Pulling A Trigger

(Revised 12/15/2022)

This story came from out of nowhere. We'd been in a bit of a dry spell. We began approaching a number of potential stories which would continue the narratives of those we've already published, but decided we'd employ a couple of characters as "cameos" in the story which developed.

If you want to avoid the resulting spoiler, you might want to read

The Flight Before Christmas

first.

A bit of a trigger warning (pun intended): This story is told through the eyes of someone who values second amendment rights. To our readers who aren't familiar with the US constitution, this means it features characters who support the right to keep and bear firearms. To soften the warning: there's very little political discourse below. However, if any depiction of shooting sports and the like irks you, please give your browser a click of the back button.

Shortly after this was first published, the comments began to get a little heated. So, we're handling them differently than we do in our others. If a comment tries to lean into a political debate, it's going to be deleted whether we agree or disagree. We simply do not want the comments section to become a venue for politics, and we hope you can understand our decision.

As always, all characters engaging in adult activities are eighteen or older.

We hope you enjoy:

Pulling a Trigger

"Do what I say, and I won't cut you. Put your jewelry and phone in your purse, set it on the ground, and

run

," I growled at the woman.

The still air was warm and humid, amplifying the closed-in feel. She was likely feeling the onset of the fight-or-flight instinct as soon as she realized she'd walked into a blind alley. I held a butterfly knife close to my shoulder with its pointed blade extending toward the woman standing six feet in front of me who I'd maneuvered into a corner.

"One step closer to her, you're dead," I heard a man say behind me.

I was confused seeing tears forming in the woman's eyes. No one had ever before done such a thing so quickly. I looked over my shoulder to see the muzzle of a pistol pointed at my head.

"Take it easy, man! It's all good! Don't shoot!" I shouted.

"Shut up and take two steps back," he ordered.

I considered the many options but decided to comply.

"Drop the knife and get down on your knees. Keep your back to me," he demanded.

As I slowly conceded, I thought to myself,

Damn it. He had to do the knees thing.

"Kick the knife away from him and get behind me," he said to the woman.

She stood motionless, apparently paralyzed.

"Brenda!" he yelped. "Hey!"

She then did what he'd asked.

"Babe, I've got my hands full, so you need to call 911. Tell the operator I'm holding a disarmed mugger at gunpoint, and the man with the pistol is your husband and is licensed to carry."

"The address is forty-eight forty-one West Airport Boulevard," I added. "Tell them to get ready to copy a physical description of me. Approximate height, weight, style and color of hair, clothing, any visible tats or piercings, shoes,

everything

you see, because, if I were inclined to bolt, every unit within a half-mile of here would have all of it on their consoles.

"Otherwise, there'd be the delay. The responding unit would have to arrive then rapid-fire quiz your memory before it would get out there. It dramatically increases the chances of apprehending someone if they have a good description quickly."

The other guy sounded like he was trying not to laugh but failed. I heard him engage the safety, decock, then holster his weapon which was chambered with an inert snap cap cartridge.

"A mugger giving helpful advice seems an odd choice, but okay," he observed with another chuckle.

I turned over on my back and held out a hand. "Help a bad guy up?"

He grasped my forearm, and I gripped his. He used his weight to aid me to my feet.

"Thanks," I offered, dusting myself off. "Remember. Even though the police would've been informed about you being the one with the gun, they won't assume the situation hasn't changed. They'll be pointing their own pistols at you and demand you disarm yourself and lay down. They'd handcuff us both, maybe even her, until everything is completely defused and sorted. Cooperate fully, and it'll all work out."

"Understood. That's useful info."

"Were you ready to pull the trigger?" I asked.

"If you made another move toward her, I'd have done it in a heartbeat."

"Good."

"Too real, Todd. This was way too real," Brenda said.

Hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. Something was off.

He wrapped her in his arms and drew her close. I heard her sniffle softly.

"You hesitated, Brenda," I admonished gently as I bent to retrieve my prop knife.

She sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"Don't worry about it. That's what this sort of training is for. As soon as you heard the flip of my butterfly's guards, you should have drawn down on me."

