Prairie Fire had also seen better days, but the compound, comprising about a dozen buildings, was in much better condition than the town in which it resided. The buildings still being used were clean and in good shape, and the expansive gravel parking lot was more than half full.
It was a training university for military and law enforcement that also taught safe, effective weapons tactics to members of the public. Anyone interested in learning proper use of their weapon for self-defense purposes.
Which appeared to be a lot of people.
The popping could be heard from a half mile away, even before they reached the entrance, on an aged but still very usable two-lane road. As they skirted the parking lot, the popping became louder and constant—from approximately a dozen different shooting ranges, judging from a nearby sign. All seemingly spread out over several hundred yards.
From the lot, they spotted four of the ranges and part of the fifth before looping back to the buildings that were nearest the entrance and that made up most of the university’s operations. There was a large hall surrounded by several smaller buildings, all with well-maintained signs that said things like STORE, AMMO, and GUNSMITH. At which point, Rachel spotted and parked in front of the building labeled ADMINISTRATION.
Inside, she and Yamada were met by air-conditioning and a long, waist-high counter, and behind it sat two people at their desks. One of whom immediately stood up to greet them.
“Good morning,” the middle-aged woman said with a smile. She appeared to be in her late forties, and was dressed in a desert-colored uniform.
Rachel returned a friendly but nervous greeting. “Hello. We’re looking for Devin Waterman.”
The woman reached down behind the counter and brought up a binder, examining the day’s printed schedule.
“He’s teaching on range seven today. It’s close enough to walk, or you can just drive down to the far end of the parking lot.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.” They were both turning to leave when the woman stopped them.
Looking them up and down, she said, “Do you have your eye and ear protection?”
Rachel and Henry looked at each other. “Uh … we forgot.”
“You can’t go down to the range without them. You can either buy some in the store or just wait.” She checked her watch. “Everyone should be breaking for lunch in about thirty-five minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Rachel, with a look of gratitude. “We’ll wait.”
Outside, they climbed back into the dusty Nissan and turned the engine back on. Then they slowly idled down the length of the lot, trying to avoid creating more dust, until signs for ranges 7, 8, and 9 came into view.
They continued forward, pulling in beside a group of cars in front of 7, and parked, but left the engine and air conditioner running.
“This is quite the operation,” mused Yamada.
She nodded. “Not exactly my cup of tea, but I can see why it’s popular.”
“On the way here, I read that it used to be called Front Sight. They went through a bankruptcy some years back, but it doesn’t seem to have hurt them much.”
“Yeah. Makes me wonder how big it was before.”
Thirty minutes later, and still in the car, they spotted students leaving the other ranges and heading toward the main buildings. On range 7, the students were still on the range but had ceased shooting. It looked like they were now standing in the bright sun, listening to their two instructors.
Turning off the engine, Rachel and Henry both climbed out and approached, noting the large pergola with metal roofing providing shade to a couple of dozen metal chairs, empty and littered with various personal items from the students.
They stopped in the pergola’s shade and waited. The two instructors were sharply dressed and outfitted in the same desert-style fatigues as the woman in the office. One instructor appeared to be the junior instructor, but both men wore boonie hats and polarized sunglasses.
The class broke when the senior range master ended his instruction, and everyone headed back toward the chairs, each carrying holstered handguns.
Rachel and Henry stepped back and watched as the students approached, chatting with one another as they retrieved their belongings. After a few minutes of private discussion, the two range masters followed.
Rachel could feel her heartbeat quickening.
“What are you going to say?” asked Yamada.
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
When the instructors reached the shade, they moved to a side table, and each picked up a water bottle to drink from. As they did so, Rachel approached and looked for name tags and saw DEVIN stitched into the shirt of the instructor who close up looked a little older than the other.
She swallowed nervously. “Mr. Waterman?”
The man lowered the bottle and gazed at her from behind his reflective sunglasses. “In the flesh.”
“Uh, my name is Rachel Souza,” she said, stammering, “and this is, uh, Henry Yamada. Could we … have a word with you?”
Unable to see his eyes, she watched the man’s lips move within a trim white beard and mustache. “Shoot.”
“Uh, I mean, privately?”
Waterman looked up, and he scanned the area behind them. “About what?”
She was fidgeting. “To talk about something. It’s important.”
“Who are you with?”
“Uh, no one. No one. Just…” She paused. “It’s a little hard to explain.”
Waterman turned and nodded to his junior instructor, who gave them a quick once-over before heading out behind the last of the students. Waterman then lowered his bottle back to the table. “Okay. Go ahead.”
She eyed Yamada, who looked even more nervous than she was, then opened her mouth to speak. “Do you know a John Reiff?”
Waterman became still.
“Who?” he asked.
“A man named John Reiff. He was in the army.”
Waterman continued staring, unflinching. “Yes. I knew John Reiff. Why?”
Rachel’s mouth suddenly became dry. “I’m not really sure how to say this…”