43.
Milly rides in a comfy sedan with tinted windows, joined by Heoh and Bingo, driven by Turtle, from HQ to the north side. Parking, all four exit the car near an empty warehouse. Bullet holes pepper its corrugated metal walls.
Turtle, waiting outside, lifts a submachine gun from the trunk.
Heoh heaves open the rusty, creaking warehouse door. “You’ve fired a pistol?” Rats scurry amongst shadows.
Milly nods. “A few times.”
“A rifle?”
“Many times.”
Bingo flips on overhead lights. “You own one?”
“Yes.” More rats scatter.
“Have you ever shot at anyone?”
“Yes.”
The men exchange a glance.
Bingo persists. “Did you hit—”
Heoh shakes his head. “Demonstrate.”
“Pleasure.” Bingo releases a flying target drone. His practice pistol laser hits it — bleep, bleep, bleep.
“Your turn, Milly.” Heoh drills her: crouching, behind a wall, walking, one-handed, two-handed, even left-handed. “Now live rounds.”
Bingo fires first — paper targets — dead center, then headshot. “See? Breathe. When not to squeeze.” Smirking, he presents the sleek, beveled pistol. “Remember, Milly, I didn’t shoot you.”
The weapon comes to rest in her palm. “A fidget with a steady hand?”
Bingo grins. “My one redeeming quality.”
Milly begins. Good, but not as good as him.
“Aim low”—Bingo snickers—“for the butt!”
Heoh’s all business. “Keep going.”
Milly reloads. Soon, over a hundred spent cartridges cover the floor. She flexes her hand.
“How do you feel?” Heoh asks.
“I like it!” She plucks out her earplugs.
“This pistol will be yours — sometimes.”
Milly hands it back.
Turtle sweeps up the brass.
“Where should we take her for rifle practice?” Bingo asks. “The range?”
Heoh sighs. “Of course not. The gravel pit up by Monroe — tomorrow. Milly, let’s have dinner. Go wash the gunpowder off your hands. These two will handle the street tonight.”
Milly heads to the filthy bathroom. Hands to her nose, she sniffs, gazing into the mirror. “Gunpowder.”