ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA
Sandy Carmichael walked into the lobby of the indoor shooting range, toting her concealed-carry purse with her custom Kimber .45. She was a regular at The Bullet Trap; at least monthly, sometimes more. There were better equipped ranges at Chantilly and Springfield but Annandale was closer to SSI, just off Route 495.
“Hi, Ed!” Sandy gave the co-owner her cheeriest cheerleader grin. She took care to pronounce her greeting as “Hah, Ay-ed.” She had learned earlier than most females that a perky smile and a southern accent melted the testosterone in some males and pumped it in others.
Near as she could recall, she’d been about three and a half.
Ed Masterson liked to hint that he was related to the gunfighting Bat, but the frontiersman had carved his single notch three years before Ed’s forebears disembarked at Norfolk in 1879. “Why, Colonel Carmichael. We haven’t seen you around much, young lady.”
“Oh, Ay-ed, y’all’re u-shally workin’ too early for me. I been in here at least twice-et since I last saw y’all.” She waved a deprecating hand, adding, “Ah sway-yer, ya’ll’re avoidin’ me.” She batted her baby blues for effect. No harm in keeping in practice, she told herself.
Truth be told, sometimes it was so easy that it wasn’t even fun anymore. A mid-fortyish single mom with no steady relationship had ample time to perfect her flirting technique—no head tilt or hair flip this time—and poor, lovable Ay-ed was so easy.
Masterson actually blushed, his ruddy complexion contrasting with his pale blue shirt with The Bullet Trap logo. He recovered enough to reply, “Colonel, honey, you surely know how to shine on an ol’ southern boy.”
“Well dip me in honeysuckle an’ pour me full of mint juleps. The cornpone is getting hip deep in here.”
Sandy turned at the familiar voice: the lilting tones, the slightly exaggerated accent.
Martha Whitney.
She stood there, a formidable mixture of Queen Latifah fashion and Aunt Jemima bonhomie. Carrying a combination-lock gun case, Whitney advanced to the counter and nodded to her colleague. “Evenin’, Sandy.”
“Hullo, Martha.” Carmichael managed an ephemeral grin.
Behind the counter, Ed Masterson noted a perceptible drop in the ambient temperature. He knew Sandra Carmichael better than Martha Whitney, whom he had once introduced as “Martha Washington.” He never did that again.
Shoving a registration sheet across the glass display case, he sought to retrieve the situation. “Just sign in, ladies. We’re a little slow this afternoon so I can give you adjoining lanes if you…”
Sandy began, “Well, I was…”
“Why that’d be just precious, Sugar.” Martha smiled hugely, pronouncing the endearment as “Sugah.” She flashed her driver’s license and signed the hold-harmless release without reading it. “Girls’ night out, at the shooting range,” she enthused.
At that moment Sandra Carmichael abandoned any thought of meaningful practice.
“Lanes four and five,” Masterson said, accepting Sandy’s registration slip.
“Thanks, Ed,” she intoned. “Ay-ed” was long gone as she went all squinty-eyed in anticipation of the impending battle.
Watching the two women stride toward the glassed-in shooting bay, Ed mused that it was gonna be a combination gunfight and catfight and, if it strayed to the cafeteria next door, likely a food fight as well.
Taking their positions beside one another, the SSI operatives were separated by a Plexiglas barrier to stop flying brass. Neither spoke as they loaded magazines: Carmichael using Blazer .45; Whitney Wolf 9mm.
With fewer rounds to load, Carmichael finished first. She activated her remote target console and picked up two targets. “Silhouette or bull’s-eye?”
Whitney suggested, “Why not both, darlin’?”
“Why not?”
From two previous encounters, Sandy knew that she was more accurate but Martha shot faster. The tacit agreement seemed headed for a tie: Sandy would likely take the bull’s-eye contest and Martha the “combat” segment.
They ran their targets out to fifteen meters, pulled on their glasses and ear protectors, and went to low ready. Sandy’s Kimber and Martha’s Glock touched the bench in front of them. “Ten rounds,” Sandy said.
Martha nodded.
“Ready, go!”
Thirty-two seconds and a reload later, Sandy laid down her Kimber, the thumb safety engaged.
Martha finished four seconds later, the Glock 19’s slide locked back.
“You usually shoot faster than that,” Sandy ventured.
“Baby, I’m shootin’ for score this time.”
They reeled in their targets and counted scores. Sandy won, forty-two to thirty-nine. “You got bigger holes,” Whitney observed. “Those .45s turn nines into tens.”
Sandy beamed. “Sure do, Sugar.”
“Well, honey, the first man I killed didn’t know the difference ’cause I put six out of six in his sorry ass.”
Sandy shrugged. “First man I killed only took two.”
Martha ignored the retort, knowing that her rival had shot two armed intruders in SSI offices less than a year before. “Then the next time … well, the next time I done smoked two of ’em. I’d tell you ’bout it but it’s still classified, don’t you know.”
“We gonna talk or shoot?” Sandy taped up her silhouette target and ran it out to ten meters. Martha did the same.
Sandy picked up the Pact timer and set it for delay start. “Five rounds, rapid fire.” She pressed the button and three seconds later the beep went.
Whitney pushed the Glock’s black snout straight out from her body, locked her arms in an isosceles triangle, and went to work on the trigger. Allowing the trigger to reset after each shot, she dumped five rounds into the torso in less than three seconds. The hits were scattered in a buckshot pattern, but they were all there.
Sandy brought the .45 to eye level in a Weaver stance, left elbow low, and took nearly five seconds to put five rounds into a melon-sized group in the target’s solar plexus. “More recoil,” she murmured unnecessarily.
In the lobby a small crowd was gathering, all fascinated, all male. The observers stepped close to the safety glass partition for a better look.
“What’s with the women?” asked a revolver shooter.
“Catfight,” explained Ay-ed.
“Who’s winning?” queried a Sig advocate.
“Looks about even,” the wheelgunner opined.
Sig turned to Masterson. “Well, who are they?”
“Oh, a coupla ladies who work for a Beltway outfit.”
“Dang,” Wheelgunner exclaimed. “I never saw a black gal shoot before.”
“Not like that you didn’t,” Masterson said.
The conversation lagged while the women resumed firing. The next string was timed head shots.
The string after that was strong hand only, fifteen meters.
The string after that was support hand only, ten meters.
“Looks like they’ve done this before,” Sig observed.
Wheelgunner nodded. “Looks like they’re plumb serious.”
Masterson knew something about Colonel Sandra Carmichael, U.S. Army, retired. “Serious as it gets, Earl.”
When the range session ended the crowd parted as the women hung up their earmuffs. The parting words were Whitney’s:
“Hey, girlfriend, your Kimber’s dandy but my Glock is the ultimate in feminine protection!”