BOARD. He boosted it and made it out to the range with ten minutes to spare.
Tony sauntered into the range and pretended to browse the glass cases full of ballistic candy, while the attendees at a gun safety class gathered around the instructor—a friendly, smiling older guy with a white mustache whose ample beer belly was barely contained by a tight green polo shirt. But Tony wasn’t interested in the instructor, he was interested in the students.
He made small talk with the plump, older woman behind the counter, pretending to be interested in buying a membership.
“Lost my arm in Bosnia,” he told her, holding up the hook. “So, now I need to start over. Teach myself to shoot with my left hand.”
“God bless you, baby,” she said, giving his good hand a little pat. “Let me give you a brochure.”
He took the pamphlet and pretended to be interested in a story about her son who’d died for his country, God bless him, and how noble it was to make such sacrifices to protect our freedom. He smiled and nodded, all the while watching the class out of the corner of his eye, and singling out the easiest mark.
A woman, maybe early-to-mid thirties. Hispanic and pretty, a hundred pounds, tops. Little gold cross around her fragile neck. No wedding ring. She was wearing a conservative floral print dress and low heels, like she’d just gotten off her job as a receptionist—probably in a dentist’s office or something.
What really drew Tony to her was that she gave off that distinct “victim” vibe. Shy, skittish, unsure of herself. The kind of woman who bought a gun because she’d been hurt before, and didn’t want it to happen again.
Too bad it would.
He told the old lady that he wanted to think about it, before committing to a membership program, then went out to the Honda to wait for the class to end.
* * *
About two hours later, the woman he’d tagged came out of the range, chatting with two of the other students—a chubby redheaded man and another Hispanic female about ten years younger than his target. They stood around a battered yellow Pinto with a bumper sticker that read JESUS ES EL SEÑOR. After a few minutes the other two students broke off and headed toward the back of the lot, while the target got into the car. She backed out of the parking space, then drove in the direction of the exit.
Tony cranked the ignition and followed her.
* * *
He tailed her back to a pretty decent little house in a so-so neighborhood. It had a two-car driveway, but no garage. There were frilly lace curtains in the front window, and when she unlocked the door and went inside, Tony saw her walk over and greet a tiny old lady who looked related. Probably her mother or grandmother. Certainly nobody who would give him any trouble.
As he sat there, watching the two women go about their day, he felt a distracting twinge of heat resonating through his arm, singing Olivia’s name. It was as if she was as impatient as he was.
Like she couldn’t wait for them to be together.
Inside the little house, the target went into a back room and came out wearing a different outfit. Tight jeans and a silky blouse that actually showed a little skin at the neck. There was a short exchange between the two women, and it seemed to be about the number of buttons that should or shouldn’t be open on the blouse.
Without warning, an SUV pulled into the driveway. A big, blond guy with a goatee got out and went to knock on the door.
The target answered, greeting the guy with an anxious smile, waved over her shoulder at the older lady, and then walked with the blond guy over to the passenger side of the SUV.
He opened the door for her like a gentleman, but there seemed to be some sort of hushed argument going on between them. The blond guy closed her door, and then walked around the back of the vehicle to the driver’s side, shaking his head and looking aggravated.
Tony let them pull a discreet distance away, then followed the SUV to a
Tony sauntered into the range and pretended to browse the glass cases full of ballistic candy, while the attendees at a gun safety class gathered around the instructor—a friendly, smiling older guy with a white mustache whose ample beer belly was barely contained by a tight green polo shirt. But Tony wasn’t interested in the instructor, he was interested in the students.
He made small talk with the plump, older woman behind the counter, pretending to be interested in buying a membership.
“Lost my arm in Bosnia,” he told her, holding up the hook. “So, now I need to start over. Teach myself to shoot with my left hand.”
“God bless you, baby,” she said, giving his good hand a little pat. “Let me give you a brochure.”
He took the pamphlet and pretended to be interested in a story about her son who’d died for his country, God bless him, and how noble it was to make such sacrifices to protect our freedom. He smiled and nodded, all the while watching the class out of the corner of his eye, and singling out the easiest mark.
A woman, maybe early-to-mid thirties. Hispanic and pretty, a hundred pounds, tops. Little gold cross around her fragile neck. No wedding ring. She was wearing a conservative floral print dress and low heels, like she’d just gotten off her job as a receptionist—probably in a dentist’s office or something.
What really drew Tony to her was that she gave off that distinct “victim” vibe. Shy, skittish, unsure of herself. The kind of woman who bought a gun because she’d been hurt before, and didn’t want it to happen again.
Too bad it would.
He told the old lady that he wanted to think about it, before committing to a membership program, then went out to the Honda to wait for the class to end.
* * *
About two hours later, the woman he’d tagged came out of the range, chatting with two of the other students—a chubby redheaded man and another Hispanic female about ten years younger than his target. They stood around a battered yellow Pinto with a bumper sticker that read JESUS ES EL SEÑOR. After a few minutes the other two students broke off and headed toward the back of the lot, while the target got into the car. She backed out of the parking space, then drove in the direction of the exit.
Tony cranked the ignition and followed her.
* * *
He tailed her back to a pretty decent little house in a so-so neighborhood. It had a two-car driveway, but no garage. There were frilly lace curtains in the front window, and when she unlocked the door and went inside, Tony saw her walk over and greet a tiny old lady who looked related. Probably her mother or grandmother. Certainly nobody who would give him any trouble.
As he sat there, watching the two women go about their day, he felt a distracting twinge of heat resonating through his arm, singing Olivia’s name. It was as if she was as impatient as he was.
Like she couldn’t wait for them to be together.
Inside the little house, the target went into a back room and came out wearing a different outfit. Tight jeans and a silky blouse that actually showed a little skin at the neck. There was a short exchange between the two women, and it seemed to be about the number of buttons that should or shouldn’t be open on the blouse.
Without warning, an SUV pulled into the driveway. A big, blond guy with a goatee got out and went to knock on the door.
The target answered, greeting the guy with an anxious smile, waved over her shoulder at the older lady, and then walked with the blond guy over to the passenger side of the SUV.
He opened the door for her like a gentleman, but there seemed to be some sort of hushed argument going on between them. The blond guy closed her door, and then walked around the back of the vehicle to the driver’s side, shaking his head and looking aggravated.
Tony let them pull a discreet distance away, then followed the SUV to a
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