Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [125]
“So this ‘come to work for the feds’ wasn’t your idea?”
He shook his head. “I argued against it. Pretty hard, actually. And I would’ve won too, except you self-identified. We both know how much the higher-ups dig shit like that.”
“So because I admitted I needed mental help, now I’m a perfect candidate for a job . . . as a fed?” I laughed. Hard. I laughed until my stomach hurt.
“Laugh it up. But we both know you’re going to say hell no, then you’ll order me off your land, probably while peppering my ass with buckshot. So why don’t you tell me to shove it one more time so I can head on home.”
That stung. The contrary part of me itched to blow their (mis)perception of me and say yes. But Turnbull was shrewd. I wouldn’t put it past him to use reverse psychology.
“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. If you can outshoot me, I’ll show up at the meeting.”
And yeah, maybe it was petty, but I felt smug when Turnbull’s smile slipped. If he knew as much about me as he’d claimed? He also knew I’d placed first in every official and unofficial military sharpshooting event in the last fifteen years.
Turnbull pushed away from the pickup. “Deal.”
Sucker. “Pick your poison. I’ve got six guns.”
“I’ll use my own gun, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself. What’s the caliber?”
“Nine mil.”
“Same as mine. We’ll gauge by the ring of three.”
“That’ll work.”
The ring of three was a standard marksmanship test. Distance marked at thirty feet. Eight bullets in the outer ring. Eight bullets in the middle ring. Two each at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock and nine o’clock. Five bullets in the center in the shape of a plus sign. Closest mark to the line in each section wins.
I released the clip on the Sig and reloaded. I had two other clips, each held ten bullets, so I reloaded those, too. I looked over at Turnbull. “I don’t suppose you’ve got extra clips.”
“No. Didn’t know we were gonna have a shoot-out at the Gunderson corral.”
I smiled and slammed the clip in. I jogged to the hay bale and switched out the paper target. I marked off thirty feet and drew a line in the mud with the heel of my boot.
Turnbull inclined his head. “Ladies first.”
I stepped up to the line. My focus sharpened. I lifted the gun and solidified my stance. After flicking the safety off, I sited in my first two target shots in the outer ring.
Bang bang.
Then I fired rapidly, until I emptied the clip at the top of the inner circle. I ejected the clip and shoved in a fresh one. Although I still had bullets left after I finished the middle ring, I changed clips for the five shots in the center so I could squeeze them off without interruption.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
We walked to the target. My shots were damn close to perfect. Symmetrical. Precise. “Okay, hotshot, show me what you’ve got.”
Pause. “You know, I’ve changed my mind.”
I smirked. “Really?”
“Yeah. I believe I will use your gun.”
Damn. And here I’d hoped he’d decided to back out. I ejected the clip and handed him the Sig. I yanked down my target and tacked up a fresh one. We walked back to the truck in silence. As I watched him speed-load the clips, my first sense of unease surfaced.
Agent Turnbull aimed and fired. He emptied and replaced his clips almost without pause.
Bluish gray smoke eddied around us, and the ground was littered with hot brass.
He handed back my gun. The wet earth squished under our boots as we returned to the hay bale. Shoonga trotted happily along beside us, oblivious to the tension, panting from chasing his tail.
I stared at the target in complete disbelief.
His shots weren’t side by side in the inner and outer circles. No, Agent Turnbull had put both the bullets through the same hole. Not once, as a fluke, but in both rings. So instead of having sixteen holes . . . he’d made eight. Eight big, ragged holes, so I knew he hadn’t fired off to the side to trick me. His bull’s-eye shot was clean, meticulous, and perfect.
I’d been had. Big time. I gaped at him. Because I’d never met anyone