Cahill

I could hear the din from the bar as I exited my SUV and I was still almost a block away. What a shame! I knew from long experience that would change as soon as my foot crossed the threshold. I tend to have that effect on people. I’m six feet six inches tall and I weigh an even 250 pounds—all of it broad shouldered muscle. My Body Mass Index at my last physical was less than four percent. My light brown hair is styled exactly the way it’s been for the past fifteen years—ever since I first joined the Navy. Sure enough, no sooner had I taken my first step into the bar than the noise died. When I turned left and stepped up to the bar the people there couldn’t back away fast enough. I took a stool in the middle of the empty space and sat down, waiting for the bartender to approach. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” “Good…neither am I. Give me a ginger ale.” He reached under the bar for a glass and some ice. Twenty seconds later he slid the glass in my direction. I pulled a fiver from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. He ignored it and walked away to draw a few beers and pour some wine. It looked to me like this was a pretty cheap crowd. Checking up and down the bar all I could see were longnecks and drafts. I reached into the lower left pocket of my cargo pants. Like almost everything else I was wearing they were a true deep navy blue. My heavy shoes were black as was my wide belt. My belt said as much about me as the bold white lettering across my chest. Just below the American flag over my heart were the letters that were my life—U. S. MARSHAL. On my right hip was my nickel plated .44 Magnum Colt Python, just behind two speed loaders in addition to the twenty-four rounds on the belt. On my left hip was my ASP Talon baton—every bit as deadly a weapon in my hands as the revolver. A pouch at the back of my right hip held my stainless steel handcuffs and its partner on the opposite side held my radio—my link to my backup team. I placed the photo flat on the bar as the bartender returned to me. “I’ll have another,” I said in a loud voice, continuing so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t pick it up and don’t make a production of looking at it. I’ve been told that he comes here a lot. Is he here tonight? If he is and he escapes because you’ve given me away I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for obstruction of justice.” He gulped a few times but did as he was told, nodding slightly in response. I continued almost at a whisper. “If my nose is pointing to twelve o’clock, my right ear to three, the back of my head to six, and my left ear to nine, tell me where he is. Again, don’t point or do anything obvious and we’ll be fine.” He pretended to wipe the bar as he whispered, “About 4:30 with his back to you.” I picked up the reflection in the mirror then asked, “Red shirt with black and white stripes, looking away from me?” He nodded again. Now, in my normal tone of voice I asked, “Where’s the men’s room?”

Fredrick_Udele · Fantasie

Zu wenig Bewertungen

69 Chs

CHAPTER 51

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Paul met me outside the Memphis Police Academy entrance with a strong handshake and a hug. We walked together with Max into the building and out the back door to a small grandstand where we watched as candidates took their turns at what I always called the "shooting gallery" in which figures appear suddenly in doorways and windows and the cadet has to decide to shoot or not based on an instant's recognition.

We watched six cadets go through the course and all made some mistakes. Of course, the track changed every time so each cadet had to be on his or her toes. I was pleased to see that Aimee Johnstone, Pastor Michaels' niece, did very well on what Paul told me was her first experience. We retired then to the cafeteria for lunch, but only after I accused Paul of being a really cheap bastard.

After lunch we walked with the cadets—forty eight of them—to the firing range where Paul had set up four fruits on a saw horse at what he claimed was fifty yards. "You might think it's impossible to hit these at fifty yards, but I've seen Chief Cahill do it dozens of times when we were U.S. Marshals together."

I turned to face the potential officers. "I tell our officers that shooting is nothing more than practice and concentration. Of course, you have to practice the right techniques or you'll fail repeatedly with no chance of improvement. You also need to know that the bullet will start to fall as soon as it's out of the muzzle. How far will it fall will depend on the distance to the target and its muzzle velocity." Holding my pistol up I explained, "This is a .44 Magnum—a Colt Python, what many shooters consider to be the best handgun ever made. It should be for what it cost me. It is not a pistol for everyone because it's very heavy and it kicks like a mule as you will soon see." I loaded the cylinder then laughed.

