "I don't really want to get into it. Back then I was still a little ragged, just back from 'Nam. I did a little security work now and then. Couldn't find myself working a real job, you know? I went into the Army at eighteen. I never had a real job, and by the time I got back, the perception of the war, and especially of us Green Berets...it was pretty bleak. No one wanted to work with a baby killer back in those days.”
"That's pretty awful."
Jamie nodded. "You ever see First Blood, the original Rambo movie? Not the one where he's got the bow and arrows, I mean the one where he gets run out of town."
"Yeah, a few years ago. That's where he breaks down and cries because he can't get a job parking cars, right?"
"Yup. You think that movie was exaggerating, but it was really hard for us back then. We came back to the world with all this...experience, but they never taught us how to come home. It took me a long time to settle myself, got into a little trouble here and there. Richard and I had each other's back more than a few times."
"So he's also a vet?"
"I don't think so - I never really got where he learned what he knows. I kinda have my suspicions that he might have been a criminal who went mercenary after a while, or maybe he was a Fed. He's good. I mean, real good. Scary good. But he's a little...peculiar."
"Peculiar how?"
Jamie smiled. "You'll just have to meet him tomorrow and find out."
It had been a long day, so we turned in for the night, and I fell asleep on Jamie's couch in minutes.
FIVE
In the morning, after a quick breakfast and a double espresso, we took Jamie's boat out on the lake for a few hours, alternating between slashing across the water at twenty knots and quietly nosing around the little nooks and crannies of the lake's shoreline while Jamie attempted to fish.
While we didn't catch anything that morning it was a nice diversion, and I found that I really warmed up to my uncle. It was really too bad he didn't get along well with my parents, because once you moved beyond the occasional war reveries, he wasn't that strange a guy. In fact, I'd say he was downright easy-going. I guess after spending four years in a war zone, you learn to not sweat the little things.
After a lunch of sandwiches and iced tea, we drove into town and ran a few errands. I was introduced to a few of Jamie's local friends. Jamie explained that I was his nephew "from the big city" and I'd be staying with him for a while. Everyone seemed very laid back and friendly. I figured the sort of people who needed to go-go-go all the time didn't stay around very long.
We hit the road heading to Bangor around two in the afternoon. It had taken a little shy of two hours to make the drive from Bangor the day before, so we figured we'd get to the airport a little ahead of Richard's flight. Jamie told me that Richard would be coming in to a small private airport south of Bangor.
"The Brewer airport is a little private strip. The jet can come in, land, and he'll be able to just walk off and get in the car. It's a lot less hassle and a lot less paperwork, which is why he picked it."
We sat in the Jeep next to the airstrip with the windows rolled down, the late March breeze cool but still pleasant with the bright sunshine warming the car's interior.
Jamie turned to me. "Just so you know, Richard doesn't drink, so don't offer to buy him a beer. He'll probably just get a soda water with lime, or an iced tea. Also, you'll probably be getting the hairy eyeball from him a lot. Don't let him intimidate you, just be honest with him. Believe me, your request isn't going to shock him. I've never met a more unshockable person in my life."
“This is getting weirder by the minute.”
Jamie smiled, then turned to look up at the sky. "Ah, here he comes."
I looked through the windshield and made out a white speck gradually approaching the airfield from the south. Within a minute the speck grew into a small twin-engined passenger jet, and soon it was taxiing around at the end of the runway, the pilot already aligning the jet so that it was ready for takeoff after refueling.
The passenger ramp lowered to the ground, and I had my first glimpse of Richard. He was tall, a little over six feet, with the lean, lanky frame of a cowboy. He was wearing a light gray suit and a white cowboy hat with a black band. As he approached the Jeep he kept his right hand down by his side, angled behind his leg, and it took me a moment to realize what he was doing.
"Jesus Christ, he's got a gun..." I whispered to Jamie.
"Just be cool. I told you, he's a bit paranoid. Once he scopes us out, he'll put it away. All the same though, keep your hands where he can see them."
"You're not comforting me much."
Richard walked up to the driver's side window and leaned down to peer inside.
"Howdy, Lynch. You're looking well."
Richard had a long, weathered face, clean-shaven with sandy brown hair and cold blue eyes surrounded by a surplus of crow's feet. He appeared to be around sixty, but he was obviously in good shape and carried himself with authority. He reminded me of a grizzled lawman, perhaps past his prime but still fast on the draw and more than a match for any two-bit criminal who might try their hand against him. But, when he looked past Jamie and made eye contact with me, I felt instead like I was looking into the eyes of a prairie lion a moment before it tore my face off with a casual flick of its paw.
"This can't be the client. When'd you take up babysitting? Times get that tough?"
Jamie glanced my way. "Richard, this is my nephew William. He wants to hire you."
Richard looked from Jamie back to me again, his eyes narrowing slightly in scrutiny. I felt myself flush, embarrassed.
"You don't say."
Jamie reached for the ignition with his right hand while pointing his left thumb towards the back seat. "Hop in, Richard. We've got a lot to talk about."
Richard took a step back, then a couple of steps to his right, eyeballing the back seat and the cargo bed of the Cherokee. Satisfied that there wasn't anyone laying in wait for him, Richard got in behind Jamie, but kept his pistol, a big stainless steel automatic, in hand.
"Alright Lynch, you've got three hours. Then the pilot's going to assume I'm dead."
"It's a five minute drive, Richard. I'll have you back before you're presumed KIA."
Jamie drove to a small bar and grill just outside of town. No one spoke during the course of the five minute car ride, and I didn'
t dare look back, not even using the rearview mirror. I kept imagining that big pistol pointing at my back, and just hoped we didn't hit any large bumps along the way.
We pulled into the restaurant’s driveway and parked as far from the building as possible. I saw Jamie look at Richard in the rear view mirror.
"This will be a little less awkward if you put the gun away before we go inside."
Richard opened his door, stepped out and looked around, shielding his gun from view by keeping it inside the Jeep's cab. When he was satisfied nothing was awry, he holstered the pistol and adjusted his suit coat.
"Just being practical, Lynch. You've got to allow an old dog like me a few bad habits."
Jamie let out a small sigh and glanced at me sideways before getting out of the Jeep.
"Richard, I've given you many allowances over the years. Not because you're old, but because you're a weirdo."
"I'll give you that one, Lynch," Richard replied.
We entered the restaurant together, Jamie leading, me in the middle, with Richard bringing up the rear. Even then I couldn't tell if he actually suspected us of leading him into an ambush, or if this constant level of suspicion had become subconscious and second-nature to him after so many years.
The decor inside the restaurant was simple and subdued, a ubiquitous little blue-collar bar and grill where you could get a burger or a steak or a slice of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and most of the beer was sold by the bottle. A jukebox played country music somewhere in the back of the bar. There was a pool table off to one side, a game seemingly half-finished, but no one was around. A handful of tables had seated patrons, and a couple of bar stools were occupied. Overall, it looked like it was going to be a slow evening.
We settled into a booth in a back corner. I noticed Jamie picked a spot close enough to the jukebox so that it would mask our conversation but far enough away that we didn't have to talk over the music. Jamie made sure we both sat facing inward so Richard could have the seat facing the door. Even after sitting down, Richard didn't remove his cowboy hat.
Killer Instincts v5 Page 6