"Go easy, Rick. This simulation was⁠—"

"A bit intense, huh?"

"Understatement of the year," Brenda said. "You looked at me like my first husb⁠—our eldest child's biological father …"

"Don't say anything else if you don't want to," Todd said, comforting his wife.

Oh, fuck,

I thought to myself.

I've stirred up a mess.

"You didn't ask for this scenario, did you?" she asked her husband.

"No," he and I simultaneously answered.

"He didn't," I continued. "What happened? I've crossed some sort of a line, haven't I."

"The scenario was very … familiar. I experienced a similar situation some years ago, and this hit close to home," Brenda answered.

We were standing in one of the exterior zones at my business, Option Two Tactical, in Stafford, Texas. The safety, security, and predictability of an indoor lane of a climate-controlled shooting range is a useful experience, but Todd Carlson added tactical defense training to his repertoire. His wife, Brenda, found it similarly worthwhile.

Bolting on such skills and experiences increases safety for everyone involved. Pulling the trigger to punch holes in a paper target is one thing. Learning when or when

not

to pull the trigger is another.

Brenda's visceral reaction during the simulation hinted to me she'd been the victim of an assault at knifepoint at some time in her past. I could imagine how an unexpected recreation of it could have been traumatic but could also be worthwhile in its own right. If I'd have somehow known, I would have approached it very differently.

"Understood. Forgive me, Brenda. I didn't intend to resurrect a past trauma."

"I know you didn't," she said. "Don't worry about it."

"Did you learn anything?" I asked.

Brenda nodded vigorously with a rueful laugh.

"Good. Let's get back inside where it's cool and watch the video recordings," I said, unlocking one of the rear doors to the main building.

The outdoor "theater" was secured and obscured by screening fences. The architects were probably insightful in thinking things could possibly go south if unaware passers-by were to observe instructional simulations and misconstrue them as actual crimes in progress. The inside of the building had other structures within it configured for various kinds of drills.

My previous employer was the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, where I was the armorer and lead training instructor at the south Texas branch office. I was sent out to pasture due to a work-related injury, but, given my skill set, I was able to open Option Two Tactical and have seldom looked back.

My business's bread and butter were contracts to provide recurrent training to law enforcement officers from municipalities or counties which couldn't afford or didn't want to deal with the logistics of such things themselves. They constituted at least sixty percent of my clientele. There were no shortages of ordinary civilians or sponsored sportsmen who engaged our services and facilities for practice. We also offered foundational training and basic classes such as our certified concealed carry courses.

The Carlsons and I settled into a team room in the office area and reviewed the high-definition digital video taken from numerous exterior cameras dotting the facility. We debriefed for about a half hour as I jotted notes on gaps to cover in later sessions. The simulation we'd ended the night on was the last of three, so there was lots to drill into. All in all, they'd done well. We wrapped up the evening at 9:30.

I walked Todd and Brenda to their car and closed the electrically actuated gate to block off the parking lot from the street after they drove away. I then went back inside and locked myself in the building.

As far as my staff knew, I always arrived at work before and left after them, but … no. The classroom section held another place no one else ever saw: the 900-square-foot apartment in which I lived.

I removed my knee brace with a sigh of relief, relaxed myself onto the couch, and cracked open a Shiner Bock and a book by an author one of my employees was raving about. She lent me her copy of

Escaping the Depths

by Grant Robins. I was barely a hundred pages in when I decided to order my own copy, but in hardback instead of paperback, as well as the next two in the series.

When yawns of fatigue began to hit me at nearly one o'clock, I bookmarked the page and went to bed.

I rose at seven, later than my usual time. My body appreciated the extra hour, and I didn't feel one bit guilty about sleeping in since no one else would be arriving for two more hours. I reviewed the day's schedule of clients and customers and assigned the various badged law enforcement officers to instructors. I found it useful to split groups up. If officers from different departments were mixed together, the knowledge shared often benefited them all.

When my office admin arrived, she gave me the rundown of the non-governmental people wanting specific training.