"My friend Chief McCormick is cheating here because I usually do this at fifty yards and I can see that the targets here are at least seventy-five, but that's okay. I need to make a slight adjustment. At fifty yards the bullet from this gun will fall about an inch and a half. At seventy-five it will be almost double because it's a matter of acceleration not steady speed." I closed the cylinder and repeated, "Practice and concentration. Arms straight but relaxed. The red dot on the front sight is exactly in the bottom of the 'V' at the rear and aiming above the center of the fruit. Pull the trigger gently while exhaling, like this." I fired and the cantaloupe disintegrated. I followed in short order with the apple and the plum before asking Paul what the final fruit was.

"That's a cherry tomato from my garden," he said laughing. I had holstered my weapon before speaking to him so I drew quickly, raised my weapon as I pulled the hammer back to full cocked position. I had only aimed for a second when I pulled the trigger and the fruit disappeared in a puff of red smoke.

"The trick here is to find a point beyond the target that you can aim at. I did that when I was aiming at the apple and plum. Then it was just a matter of finding the same spot again, relaxing, and firing.

"I really hope that you never have to fire your weapon, but you need to know that you can if necessary and that you have confidence that you'll hit your target. Most of the time your target will be fifty feet or less away and you'll hear your instructors tell you to aim at the body mass. That's excellent advice. Aiming for the torso is your best bet. You'll also be told to shoot at least three times. If someone is out there trying to kill you or some innocent person, forget all the bullshit about disarming or just wounding him. The only real choice is to kill the bastard before he kills you or some hostage"

"That's excellent advice, Matt. Would you shoot at a regular target for us?" I agreed and a silhouette of a man with concentric circles on his torso was removed to fifty feet until I told the Range Master to move it back to one hundred. I emptied the cylinder, reinserting the two unused cartridges along with four from my belt. I was given the "GO" signal once my ear protection was in place. My thumb slid the safety off as I brought the pistol up to the horizontal and I began firing as soon as my left hand had joined my right on the grips.

A revolver like a .44 Magnum has such a strong recoil that the barrel is forced upward and must be returned to horizontal after every shot. I've done this so many times that my motions are second nature by now. I flipped the cylinder open as soon as I had taken the last shot. My left hand found the speed loader in less than a second and I had reloaded and closed the cylinder only an instant later. All told, I had taken eighteen shots and reloaded twice in less than ninety seconds. The target showed eighteen closely grouped holes near the center of the target.

"I have probably taken twenty thousand shots with this pistol over the past dozen years. I spent every spare second practicing both shooting and reloading while an MP in the Navy. I couldn't do it as frequently when I was a Marshal because I was often on assignment out of town or even out of the state. As important as shooting practice is, it is every bit as important to practice with your other weapons like your baton, and—in my case—with my dog. I've trained Max to do everything a human partner can do…and more. Not only can he respond to my commands, but he is capable of using his own judgment. I'm sure you question that, but my experiences with him have proven it many times. He took down an armed robber at a diner in Bascomb's Landing in less than ten seconds by biting the man's wrist and shaking his head. Two minutes later he was playing with two little girls he had played with earlier. Later when deputy sheriffs rushed in and one of them got too close to me with his drawn gun Max broke away from the kids and was ready to attack. He would have had I not stopped him. The good thing about a dog is that I can call him back. You can't do that with a bullet." I stopped then and Paul asked if there were any questions. The next thirty minutes were spent asking everything from how old Max was to what kind of grips I had on my pistol.

"You won't find these too often. I made them myself from a piece of black walnut my uncle gave me. He had an old tree in his yard that split in a big storm. It must have taken me ten tries before I finally began to get it right. I was tempted to use a lacquer or a wax on it, but lacquer can make the wood sticky and neither sticky or slippery is desirable on a pistol grip so the only thing on them is the natural oil from my hands."

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