developed a relaxed natural style, letting loose a volley from different defensive positions: combat conditions. She even felt she could make a torso hit shooting from the hip.
“Yeah, right,” Jack had teased. “A real Annie Oakley.”
She looked over her shoulder as gunshots thundered from the stalls around her, saw Jack on the other side of the Plexiglas window. He was smirking and giving her a thumbs-up.
She flashed him a small wave of her hand.
“Freakin’ too good,” Jack whispered to himself, watching Alex through the big picture window that opened on six of the dark stalls, part of the soundproofed dividing wall that separated the lounge area from the target range. She was wearing a dark outfit—black vest and jeans—which reminded Jack of an avenging angel.
The lounge area consisted of a soda machine, a bathroom, and a long couch where members could sit and wait if the place was fully occupied. There was a stack of gun magazines on a folding table: Hunting Guide; Sportsman’s World; Competition Shooting .
Alex was beginning to shoot instinctively, Jack knew, becoming one with the little lady’s gun that was lightweight but deadly. He knew she could make Swiss cheese out of some punk-ass wilding gang looking to jack some weak Asian woman.
The shooting club was managed by Alvin Lin, a thirtyish ABC—American-born Chinese—who was even more jook sing , empty piece of bamboo, than Jack. He was a real Chinese cowboy.
Alex shot eight cycles of the five-shot sets, and finally banged off the extra three rounds into a two-inch grouping just beneath the target’s abdomen. She loaded the last four bullets into the Ladysmith, keeping seven shots ready but leaving empty the eighth, the firing pin chamber.
“In case you drop it,” Jack had explained, “so it won’t go off.”
She nestled the gun into its case, locked it. Coming out of the shooting area, she took off her “ears” and eyewear, the revolver cooling in the metal box.
“Got done quick, huh?” teased Jack.
“Yeah, I shot the box,” she quipped. “What, you expected me to go to war in there?”
Jack grinned. “No, but I’m glad you got it off your chest.”
“Right. And how much GSR is on my arm right now?”
“C’mon,” Jack said, laughing. “You’re watching way too much Law and Order .”
They decided to go to the East Village for sushi and sake, but Jack’s cell phone trilled the moment they left the gun club. Alex caught Jack’s end of the conversation, and knew their plans were about to go awry.
“He asked for me?” questioned Jack, a puzzled look crossing his face.
The Chinatown precinct duty sarge answered, “He said the Chinese cop. The one who worked the gang shooting. That would be you.”
“That’s me,” Jack agreed. “I’m on my way.”
Alex saw Jack’s jaw clenching and said, “Well, I’ve got an early morning anyway. So … rain check, okay?”
“Sure, rain check,” Jack answered, his thoughts already pointing his gut downtown.
They caught a cab to Alex’s Chinatown high-rise, Confucius Towers. From there it was a two-block walk to the 0-Five, the Fifth Precinct.
The evening was dark, but not as black as Jack’s mood.
Traffic Stop
The white, crewcut, uniformed cop met Jack in the detective’s area of the squad room, and turned over a large knife in a sheath. Jack pulled the knife out, impressed by its heft. It was a Taiwanese knockoff, a cross between a Crocodile Dundee and a Bowie blade, several inches short of a machete. A deadly piece of tempered steel.
Jack holstered it and dropped it into a file cabinet, locking it.
“He’s in the room,” said the uniform. “They grabbed him off Delancey Street. He don’t talk English too good.”
Jack smirked at the irony of what he was hearing.
Sitting in the interview room was a beefy-looking Chinese kid, maybe twenty-one but he looked younger. On the table was a Boston Red Sox baseball cap.
“Man, I’m glad to see you,” the kid
“Yeah, right,” Jack had teased. “A real Annie Oakley.”
She looked over her shoulder as gunshots thundered from the stalls around her, saw Jack on the other side of the Plexiglas window. He was smirking and giving her a thumbs-up.
She flashed him a small wave of her hand.
“Freakin’ too good,” Jack whispered to himself, watching Alex through the big picture window that opened on six of the dark stalls, part of the soundproofed dividing wall that separated the lounge area from the target range. She was wearing a dark outfit—black vest and jeans—which reminded Jack of an avenging angel.
The lounge area consisted of a soda machine, a bathroom, and a long couch where members could sit and wait if the place was fully occupied. There was a stack of gun magazines on a folding table: Hunting Guide; Sportsman’s World; Competition Shooting .
Alex was beginning to shoot instinctively, Jack knew, becoming one with the little lady’s gun that was lightweight but deadly. He knew she could make Swiss cheese out of some punk-ass wilding gang looking to jack some weak Asian woman.
The shooting club was managed by Alvin Lin, a thirtyish ABC—American-born Chinese—who was even more jook sing , empty piece of bamboo, than Jack. He was a real Chinese cowboy.
Alex shot eight cycles of the five-shot sets, and finally banged off the extra three rounds into a two-inch grouping just beneath the target’s abdomen. She loaded the last four bullets into the Ladysmith, keeping seven shots ready but leaving empty the eighth, the firing pin chamber.
“In case you drop it,” Jack had explained, “so it won’t go off.”
She nestled the gun into its case, locked it. Coming out of the shooting area, she took off her “ears” and eyewear, the revolver cooling in the metal box.
“Got done quick, huh?” teased Jack.
“Yeah, I shot the box,” she quipped. “What, you expected me to go to war in there?”
Jack grinned. “No, but I’m glad you got it off your chest.”
“Right. And how much GSR is on my arm right now?”
“C’mon,” Jack said, laughing. “You’re watching way too much Law and Order .”
They decided to go to the East Village for sushi and sake, but Jack’s cell phone trilled the moment they left the gun club. Alex caught Jack’s end of the conversation, and knew their plans were about to go awry.
“He asked for me?” questioned Jack, a puzzled look crossing his face.
The Chinatown precinct duty sarge answered, “He said the Chinese cop. The one who worked the gang shooting. That would be you.”
“That’s me,” Jack agreed. “I’m on my way.”
Alex saw Jack’s jaw clenching and said, “Well, I’ve got an early morning anyway. So … rain check, okay?”
“Sure, rain check,” Jack answered, his thoughts already pointing his gut downtown.
They caught a cab to Alex’s Chinatown high-rise, Confucius Towers. From there it was a two-block walk to the 0-Five, the Fifth Precinct.
The evening was dark, but not as black as Jack’s mood.
Traffic Stop
The white, crewcut, uniformed cop met Jack in the detective’s area of the squad room, and turned over a large knife in a sheath. Jack pulled the knife out, impressed by its heft. It was a Taiwanese knockoff, a cross between a Crocodile Dundee and a Bowie blade, several inches short of a machete. A deadly piece of tempered steel.
Jack holstered it and dropped it into a file cabinet, locking it.
“He’s in the room,” said the uniform. “They grabbed him off Delancey Street. He don’t talk English too good.”
Jack smirked at the irony of what he was hearing.
Sitting in the interview room was a beefy-looking Chinese kid, maybe twenty-one but he looked younger. On the table was a Boston Red Sox baseball cap.
“Man, I’m glad to see you,” the kid
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