Child, Lee. Running blind

“You think better outside?”

“Generally.”

“OK, come to the range. I need to qualify on handguns.”

“You’re not qualified already?”

She smiled. “Of course I am. We have to requalify every month. Regulations.”

They took sandwiches from the cafeteria and ate as they walked. The out

^fw/l/U/M filing 145

door pistol range was Sunday-quiet, a large space the size of a hockey rink, bermed on three sides with high earth walls. There were six separate firing lanes made out of shoulder-high concrete walls running all the way down to six separate targets. The targets were heavy paper, clipped into steel frames. Each paper was printed with a picture of a crouching felon, with target rings radiating out from his heart. Harper signed in with the rangemaster and handed him her gun. He reloaded it with six shells and handed it back, together with two sets of ear defenders.

“Take lane three,” he said.

Lane three was in the center. There was a black line painted on the concrete floor.

“Seventy-five feet,” Harper said.

She stood square-on and slipped the ear defenders into position. Raised the gun two-handed. Her legs were apart and her knees slightly bent. Her hips were forward and her shoulders back. She loosed off the six shots in a stream, half a second between them. Reacher watched the tendons in her hand. They were tight, rocking the muzzle up and down a fraction each time she pulled.

“Clear,” she said.

He looked at her.

“That means you go get the target,” she said.

He expected to see the hits arranged on a vertical line maybe a foot long, and when he got down to the other end of the lane, that is exactly what he found. There were two holes in the heart, two in the next ring, and two in the ring connecting the throat with the stomach. He undipped the paper and carried it back.

“Two fives, two fours, two threes,” she said. “Twenty-four points. I pass, just.”

“You should use your left arm more,” he said.

“How?”

“Take all the weight with your left, and just use your right for pulling the trigger.”

She paused.

“Show me,” she said.

He stepped close behind her and stretched around with his left arm. She raised the gun in her right and he cupped her hand in his.

“Relax the arm,” he said. “Let me take the weight.”

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1″&M

His arms were long, but hers were too. She shuffled backward and pressed hard against him. He leaned forward. Rested his chin on the side of her head. Her hair smelled good.

“OK, let it float,” he said.

She clicked the trigger on the empty chamber a couple of times. The muzzle was rock steady.

“Feels good,” she said.

“Go get some more shells.”

She peeled away from in front of him and walked back to the rangemaster’s cubicle and got another clip, part loaded with six. He moved into the next lane, where there was a new target. She met him there and nestled back against him and raised her gun hand. He reached around her and cupped it and took the weight. She leaned back against him. Fired twice. He saw the holes appear in the target, maybe an inch apart in the center ring.

“See?” he said. “Let the left do the work.”

“Sounds like a political statement.”

She stayed where she was, leaning back against him. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing. He stepped away from behind her and she tried again, by herself. Two shots, fast. The shell cases rang on the concrete. Two more holes appeared in the heart ring. There was a tight cluster of four, in a diamond shape a business card would have covered.

She nodded. “You want the last two?”

She stepped close and handed him the pistol, butt-first. It was a SIG-Sauer, identical to the one Lamarr had held next to his head throughout the car ride into Manhattan. He stood with his back to the target and weighed the gun in his hand. Then he spun abruptly and fired the two bullets, one into each of the target’s eyes.

“That’s how I’d do it,” he said. “If I was real mad with somebody, that’s what I’d do. I wouldn’t mess around with a damn tub and twenty gallons of paint.”