"These three are a team named Lone Star Sport Shooters. They want to do unknown gun drills."

"

Ell triple ess

, huh? I've heard of them. They're

good

. If they're doing UGDs, assign them to me. It'll be interesting to watch them work. Oh, and tell the rental counter to pull two obscure semi-automatics and a revolver at random for the unknowns."

"Already did," she said. "These two groups are going to be doing basic forward assault drills."

"That's Toni and Sean's area. Assign them to sections one and two to keep them from stepping on each other."

"

Cool

-cool. Last but not least, this lady signed her mother up for a private IFT course."

"That's awesome. I like it when people get family members proper training."

"Yep. Done, and … done," she said after she finished clicking and tapping. "You've got a light day."

I chuckled. "We'll see. Thanks, Bing."

According to what she'd put on her job application, her given name was Cherry. She told me during her interview how she began despising it in middle school. Her reasoning was obvious to me because I immediately envisioned boys asking if she'd lost her name. The substitution fit her light, easygoing, sweet personality, and occasionally tart humor.

I went to my office with the book and kept reading until my first clients arrived. The LSSS trio demonstrated and further honed their skills round after round. I noted some gaps and offered suggestions and a little coaching. I occupied the next two hours observing my other trainers until my final clients of the day arrived.

"Hello, and welcome to O2T. I'm Rick Sanger, your instructor," I said, greeting the two ladies at the check-in desk as they'd signed their waivers.

The younger woman's brows furrowed, and she stared intently before she squelched what I thought was the beginning of a smile. It all quickly faded when she shook herself out of whatever state she'd been in.

"I'm Rachel Jarrett, and this is my mother, Claire," she said after subtly clearing her throat.

"It's nice to meet you, ladies," I said, offering a gentle handshake to both. Seeing a ring on her left fourth finger, I said to the elder, "Mrs. Jarrett, we'll head to a classroom first to get started. Y'all follow me."

Rachel had signed her mother up for the introductory firearms training course. It appeared to me, as I went through a demonstration of the components and operation of a ․32 semi-automatic, that Claire was familiar with more of the material than I expected. I asked about her experience.

"Well, Rachel has given me a rundown on the very basics. I'm sure she could do more, but she thinks it's a bad idea."

She chuckled. "Because it might not be good if I tried to teach the teacher."

"Oh? You're an educator?" I asked the matriarch.

"For thirty years. I retired two years ago after bouncing around throughout K through twelve. Now I occasionally substitute at the middle schools."

"Oh. That age must be a handful."

"They're not

all

bad, but it is when the dramas of adolescence tend to dawn."

"Well, thank you for what you do. I can't imagine a more selfless or honorable profession," I offered with sincerity.

My honest sentiment earned me an appreciative smile.

We transitioned from the classroom to the two-lane twenty-five-yard bay in the range. A target on a weighted corrugated paper hanger had already been clipped to the overhead carrier which was positioned nine feet away. Claire removed the pistol she'd rented from its soft-side and placed it on the stall's barrier shelf with its muzzle pointed appropriately and safely downrange as previously instructed.

"Let's begin with five rounds," I said, placing a tray of ․32 ACP FMJ cartridges next to the pistol.

She slowly and tediously loaded the magazine, inserted it into the handle, and racked the slide.

"Eyes and ears," I spoke to both, instructing them to don their safety glasses and ballistic earmuffs, as did I.

"Range hot. Fire at your discretion."

I watched on my iPad the video fed from a camera mounted downrange, safely out of the way and trained on the shooter's position.

I always zoom in on the faces, because potentially counterproductive tendencies are first revealed in the eyes. Sure enough, I observed several issues I'd need to address, but they could be discussed later as the first session was solely focused on basics and safety.

Rachel noticed what I was doing and stepped beside me, watching the display for a few seconds. I saw her balking to speak, as well as aborting her own attempts to get her mother's attention.

About thirty minutes in total passed as Claire expended the tray of fifty rounds at the target positioned at three, then seven, then fifteen yards distant.

