their booths, wondering what the hell was going on down there.
Who was that babe shouting like a drill sergeant at that faggy-looking guy? Bubba, who was begot by a Bubba and probably related to a long line of them, was leaning against a
cinder-block wall, an Exxon cap low over his eyes. He was big and bad in fatigues and a
camouflage vest, as he watched the target screeching closer and closer to the blond guy.
Bubba was aware of the dense, tight spread, recognizing this guy’s skill at head shots.
Bubba drooled snuff in a bottle, and glanced back at his own lane to make certain no one
thought about touching his Glock 20 ten-millimeter combat-type handgun or his
Remington XP-100 with Leupold scope and standard load of 50-grain Sierra PSP bullets
and 17 grains of IMR 4198 powder. This was a handgun that rested very nicely over
sandbags. His Calico model’ ll0 auto pistol, with its 100-shot magazine and flash
suppressor, wasn’t half bad, either, nor was the Browning Hi-Power HP-Practical pistol,
complete with Pachmayr rubber grips, round-style serrated hammer, and removable front
sight.
There was little Bubba liked better than to machine-gun a couple of targets, brass flying
like shrapnel, as drug dealers walked behind him, not the least bit interested in messing
with the man. Bubba watched the bitch down range unfasten a target from its metal
frame.
She held it up and looked at her dead-eye, sweet boyfriend.
“Who pissed you off?” she asked him.
Bubba’s manly stride carried him their way as more rounds exploded like strings of
firecrackers.
“What is this? Some kind of school going on here?” Bubba asked, as if he owned the
place.
The woman gave him her attention, and he didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. This one
didn’t know fear. Clearly, she didn’t have sense enough to appreciate what she was
looking at, and Bubba went over to her lane and helped himself to her Smith & Wesson.
“Pretty big piece for a little gal like you.” Bubba grinned in his cruel way, dribbling more snuff in his jar.
“Please put it down,” West calmly told him.
Brazil was intrigued and appropriately nervous about where this was going. The big-
bellied pig dressed like Ruby Ridge or Oklahoma City looked like he had hurt people in
the past and was proud of it. He did not put West’s gun down, but was now dropping out
the magazine, checking the slide, and ejecting the cartridge from the chamber. It
occurred to Brazil that West was disarmed, and he could not help her, because the . 380
was out of ammunition, too.
“Put it down. Now.” West was most unfriendly.
“It’s city property, and I am a city police officer.”
“How ’bout that?” Bubba was beginning to enjoy himself immensely.
“Little woman here’s a cop. Well, golly gee.”
West knew better than to announce her rank, which would make matters only that much
worse. She stepped so close to him, the toes of their shoes were about to touch. Her
chest would have pressed against his belly had she not decided against it.
“This is the last time I ask you to put my gun right back where you found it,” she said, staring up into his homely, whisky-flushed face.
Bubba fixed his sights on Brazil, deciding this pretty boy might be in for a life lesson.
Bubba strode over to West’s lane, set down her gun, walked up to Brazil, tried to grab the
. 380 for inspection. Brazil slugged Bubba and broke his nose. Bubba bled over
camouflage, and dripped on assault weaponry as he hastily packed his duffel bag.
It was Bubba’s Last Stand when he cried out from the steps that the lady and her boyfriend had not heard the last from Bubba.
“Sorry,” Brazil said right off when he and West were alone again.
“Jesus Christ. You can’t just hit people like that.” She was mostly embarrassed that she hadn’t resolved the conflict herself.
He was loading magazines, and realizing he had never struck anybody in his life. He
wasn’t sure what he felt about it as he lovingly studied West’s . 380 pistol.