Contents
THE SOUND OF gunshots cracked through snow-dusted tree branches and split the brittle December air. A flock of honking Canada geese veered away from the blasts, their wings thudding amid the rippling echoes.
Scott Abbott reloaded his GLOCK, aimed and fired at the paper target in the shape of a person a hundred yards from the plexiglass-protected shooting stand. His shots were all over the place. Only one came close to the heart. Still, he was vastly improved over last month when he stood here in the icy rain shooting through pea-soup fog. Night-vision gear wouldn’t have helped. Scott needed more practice if he wanted to be as good as his friends.
“Good thing my life doesn’t depend on your skills,” Trent Davis, Indian Lake Police Detective, teased as he pulled on a pair of military-issue, noise-canceling earphones and aimed his Smith & Wesson M&P45 and easily squeezed off six shots dead into the target’s heart area.
Scott grimaced at his best friend, Luke Bosworth, whose cool gaze was devoid of mirth. Luke had been a navy SEAL. His new semiautomatic 1911 Colt .45 plowed the target with eight shots, the paper flying off like escaping butterflies.
Scott blew on his freezing hands. “My aim is off. The cold.” He shrugged.
“Yeah, tell it to the judge.” Trent laughed and reloaded.
Scott pulled the sheepskin