"You were

flinching

, Mom," Rachel said as soon as I cleared the range and advised they could remove their PPE.

"I don't know what you're talking about, dear," her mother evenly replied, raising a palm.

The gesture seemed to be more "I don't want to hear it, child," than her gentle words conveyed. Rachel sighed and shook her head.

Her daughter turned toward me and said, "Maybe she'll listen to you."

"It's not a big deal," I countered. "Mrs. Jarrett, you did absolutely fine. You put quite a few rounds on the target."

"But they're all over the place," she said with a mild hint of resignation in her voice, observing the paper hanging two feet in front of us at the retrieval point.

"Like I said. No big deal. For someone who's never fired a handgun before, you did better than many who have."

I thought I heard a

pfff

-like scoff from the younger woman and began to suspect she might have been a bit of a pill.

As Claire safed and packed the weapon, a range safety officer entered and swept the spent brass through the grates covering troughs in the concrete floor. At the end of the day, they'd be vacuumed into drums to be sent for reloading or recycling.

The ladies returned the rented pistol and PPE at the checkout desk and went on their way. I went to my office to transcribe my mental notes into Mrs. Jarrett's training record:

Kept one eye closed during aim and closed both before firing.

Test ocular dominance.

Anticipatory muzzle duck.

Modify support hand placement.

Client stood Isosceles. Suggest Weaver or Chapman stance for better balance and stability.

Numerous rounds missed target entirely. Not unexpected.

Appeared uncomfortable loading the magazine. Offer a speed loader.

"There's nothing else on the schedule today, and everyone but you and me has left!" shouted Bing as she trotted by my door. "It's Friday night, boss! Get out while you still can. I'd be gone already, but I gotta pee first!"

"I'm not far behind you⁠—I mean to my truck! Not the ladies' room!" I yelled toward her retreating footfalls and an outburst of laughter at what I'd said.

I continued working a while after I heard the main door chime as Bing left the building. I checked the cameras and motion sensors to confirm all my employees had departed, and only then did I grab my keys to go buy some groceries and pick up my Amazon delivery from the locker to which I had the three Grant Robins books delivered.

I ate dinner while watching the local news, then finished the evening by reviewing clients' videos once again to make sure my notes were in order. When I came to the Jarrett set, though, I focused more attention on Rachel than her mother. I chuckled at her obviously frustrated reactions to her mom's performance. Finally, I settled into bed and resumed reading

Escaping the Depths

, but from the new copy I'd bought for myself. I'd already sat the paperback Bing had lent me on her desk.

When I began preparing my Wednesday schedule, I noted Claire Jarrett in an afternoon slot. The fee for the IFT training was $60 per customer, but her daughter had arranged for a private class, so one of them was paying close to $500 for the four hours split across two sessions. I didn't have a problem with it at all.

Once again, Rachel accompanied her mother, sitting in the corner of the classroom as an observer instead of a student. Ten minutes elapsed as Claire and I reviewed the material from the prior session, then we went to the range.

I sent the target three yards away and handed my student a dummy gun incapable of firing anything. I stepped into the lane and stood beside the hanger.

"Aim for the X," I instructed.

She brought the prop into position, closing her left eye.

"Keep both eyes open. Your brain will learn to include the visual cues from your left eye which doesn't have the pistol in its way so you can visualize the whole target and your point of aim. Try it."

She did.

"Oh! I see!"

"Yeah.

Literally

. Let's test something. Lower the weapon. Now, keep both eyes open and raise the gun and aim … good … don't move. Close your right eye."

She did as instructed.

"Did the sight seem to move out of position?"

"Yes. To the right of the bullseye."

"That indicates you instinctively brought the sights to your right eye's line. If the sight moved when you closed it, it suggests you're right-eye dominant. Since you're also right-handed, aiming accurately will come more naturally," I said. "Okay. Let's poke some holes."

I traded out the prop gun for the ․32 ACP she'd rented in the previous session.

"I've already loaded the magazine with five rounds. We'll begin with the same exercise as last week."

I ensured the system was recording and motioned to Rachel to observe the video with me.