watched as Johnny shuffled back toward his cinder-block cell.
Tsai stayed behind Littman and followed the guards out, thinking, Buddhist temples and Chinese jewelry stores.
Back to the Future
The long detail in the Chinatown Precinct had exhausted Jack. He was happy to be back on days in the Ninth, the 0-Nine.
The previous day’s reports were loaded up on the computer blotter: A teenage wolf pack of a dozen black and Latino youths had assaulted and robbed a Russian immigrant couple in the Alphabets. They’d smashed the man over the head with a brick, and were attempting to rape the woman when patrol arrived and scattered them. On the outskirts of Chinatown, an Organized Crime Control Bureau detail raided a warehouse and confiscated seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of bootleg and contraband cigarettes. Fake Camels and Marlboros from China. The Ghost Legion was involved somehow, thought Jack. Earlier, a man stabbed another man in a Chinatown nail salon. Ming Chu, twenty-six, knifed another Asian man and was charged with second-degree attempted murder and first-degree assault. The motive was unclear. In the East Village, a crew of thugs robbed a Korean deli, wounding the owner’s sister. In NoHo, two illegal Chinese nationals were arrested for making high-end purchases with counterfeit credit cards. The two were caught with sixteen bogus credit cards in their possession.
The three Chinese-involved cases had Prosecutor Bang Sing’s name attached to them: he was a Chinese ADA saddling up against Chinese criminals the same way that Jack was pitted against the Chinatown underworld.
Woman Warrior
The shooting space consisted of eight shallow stalls, each with a small counter that looked out over twenty-five feet toward the target end of the range.
Alex saw a series of paper targets clipped onto cable wire, vibrating to the concussion of multiple volleys and staccato bursts of gunfire. Stepping inside the enclosure, the shooter already had “ears” on, noise-canceling headsets that muffled the continuous explosive gunshots from the stalls, where civilians and professionals blasted away with everything from .22s to .9-millimeters to .45s. A deafening barrage of deadly projectiles.
The smell of cordite and gunshot residue filled the air.
The shooter usually clipped a target to the wire, reeled it out to a desired distance, and donned protective eyewear. Weapons were loaded and reloaded on the small countertop as shooters settled themselves, preparing to fire away.
Alex leveled the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith, taking a breath as she focused on the large body target ten feet away, a threatening dark silhouette. Using a two-handed stance, with her free hand cupped under her gun fist, she felt the fight of the trigger, and squeezed off a one- and a two-shot burst. Paused. Then two more. Bam! Bambam! Bambam! And she still had three shots left in the model 317 Airlite, an eight-shot .22-caliber revolver that Jack had recommended. It weighed less than ten ounces on an aluminum alloy frame, had a black rubber grip, and a smooth combat trigger. Eight shots from a revolver was a definite advantage, and the piece fit nicely inside her designer handbag. The high-velocity long-rifle bullets could rip a hole through a phonebook and still take out an eye.
Jack had warned her, “You shouldn’t be capping anybody more than ten feet away. Otherwise, it ceases to be self-defense. And don’t go chasing after them, either, for Crissakes.”
Alex chuckled at the memory, put the gun down, and reeled in the target. She ran her index finger over the little holes in the black-paper torso-shaped target: a single hit on the right shoulder, then two more across the breastplate, grouped closer together. The last two only an inch apart, just under the heart.
The way Jack had taught her: Shoot to kill. Or don’t shoot at all.
The .22-caliber load, even with the high-velocity rounds, had very little kick and was easy to handle. Alex had
Tsai stayed behind Littman and followed the guards out, thinking, Buddhist temples and Chinese jewelry stores.
Back to the Future
The long detail in the Chinatown Precinct had exhausted Jack. He was happy to be back on days in the Ninth, the 0-Nine.
The previous day’s reports were loaded up on the computer blotter: A teenage wolf pack of a dozen black and Latino youths had assaulted and robbed a Russian immigrant couple in the Alphabets. They’d smashed the man over the head with a brick, and were attempting to rape the woman when patrol arrived and scattered them. On the outskirts of Chinatown, an Organized Crime Control Bureau detail raided a warehouse and confiscated seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of bootleg and contraband cigarettes. Fake Camels and Marlboros from China. The Ghost Legion was involved somehow, thought Jack. Earlier, a man stabbed another man in a Chinatown nail salon. Ming Chu, twenty-six, knifed another Asian man and was charged with second-degree attempted murder and first-degree assault. The motive was unclear. In the East Village, a crew of thugs robbed a Korean deli, wounding the owner’s sister. In NoHo, two illegal Chinese nationals were arrested for making high-end purchases with counterfeit credit cards. The two were caught with sixteen bogus credit cards in their possession.
The three Chinese-involved cases had Prosecutor Bang Sing’s name attached to them: he was a Chinese ADA saddling up against Chinese criminals the same way that Jack was pitted against the Chinatown underworld.
Woman Warrior
The shooting space consisted of eight shallow stalls, each with a small counter that looked out over twenty-five feet toward the target end of the range.
Alex saw a series of paper targets clipped onto cable wire, vibrating to the concussion of multiple volleys and staccato bursts of gunfire. Stepping inside the enclosure, the shooter already had “ears” on, noise-canceling headsets that muffled the continuous explosive gunshots from the stalls, where civilians and professionals blasted away with everything from .22s to .9-millimeters to .45s. A deafening barrage of deadly projectiles.
The smell of cordite and gunshot residue filled the air.
The shooter usually clipped a target to the wire, reeled it out to a desired distance, and donned protective eyewear. Weapons were loaded and reloaded on the small countertop as shooters settled themselves, preparing to fire away.
Alex leveled the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith, taking a breath as she focused on the large body target ten feet away, a threatening dark silhouette. Using a two-handed stance, with her free hand cupped under her gun fist, she felt the fight of the trigger, and squeezed off a one- and a two-shot burst. Paused. Then two more. Bam! Bambam! Bambam! And she still had three shots left in the model 317 Airlite, an eight-shot .22-caliber revolver that Jack had recommended. It weighed less than ten ounces on an aluminum alloy frame, had a black rubber grip, and a smooth combat trigger. Eight shots from a revolver was a definite advantage, and the piece fit nicely inside her designer handbag. The high-velocity long-rifle bullets could rip a hole through a phonebook and still take out an eye.
Jack had warned her, “You shouldn’t be capping anybody more than ten feet away. Otherwise, it ceases to be self-defense. And don’t go chasing after them, either, for Crissakes.”
Alex chuckled at the memory, put the gun down, and reeled in the target. She ran her index finger over the little holes in the black-paper torso-shaped target: a single hit on the right shoulder, then two more across the breastplate, grouped closer together. The last two only an inch apart, just under the heart.
The way Jack had taught her: Shoot to kill. Or don’t shoot at all.
The .22-caliber load, even with the high-velocity rounds, had very little kick and was easy to handle. Alex had
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